My neck was curved slightly backward, my face lit up by the screen and my razor sharp, rapt attention was completely committed to Amelie.
I sat on the front row, center seat, next to one of my dearest friends and as soon as I saw the effect I reached over and grabbed her hand.
The femme’ protagonist who was terribly shy had arranged an intricate plan to finally meet the person she had pined over from afar. She was inches from his youthful body sitting in a cafe booth, waiting to meet her…but she couldn’t find the courage to say, “it’s me.”
But that wasn’t why I was clutching the hand of my friend, gripping her bones as if I were in labor. It was because of the cinematic effect of what happened as Amelie’s love exited their rendezvous point…
She melted. From the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, crafty special effects artists led the viewer’s eye down, down, down to the floor where her emotions splashed across the black and white tile. All that remained was her soul puddled up for the next customer to step over on their way to use the restroom.
I was completely undone.
And I told you that story to tell you this one.
My husband and I purchased his and hers cordovan recliners trimmed in nailhead detail for Mother’s and Father’s Day this past year. Late at night we sit in them. He watches various television shows, and I read or write. I’m on the left (stage left), he sits on the right.
Through the fog of reading NaBloPoMo posts about a dreamy English soup, a way to craft snowflakes, thrifty ideas for frugal minds, and someone dreaming about gardening, my brain proved to my skeptical self that it can indeed monitor the world around me even if I DO have it tuned out.
The channel surfing had paused, and I heard this dialogue:
Tiny, young girl who visually makes you want to give money to whatever she’s selling says: “Can I live with you when my mom dies?”
Character played by Jessica Alba, presumably a teacher: “My apartment is small.” Her hand is knocking on the floor and lighted words are spelling outward where she’s striking with each rap of her knuckles. I think the words were “help me, help me, help me.” Continue reading My Heart Was a Moth, Flying Too Close to the Flame