Earlier this month, another sweet soul fell from the tree of life, brought down by the hard rain of Hollywood.

Young Sandra May McIntyre, whose childhood was spent in Clinton, Madison and Skowhegan, was a daughter of Maine, beloved sister and friend of many. Sandra was an aspiring entertainer and practiced dreamer. Sandra, only one of the millions who trod the streets of Hollywood hoping to catch stardust, fell asleep in the arms of mother death; while in her tiny apartment, her telephones rang endlessly, unanswered and drowned out by the white noise of Hollywood.

As is the way on the street of dreams, Sandra May changed her name to something more "starry" -- as did Francis Gumm, who changed her name to Judy Garland; or Bernie Schwartz, who became Tony Curtis. Sandra May became Paula Goodspeed. It's what a dreamer does, like bleaching one's hair, losing weight or selling one's soul. The dreamers always feel the need to shed the past and reinvent themselves, never realizing that the most important thing they have to sell is what they really are.

I know the streets where Sandra died and where her idol, Paula Abdul, lives her charmed life. They're lovely streets, paved with emerald lawns and lined with majestic palm trees. The smell of money is sweet perfume there. To a young girl from central Maine, or Waukegan, Ill., or Ruston, La., it must seem as though the sun is brightest on those Spanish-tiled roofs. The sky must seem bluer than anywhere.

There, the mail is delivered on time, the cars never get dirty and homes have locked gates. There, the birds sing beautiful songs even when it's raining; even when the hot, dry Santa Ana winds come up from Mexico and, as Raymond Chandler said, "curl the calendars on the wall." It's a heavily perfumed world, an air-conditioned garden of Allah, where no one is ever late with the rent or has to live on canned food.

And only 10 minutes or less away, runaway teenagers sell themselves on the hot streets.

People die on these golden streets all the time, but mostly in bed or by the sides of their pools, not in parked cars under the towering palms. Home in bed in her mother's arms would have been Sandra May's choice, had she had clearer thoughts; but clear thoughts aren't always part of the baggage young dreamers take to Hollywood's streets.

There are worse places to die in Hollywood, and I've seen some of them in my time.

They die in cheap motels or on the benches of bus stations. They die of drug overdoses or are murdered, but mostly they die of a broken heart.

The police report says that Sandra May of Maine died of an overdose of drugs, an apparent suicide.

They got it wrong. Remember, we're talking about Hollywood. First you die of a broken heart, the result of a traumatic blow to the spirit, a suffocation of the soul.

In Sandra's case, that moment came when she auditioned for "American Idol" and was ridiculed for her lack of talent and the metal braces on her teeth. Watching the judges' reactions on the Internet was unbearably painful. It was the ice-cold cruelty of the pompous judge Simon Cowell that dealt the first blow, but the fatal wound was almost gently delivered by her idol, Paula Abdul, who simply shook her head and said, "I'm sorry."

Goodnight Sandra May, wherever you are. We're sorry, too.

J.P. Devine is a freelance writer living in Waterville.