I Love Paul Giamatti
Because for one thing, he's from Brooklyn Heights,
and glares at strangers. A French guy (Parisian,
of course) once remarked to me, "You Americans
are nice to strangers--we are nice to people we know."
Well, Giamatti subscribes to that, and if anyone
claims soulful, however pragmatic, it's the French.
And, for another thing, he (Mr. G) appears chronically
stressed out. Sometimes not even Ma-ra-na-tha or
that old chestnut OM chanted while deep-breathing helps;
(though, clearly, no breath at all is a sure relaxant).
My man Giamatti is making a movie about souls.
He sees the souls of certain celebs as a chickpea,
an ear of roasted corn, a set of nice whitewall tires,
a doorknob, a crazy box of crabs, and best one
of all, a blood orange left on a window sill, dried out
and leathery. So, Mr. G, (Palpitation
of my Heart), What does the soul of a poet
look like? I imagine it as the invisible edge of
the iced-over pond we skate on.
Thank you, THE NEW YORKER
Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2009
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