Sometimes I miss New York, and the way we took our coats off when we passed through doors and out of the snow, and felt safe and warm— a balanced warmth in less layers. I remember the breathing glow of moisture on bare skin in the electric heat, the incandescent light on the brighter side of large dark windows, shining softly above and into the wet street, all of us blissfully aware of the divide; the feeling of being stuck inside, together, always together, friends and strangers, cold and hot, wet dry and drunk; a younger sadness; a louder laughter. Then out in the snow, rolling cigarettes in the frost and holding a tiny fire between my fingers, I still see it— watching my breath chase the smoke, the random mysterious drops of moisture that lands on a cheek or the back of your neck or mine; slowly feeling it disappear. Slowly, and watching the breathe chasing the smoke disappear. And knowing that one day today, all of it will have disappeared.
I went and saw it again today.
That moment when Jason puts on his father’s old sunglasses and Robin, the crazy old mechanic proclaims, “He’s coming back again!” and that haunting, melodic piano motif swells back up like a ghost and it cuts to the matching shot of Jason riding his bike alone on the road through the woods, just like his father did fifteen years earlier———- my entire body was literally shaking it was overcharged with so much electricty. I could feel the volts pulsating through me because of the beauty and poetry and truth of that cinematically perfect moment. No book, no music alone, no image alone can have that kind of affect. Only real life, and cinema life. Amazing.
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