She appears delicate. Her skin, almost translucent. Feminine
and maternal. There is an innocence in the deep-set eyes, watchful but wistful,
perhaps a playful turn of the lips. We uncover a realism in her persona
that makes her noticed. Uncommon. She is unexpectedly nervous.
Her films are forgettable. She needed more time. But her
future, and motherhood, ended in a slash of violence decreed by a mentally ill
man, trying to raise awareness for his demons.
Her name endures with the crime of her demise. Or does it? There’s more. Others have met terrible exits. Somehow, she’s the fleeting nymph under a diamond sky, dancing unchained from Time. Somehow the crypt has no purchase. It makes little sense. But immortality has nothing to do with material gain. Unveiling that ruse is the first step to entering the mystic.
Perhaps her soul was more powerful than others, far from madding
Manson and the broken Polanski. There is no conclusion to her tale. Her film
will never read ‘The End’. She always leaves the frame before forfeiting her
freedom.
Perhaps people like Sharon Tate hold furtive, flickering candles, wayward ghosts who light the way out of forgotten caverns.
Past is prologue, and prologue just may be that wind-swept bikini-clad
woman on a blue-sky Malibu beach, out of touch but never out of reach, leaving
no footprints as the pounding white surf pulls her far down the coastline.
#sharontate #charlesmanson #romanpolanski #film #hollywood
#tarantino #beachboys #crime
