THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

If Heaven isn’t there and God is nothing more than a well-funded daydream then where have you gone? I think I know. Because I can feel you. You are the choreographer of the tides the sculptor of silence the midwife of flowers the conductor of storms the philanthropist of the sun the late-night custodian of the moon Even though I can no longer see you perform a series of soubresauts along a serpentine stage of sand  the kind that weeps down  the slender neck of an  hourglass  until time runs out, or hear your voice that was made to sing with mine or entwine my fingers with yours to escort you safely home Life goes on without you. Everywhere.

Ever since my heartbeats matched the tick-tock pulse of  “The Syncopated Clock” theme of the Late Show I have lived in a house bursting  with shimmering strangers whom I have never met And cannot live without. They are the movie spirits who have shrugged off time and death with their throaty, cocktail-party laughs bone slinky gowns and all-night tuxes shadow lit by Hurrell  diffused by plumes of Lucky Strike  smoke armed with trigger-happy flasks happy feet swooning kisses, and jazzy bursts of banter that click and clack like  the fascinating rythym of a reporter’s  hot story keyboard Others are clowns who can tumble in a windstorm cling for dear life to the spindly hands of a clock tip their derbies to flirty ingenues and twirl their canes like a mini windmill. There’s also coin-flipping gangsters crooning cowboys twirling dancers  gold hearted harlots baby faced soldiers  heavy-lidded private eyes and fated romantics  who always suffer from...