Pretentious Poetry Part 3

Dreams are only lies that our minds believe.
Hopes, wishes and wants continue to deceive.
He said he loved me once, I said he lied.
He said he cared for me once, I stared back and cried.
There are days that are okay, there are nights that are bleak.
Why was my love so strong, yet my heart and mind so weak?
So here I sit, as for another love I dream on to seek.

Pretentious Poetry Part 2 (to the tune of Janis Ian's 'At Seventeen')

I learned to love at fourteen.
I saw him up on the movie screen.
He made me laugh, he made me smile
I haven’t felt that way for awhile.
The valentines that never came,
I felt my youth waste away.
A younger man stepped in my life
I pictured a future as his wife
Love was not meant for him and me
Not like the man on the movie screen.
He would never break my heart,
Never rip my dream apart
Of joining him on that movie screen.
For all of those who play the game
You will never feel the same
After all, it fades away and all that remains
Is the man on the movie screen,
Looking you in the eyes
Telling you it’s okay, you’re not alone
The boy never caused you pain
So here I sit alone at first,
Until the part that he rehearsed.
He comes on screen with his smile
It’s nice to be there for awhile.

Hopeless Romance

I love love. I love the idea, the dream, the essence, the being of love. We all aspire to this golden ideal. If we are good people, hopefully karma will kick in and let us attain this all-thrashing, pulsating fire in the heart only equaled by the indescribable smiling bliss of couple-dom. I’m not saying marriage or an official partnership, but a deep undeniable connection. Whether it be man, woman, shim, that special someone is out there waiting for just the right moment to spring in our lives and throw everything upside down, leaving us scrambling for the pieces until finally you and them are on the same level and your eyes meet, your feet touch, you gently graze their arm. That is when it clicks. When you know why you are here and why they are there and why out of all the places and all of the circumstances, this has happened; that you are in love. You cannot easily describe love or else it would be quite simple to figure out and find. But instead it taunts us, lying merely inches, moments, nano-seconds from our grasp. It is in pursuit of this concept that the feeling can turn into lust, obsession, even desperation. This is when we turn from lovelorn protagonist into a villainous monster of a mess. Emotions run high, neurosis sets in, and you begin to disgust yourself to such an extent that you contemplate ending it all. But then, moments before jumping off the cliff, staying too long at the bottom of the pool or sticking your head in the oven, you realize that no, this can’t be love. This can’t be the hope, the wish, or the dashing man on the able steed riding you off into the sunset. There must still be that out there, that this is only a dark chapter in the storybook of your life. You may not be able to erase the original misconception from your mind, but you can try to dismiss it for what it was, a mistake, a stupid mistake, trying to love someone who does not nor ever will love you. That they never lusted, obsessed, or were led to desperation over you. So now, walk over the dead carcass of a long gone era of self-inflicted pain and romantic exclusion, on to something better, someone better who will make you feel whole in their arms, a certain warmth with their smile, a blush rising on your cheeks when they look into your eyes and you forget everything.

This post’s film recommendations:
Shakespeare in Love
Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera
Wuthering Heights (1970)
Gone with the Wind
Gigi
Someone Like You
Sabrina (1954)
Love Affair (1939)
The Philadelphia Story
Becoming Jane
Lolita (1997)
Ever After
The French Lieutenant’s Woman

Pretentious Poetry Part 1

The trees reddened down the street
with rustling leaves playing at my feet.
Squirrels nestling with their chestnuts so warm,
Each step I trudge back to the dorm
With piles and piles of messy pages,
Each proving inescapable cages.
I yearn for a time when the leaves flew by
And all I could do was giggle,
But now I think back and sigh,
'All I have loved will die.'

