"They don't make 'em like that anymore,"
says Nostalgia as the credits of "His Girl Friday" role. Agree with Mom. Dialogue is faster (and funnier) than Gilmore Girls. What can compete with newspaper men, jail breaks, crooked politicians, red scares, and double dealing, double talking Cary Grant?
Maybe the moon intense and brilliant on the river. Left the Adirondacks and the Do-Gersten medley of religions and reason this afternoon for cozy, cold Lexington. Inside post-movie, Mom and Jesse are absorbed into the t.v. screen playing Ms. Pacman, no quarters needed. A Christmas present reincarnation of the archaic arcade game given to the one of the two old enough to be nostalgic for the eighties full-size version. Identical tongues balance on lower lips. Concentration and cursing are part of serious play. Apparently killer Ms. Pacman skills are hereditary.
Outside, the moon's palor grazes snowy cheeks of riverbank. Cold light caresses and changes the land's complexion. Under a full feeling moon, the front yard is bright as noon but thinner. The scene lacks the conviction of reality. Incandescence confuses the willow at this hour and ice shagged pines wonder at the glint in the eye of their cones. The lighting is a nightmare of day. Moonbeams rest on the water as currents of dreams roll beneath unshakeable shadows from trees. Stasis in darkness. Good night.
Maybe the moon intense and brilliant on the river. Left the Adirondacks and the Do-Gersten medley of religions and reason this afternoon for cozy, cold Lexington. Inside post-movie, Mom and Jesse are absorbed into the t.v. screen playing Ms. Pacman, no quarters needed. A Christmas present reincarnation of the archaic arcade game given to the one of the two old enough to be nostalgic for the eighties full-size version. Identical tongues balance on lower lips. Concentration and cursing are part of serious play. Apparently killer Ms. Pacman skills are hereditary.
Outside, the moon's palor grazes snowy cheeks of riverbank. Cold light caresses and changes the land's complexion. Under a full feeling moon, the front yard is bright as noon but thinner. The scene lacks the conviction of reality. Incandescence confuses the willow at this hour and ice shagged pines wonder at the glint in the eye of their cones. The lighting is a nightmare of day. Moonbeams rest on the water as currents of dreams roll beneath unshakeable shadows from trees. Stasis in darkness. Good night.
