Yatta Rose’s eyes popped open. “Where am I?” she thought. Nothing looked familiar; not the ceiling, the walls, or the branches moving gently outside the window. Nothing felt familiar; not the mattress, the sheets, or the pillow underneath her head Not particularly worried about her inability to orient herself, she continued to take in the data available to her senses. “Lordy, those birds on the window sill were putting up a fuss.” She wondered what, besides a cat or a condor, could cause a whole bunch of little sparrows to get so excited. Since, the birds sounded like they were fighting on her windowsill and the visible parts of the tree were very minor twigs, she grew aware that she was not on a ground floor, or in a basement. Fine. The higher up she went, the better. If her life had finally begun to change, upwards was a definite improvement over the previously relentless slide towards the bottom of her particular gully. She repeated herself, one of her favorite methods of sorting out the novel, “Where am I?” This time she said it aloud, and found that the habit of speech hadn’t deserted her. Too bad. She sighed silently after she heard her familiar chipmunk tones emanating from a dry throat. “ I can still talk. How long before it gets me into trouble is the usual question I’ll be thinking next, I just know it,” she continued aloud, -- just to verify that her first audible squeaks were not a fluke. Before the thought had a chance to take hold and start the familiar anxiety and dread that were her closest companions for what seemed like the last 2000 years, relief suddenly invaded every pore. Relief because she also remembered that nothing could get worse. Her mouth couldn’t sabotage any other area of her life. The worst had fallen and now she could talk all she wanted and say anything she wanted because there was no need to monitor her tongue any longer. (An unexpected, unplanned vacation no matter why it happened could be a good thing, it seemed. It didn’t matter one bit that she had had no choice or knowledge of the destination.) Yatta Rose began to smile. Gradually her lips eased upward until her cheeks felt themselves stretching their muscles in a grin that had been a long absent exercise for her atrophied facial muscles. At long last, she was going to have some fun. When the freedom of speech becomes true in all ways, not just as a idealized constitutional promise, things were bound to look up with a vengeance. Yatta Rose could hardly wait for the climb to begin. .............................................. Processing information with her newly acquired cheer, she noted other aspects of her new environment. Its total lack of familiarity didn’t phase her a bit. She was pleasantly surprised, another novel feeling. Any new scenery was a pleasure to look upon, no matter how one chanced upon it. Scenic delays beat any other kind all hollow. The walls were coated in paint that had enough pink in it to guarantee she was nowhere near the Navajo White walls of her previous familiar surroundings. Yatta Rose hoped, fervently, never to set eyes on those walls, or anything kin to ’em, ever again. These walls curved where they joined the ceiling. It was a fluid sinuous merging. The arc was repeated at the base and corners. No sharp edges. It was all soft roundness, which brought Art Nouveau’ s voluptuous lines to mind. No grime could hide in crevices out of reach, to sully these blushing walls. Already, the non-neutral color enveloped her. It was a room with walls that made their own statement. Walls that had the nerve to draw attention to their presence. No standing subserviently in a background to serve as the unsung supports of items in the room deemed more important. No minimizing of the essential structure that did all the real work in setting the scene. Not these walls. They were standing up to be counted. They knew they mattered. The paint even had the nerve to be glossy, not just semi-glossy either, but moist and glistening. The aim was clear: to help conduct any beams of light, whether by sun or lamp, throughout the space. Dinginess be damned! No dark recesses here. Openness was being shouted for all to see. No secrets. No hidden closets. No, “Oh, by the way, now that you’re here and committed up to your neck, let me tell you the rest of the rules.” The deep, mahogany trim was matte but consciously so. It’s purpose? To serve as contrast, not to sabotage the light-seeking qualities of its companion. The perfect pairing. Each complementing the other. Neither were ashamed of their own traits which stood wonderfully well alone, but were improved upon, and enhanced, when joined with an equally self-respecting and worthy partner. Brown and Pink. Matte and Shiny. Dark outside and Light within. Then Yatta Rose noticed the maraschino silk sheets under her length and over her, drawn up to her chin. Now she knew where she reposed. She was inside a chocolate-covered cherry. Goody. Her favorite.
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