Hey there, me with the stars fading in my eyes

Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes...
I've been a horrible blogger, barely keeping up and I have no excuses other than lazy schoolwork and drunkenness. I realized recently that nothing is quite as you thought and it is a poor chance that it ever will be that delusion once dreamed. Everything loses its charm and mystery. As a child, I watched Vertigo and deemed Kim Novak as the epitome of womanhood from her bleach blonde hair to her statuesque figure to Jimmy Stewart's infatuation. As a semi-adult, I re-watched the Hitchcock masterpiece in horror as my childhood ideals were torn to shreds with laughter from Stewart's clumsy detective work to Novak submitting to a makeover if that would make him love her, not even to mention the bodiless head of Stewart floating in psychedelic reds. It all seems quite ridiculous. To extensively list the reasons would take years and the motivation of a paying book deal. A certain nostalgia sets in and then forces you to re-evaluate your current life, maybe I am being too cynical, too feminist, too idealistic that I can't accept the film the same way as I did as a child.
It's the same change that you get when something you loved individually becomes popular in the masses. For example, when I saw Tomb Raider II: The Cradle of Life, I thought 'Who is that man?', referring of course to Gerard Butler. From then on I was head over heels, even though it took me a search on the internet to know he is Scottish. And then Phantom came out, which was popular but not enough to hinder the seeming individualism of my crush. I went to five screenings and who knows how many times I have watched it on DVD, memorizing each shot with Gerry on film. And then 300 came out, everybody and their cousin loved him, from teenage boys to little old grannies. I began to resent his popularity as people began to try to tell me about this new hot Scot from this movie about some ancient battle. I was furious. I had not watched Dracula 2000 to have people inform me of his existence. I had pictures of him cut out and glued inside my binders. But now, I have come to terms with his popularity as I guess it was inevitable, maybe not the supposed dating of Naomi Campbell, Jennifer Anniston and Cameron Diaz. Oh well, what can you do? At least he isn't married.
Even in my 'work', I've reached a certain level of pessimism. The script that I've been working on for far too long is hopefully (fingers crossed) nearly at an end. After some drinks with an old crush and his girlfriend, I realized a good twist for my protagonists. *Spoiler Alert* (as if) Originally I thought of having the leading lady reveal herself as a booze hound, which would explain her abnormal obsession with Holly Golightly. But for the months that I have spent pondering, that did not feel right. It seemed a cop out, as couples do not work out without the helpful excuse of alcohol or drug abuse, even couples that never were. I couldn't have it be lack of attraction, as she is Holly Golightly after all. Oh yeah, the plot is about a young male writer who meets a woman who thinks she is Holly Golightly in modern Manhattan. Anyways, so after an awkward night, it dawned on me that maybe they don't end up together after all and he is with someone else at the end, while she is on her lonesome along with another twist which I don't want to divulge right now. Even my fictional characters do not receive happily ever after endings. I love love and romance and everything, but I cannot bring myself to write about it happily. I know that sounds horribly selfish and sad, but so far in my life I have not found that person to make me unselfish and happy, instead mere glimmers of hope shattered sharply as a result of my delusion. It's funny; I've never been physically intimate with someone I actually cared about. So both love and sex have been dashed in one single blow. Haha!
Yeah, on a lighter note, think of that Haha! a la Hugh Laurie in Blackadder as George either Blackadder the Third or Blackadder Goes Fourth, if you really want a giggle think of the pronunciation of revenge in 'Chains' from Blackadder II. Oh, I love Hugh Laurie. So much. From Jeeves and Wooster to Blackadder to Stuart Little to the bit in Man In The Iron Mask to his SNL appearance to House... Yeah, Hugh Laurie is nice to think about with his almost googly eyes and obnoxious grin which can transform into sexy curmudgeon-ness. He can cheer up any day. And on that lovely note, adieu!

