All The Real Girls (David Gordon Green, 2003)
There are people who write their names in the dust of pulverized brick from crumbled buildings. But, it is not their choice to live with such doom. It is, instead the prophecy of the tribe. Tribes in backward old mountain towns in West Virginia. Rusted can towns somewhere in Pennsylvania, and dusty ghost towns out west there.
You only go as far as the tribe goes, and it goes through the steel mills, the blue glass of old mason chairs and a muddy back yard. They’re places where dreams snap like fire crackers on a summer side walk. Where rusted cars have memories and the folks have memorized every pot hole in main street. Those places that smell like an old book and everything is smeared with wet ash.
And the people paint their bodies loyally for the tribe. When given a glimpse at love their stone hands fumble it, because if it’s anything more than a twinkle of an eye in a beer puddle, one might have to leave the tribe.
– James Merolla