With a perpetual lack of creativity and imagination flowing through my brain, rather than once again not write anyhing, I turned to my iPhone and the over one thousand photos that languish there – random, uncategorized and detailing my personal snapshot history from December 29th, 2007 (which is when i got the phone) until day before yesterday.
Four years later to the day, I took this photo:
So what happened in between the graveyard of discarded toys and the neighbors zombie cat on my porch (heck, that would make a good story title)?
Well, the photos tell a story of golf games I played (four total), four billion beach walks, friends, family, deceased pets (not my pets), vertigo-inducing shots of interesting ceilings, east coast gardens, west coast architecture, people I love, people who are no longer in my life, sunsets, moonrises, sisters, food, art and galleries, holiday events, trains, cars, planes, etc, etc.
Which brings me to the pictures I took day before yesterday; I sat on my living room floor and took pictures of my television, specifically THE PHILADELPHIA STORY that was a welcoming light of warmth in a blizzard of channel surfing. Even after 200 viewings, the perfection of dialog and the sublime Hollywood beauty of the actors arrests me and I watch it all again.
They are so beautiful, so funny, so classy and eloquent. And awfully blurry in these photos.
The whole movie makes me ask, “Why don’t we dress like this anymore? Why are we all so lazy with our speech and friendly dialog? Where the heck is C.K. Dexter Haven when you want him?”
Katharine Hepburn exudes a strength of character both real and scripted that indeed puts her on a pedestal for all the rest of us to worship and admire. Impossibly lithe, yet wiry and strong – not wasting away anorexic, chiseled cheekbones of marble, her tone and manner, all of it perfection.
And I suppose, part of the appeal for me is the heady idea of being the woman betwixt two men such as these. I don’t count her fianceè, George. And neither did Tracy, in the end.
I mean really, how to choose? There was a time that I would have gravitated toward the sensitive writer (Mike); he’s young and somewhat innocent about life and love, he reads and writes, emanates a sweetness. Good stuff. And he took home the Oscar for this role in 1941.
But now, I do believe, my taste has shifted toward Dex. He’s kicked his drinking habit, he’s aware of his past mistakes and what is going on around him, he is an active and intelligent player with heart in this love game. Worldly and decidedly not innocent. Funny how taste can change.
In the end it all works out perfectly, of course, because this is a Hollywood fairytale. Tracy’s eyes are finally open to what’s in front of her and the best man wins the Goddess, if not the Oscar.
Anyway, all this to say I have now become a person who takes pictures of her television. It may be time for an intervention.