. camera obscura .

                                                           


. camera obscura .

Helen sits in the waiting room, the lighting is acceptable to her; two sources only, one a lovely green shaded brass Stiffel table lamp at the far right corner of the room, the other a single recessed fixture in the ceiling directly above the receptionist's desk. The desk is unoccupied, Helen's appointments are now always scheduled for late in the day after the middle aged forbidding woman with her grey bun wrapped hair and green business suit with the frilled white blouse has left; well after her part time hours at the bookstore her friend owns have ended. The small hooded brass desk lamp is off but the tiny green power indicator on the laser printer set on an office buffet file cabinet glows in patience. Helen shifts slightly on the couch. '... fucking back, I shouldn't have turned when I lifted that box of photos ...'  Helen's face is slightly puffy; there is a small bruise on her left forehead above the brow that is in the dark blue and purple stage of early development and there are darkened shadows beneath her grey eyes. Her lashes and brows are almost invisible without mascara and pencil. She shifts again and then reaches behind to straighten the throw pillow propped behind her that matches the one still resident at the opposite end of the long forest green couch.

Helen waits and cocks her head slightly looking at the wood framed clock on the wall hung below what was once the direction piece for a weather vane. The vane piece is an arrow that has bits of its original red enamel still clinging in a worn attractive way to its bare steel shape. '… phallic for psychiatry … that sort of subtle humor probably skips over the heads of the neurotics … '  Helen winds a long grouping of platinum hair around her index finger; her darker red blonde roots contrast with the yellow white of the rest, her hair is loose about her shoulders and hangs lankly down to her waist. Helen waits, her eyes traveling from the closed dark-stained laminate door on the wall to the left of the receptionist's desk, to the green power indicator, to the twined laminate door located in the center of the off white right wall and then back to the threatening left side door again. '… did I fuck this up again? Is this my day or did I fuck this up again? …' Helen sighs and slips the hair wrapping right hand into a side pocket of the long black wool coat she wears; she extracts her cell phone and looks at the smooth magic glass surface; she touches her left index finger to the screen, sighs again and slides the phone back in her pocket.  This action also has been repeated but before our arrival. Helen's eyes settle on the forbidding closed door then shift to the power indicator, then to the right wall door. She grunts and leans forward lifting herself to her feet. She looks once again at the closed left side door, turns and moves to the door on the clean cream colored right wall. She puts her right hand upon the brushed steel cylindrical knob; she looks at the weather vane as she opens the door and steps outside into a brightly lit blur of hallway; she squints her eyes, drops her chin to her chest and moves into the awful light. The door on its pneumatic pressure hinge slowly eases shut.

The light in the waiting room is pleasant, it originates from only two sources, a lovely brass Stiffel lamp and a recessed fixture in the ceiling directly above the vacant receptionist's desk.  A green power indicator on the laser printer behind the desk placed on a dustless office buffet built of a dark stained wood glows. A misplaced pillow on the long green couch bears the pressure imprint of having served its purpose. The wood framed clock on the wall behind the receptionist's desk advances its long hand a minute. A weather vane on the wall above the clock behind the receptionist's desk, showing the distress of its age and previous life, points toward the way out.

© Amanda 2013 2.17.2013
Image: "People who go into hiding" by © 2012







… our prayers are beneath surfaces … are reflected in lights dim and diffused … are voiced in airless spaces without sound …