One Beautiful Thing

Rummaging through my old video collection, searching for movies with hints on how to die nobly, I came upon the perfect one, The Royal Tennenbaums, which may be my favorite movie of all time, at least today. It has a perfect cast, and Gene Hackman's character is such a likeable and flawed man. I am in love with Gene Hackman. And Wes Andersen movies. If I made a movie like that, just one sweet-spirited gift to the world, that would be enough. I could die happy. (This seems to be a theme with me lately. One is enough. You know, like if "Yesterday" were the only song Paul McCartney had ever written, that would be enough. It is enough to send one perfect thing out into the universe.)

I would like some day to create one perfect thing, but seeing as I can barely stand or use my hands due to this "unfortunate illness", I must face the possibility that I may never leave such legacy to humanity. Oh fuck, what difference does it make anyway? Do you really think in the total scheme of things that Paul McCartney or Wes Anderson or fucking James Joyce for that matter are any better off, dead or alive, than the rest of us? I think not. I remember reading somewhere that there are thousands of Brad Pitts walking around, just as talented and good looking (maybe more so!), but "chance" chose him. Or destiny. Or whatever. So is the famous one more valuable somehow than the unknown?

I always thought living an artistic life was enough. That you could always take your palette-knife and apply thick coats of swirling color, that unexpected mixings and an occasional bold black outline could always give you focus, and reading the roadmap of composition could always bring you back around. But now I don't know if it is enough. Experience and being special don't seem as important anymore. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

So yesterday I cried through The Royal Tennenbaums. Why does that movie move me? I can't watch it without falling apart. Is it the earnest and flawed characters? Is it the damages done and the kindnesses offered? Maybe I am just your typical sappy sentimental midwestern fool. ("There's no place like home. There's no place like home.") I think I like it because it's smart. And funny. And flawed. And sometimes it just feels really good to cry.

So then I watched Edward Scissorhands. I had forgotten that Vincent Price was in that movie, and it made me smile to see him. Veronica and I used to stand in a line that sometimes stretched for blocks outside the local theater on Saturdays to watch the latest Vincent Price movie, which always seemed to involve a torture chamber. And then later V called me. "I have been thinking about you all day. This just isn't right. Why don't you fly back down here and I will take you to a specialist. You can stay as long as you need to. You can stay forever."

After that I watched part of You've Got Mail, which seemed to deliver the message that large corporations have a heart, too. But I watched it, didn't I? And Meg Ryan was still cute then. Are any one of her movies "enough"? Hmmm...maybe When Harry Met Sally? What do you think?

I will be watching movies again today, no doubt, seeing as the "unfortunate illness" doesn't seem to be getting better. It does seem to be morphing, which is a little alarming. I don't think I am dying anytime soon, however, so I may still have time to create one beautiful thing before I go. I always was a procrastinator.