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| seth green, ian holm, band names, writing, algieria, atmosphere one on one, armenia, archive, foto, danny, beverly d'angelo, plans, gift set, artists, community, iraqi, fairuza balk, judy davis, larry charles, fullmetal jacket, jordanian, jayne houdyshell, | Thinking movies about ourselves, our little problems and vices, the state of our so-called souls. Something tells me I've seen this picture before. "Is my movies baby a little depresso today?" I say sweetly in the domestic patois we resurrect to needle each other with, interrupting Clemmy's little reverie with himself. "A little hungo? Still drunk?" movies Clemmy breaks away from the mirror slowly, like a sperm whale coming up for air. "Slack off, Porter," Clemmy says gruffly, signaling for the check as he was born to. Clemmy's the only person who calls me Porter, which is not my last name but my first name, my third first name if you want to get technical. I don't think they have a name yet for that. "Promise not to laugh?" I used to say cutely before spitting out my despised monicker, but I don't do that now since nobody does, not in New York City, not at Katherine Anne Porter O'Shea. |
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| Then something not entirely unfamiliar happens to Clemmy's face. After he makes sure I've seen him grinning, after band names he takes my hand and pat-pats it in this condescending way he knows I hate, after he's absolutely sure I've grokked all the connotations of him seeing me so transfixed with myself and band names wrings out of that little self-revelatory scene all the points he's going to get, for the time being anyhow, then his grin kind of collapses. Oh, it stays on his face, band names all right, but without any discernible change in expression it shifts from a Gordo Cooper grin to a Pat Nixon grin. You know the one: this frozen, pasted on, unconvincing kind of travesty. And I realize what's caused the transformation is his eyes. Clemmy isn't looking at me anymore. He's looking at himself in the mirror. I can just about guess what he's seeing, too. And there you have it, folks: Clement Goodbloode and I, hands intertwined, knees almost touching, looking like lovers for all intents and purposes but not thinking about love, no sirree. |
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