I know that house, the one where something like me grows—and disposed of with the sharp blade of a shovel. I know those people, the men with pipes and steady incomes, the women polite, clever, comfortable to be with. I think I’m almost one of those people myself—when the night is young, and things quiet down—quiet as the street outside, where we have to go afterward, make our way to the car, suddenly unsure of all those nice people on our block.
Sometimes I don’t need a movie to remind me of this. But the movie didn’t care; it just walked right up and shone a light—a bare bulb, simple and unforgiving, all of us looking old and tired, drained of all those things that kept us moving earlier in the day, before the sun went down and the night rolled in, the silence out there creeping through, quieting the room and anything we were about to say.
I know that house, the one where something like me grows—and disposed of with the sharp blade of a shovel. I know those people, the men with pipes and steady incomes, the women polite, clever, comfortable to be with. I think I’m almost one of those people myself—when the night is young, and things quiet down—quiet as the street outside, where we have to go afterward, make our way to the car, suddenly unsure of all those nice people on our block.
Sometimes I don’t need a movie to remind me of this. But the movie didn’t care; it just walked right up and shone a light—a bare bulb, simple and unforgiving, all of us looking old and tired, drained of all those things that kept us moving earlier in the day, before the sun went down and the night rolled in, the silence out there creeping through, quieting the room and anything we were about to say.
Visiting your blog one gets that sense of satisfaction about all the lousy movies one did not have to see. One can barely squeeze a few of the best in the span of one life-time.
ReplyDeleteYour writing style never loses its spark.