Film Recommendations:
Vertigo
Lara Croft Tomb Raider 2: The Cradle of Life
Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera
Dracula 2000
300
Dear Frankie
Attila
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Love in the Afternoon
The Man in the Iron Mask (Leo Dicaprio version)

TV Recommendations:
Blackadder (Seasons 2-4)
Arrested Development (Seasons 1-3)

The lights flickered as the chill swept the empty flat. Shallow shadows haunted the bleak walls as I sat rocking back and forth thinking over philosophies and ideologies, trying to think of something profound and life-altering. But nothing comes. I want to write, but cannot think of what is worthy to force the ink to paper. It’s nice, neat blank computer paper. So clean and crisp, like 1950s laundry. An image flashes of red a la Hitchcock’s Marnie. My mind goes directly to the tips of my fingers. A stinging, sharp pain and flowing red.
Never mind the paper. There’s ink or maybe lead. But lead can be erased and what would the point be. At least with ink there will always be some sort of blot, possibly used later by a psychoanalyst on rough times. Books lay like dead butterflies scattered across the carpet. All hopes and dreams of efficiency are dashed. A couple sentence fragments turn into newly illegible cross-outs into a sketch of a chair into new bin lining. The conundrum of the seemingly educated writer; nothing reasonably good seems innovative enough, in this vast world somebody has done exactly what someone else is contemplating. Nothing is original, even in questioning worth of self and one’s prose has become passé. What is the purpose of writing if not to explore new avenues of thought which have been circled around endlessly for centuries? It seems that I will never have a truly original thought and have set forth to write no more.
But I have to write to live. I cannot live without self-expression, no matter how self-indulgent. Oh damn if I am cliché or passé. I will write no matter the possible paper cuts or mental blocks. I am what I am and the world is my oyster.

I am in love with Errol Flynn

I am in love with Errol Flynn. So what? He is possibly one of the greatest film stars ever. Now, notice that I said film star, not actor. Actor is too lofty of a word and profession for such a voracious soul. An actor is Lord Larry Olivier, not Errol. I love him from the moment he steps into the screen effortlessly to only leave within seemingly fleeting moments and leave a void deep within the hearts of his audience, be them male or female. He is a hero, he is a lover, he is a man greater than circumstance would allow. He is, even though he has passed on to the other side, abyss or God forbid, damnable hell. He continues to lighten the lives of those whose eyes are blessed enough to see him on the silver screen, home television or even YouTube clip. As all great men, he was and continues to be one of many contradictions… Film star, but not actor. A great lover who attempted marriage and children. Hollywood’s great physical specimen, yet his body was ravaged by malaria and other severe ailments. Politically active, but no one was certain to which side he leant. This man had been charged with Nazism, communism, homophobia, homosexuality, statutory rape, regular rape, cocaine, heroin, marijuana, large alcohol consumption, prolific seduction, white slavery, modern pirating, along with much, much more. He flew to the battlefront of the Spanish Revolution, befriended Castro, dated a 15 year old at the ripe age of 48 and was supposedly buried with five bottles of whiskey.

Every time he winks, smiles or calls Rosalind Russell a tricky wench, I warm up inside. When he begins some blatantly uplifting speech to his men, I fall for every single cliché word. When he finally can steal a kiss from his current on-screen love, I wish that I could have started such a flame, but all I have to work with now is embers.

Many actors have been compared to Errol. Johnny Depp’s turn as Captain Sparrow gave him a nod to the swashbuckler, Warren Beatty was described as Errol Flynn but better by Gene Hackman and even a film critic compared the latest Indy Jones as if Errol had taken up his role again to film a sequel to the Adventures of Robin Hood. The main issue with these comparisons is that most claim the newer surpasses the original by far, which is simply not the case, or why else would they compare these men to him instead of Douglas Fairbanks, the swashbuckler, or John Barrymore, the notorious drunk, or Gary Cooper, the not as publicly noted lothario. It is because Errol Flynn somehow can capture the minds and hearts of all audiences. He is the hero of legend. The only reason that he is not remembered as a great actor is because the studio system would not let him leave his swashbuckling legacy and he was so great in those roles that the public cannot accept him as a comedic romantic lead or thriller villain, but only as the legging-clad Casanova swinging in on a rope to save the day. But how can I blame them? For that is part of me loving him. He is even greater as the years go on, for although commonly compared he can never be matched.

Recommendations:

The Adventures of Robin Hood

Never Say Goodbye

Gentleman Jim

Four's A Crowd

The Sea Hawk

Elizabeth and Essex

They Died with their Boots On

Captain Blood