When I set this rickety connection and finally got the obscure ABC feed stable enough to run, the image of the red carpet filled my screen. And Tilda Swinton was there: no one interviewed her. She was just in the background, unnoticed, and in her black dress with the one sleeve she seemed like a statue of something alien and wonderful – a wonderfulness too strong for ABC. And then again, sitting behind some actress as they were giving the awards: her hair the exact shade of rust and cut in short, angular strokes, and her eyes: she was too pretty for this tacky room with its tacky women, too good for Hollywood and strange here. You wanted her back in the far northen Scotland or in a movie, not idling with these idlers. You wanted her to be Galadriel, because when she’d say that she will not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the night and day, you’d believe her. And you just knew they nominated her for Best Supporting Actress because they needed another face on that screen when they give it to someone so much tackier than her. And when she won, we were as surprised, her and me.
And when she gave the speech she was sexy and commanding in a way women aren’t in this world. She was unphazed about this Disney Princess dream. Which made her all the more worthy.
Tilda, Tilda, be mine. Or better let me be yours. Israel’s not Scotland but we have beaches and in the winter they are sometimes gray and stormy; we could walk them like bullets through a storm and your hair will rust in the rain. We could enjoy falafel and it’d be like Lambas in our presense, two kings of the oceans. And you will be Gabriel, ageless and sexless and sexy, and the gap between our years on this Earth will burn between us. I’d have you have me for all eternity, but I’d be content with one day. Ah, Tilda.