COLLEGE POEMS IV

I feel a little strange about posting this poem.

I’m not embarrassed.  Honestly, I’m having a great time sharing all of these dorky college poems with you.

Still, I feel a little strange about posting this poem, because this one was once very important to me.

I wrote it sophomore year, which I’ve come to realize was a time when everything was important.  I was 20 years-old — the oldest I’d ever been.  I was hundreds of miles away from mom and dad.  I was in charge of making my own meals and doing my own laundry.  I had my own room.  I was taking feminist studies classes and reading The Bell Jar in my spare time.  I was obsessed with Bob Dylan and Shane MacGowan and I felt so cool when one of my professor’s said, “Raise your hand if you’ve heard of Laurie Anderson.”  I loved my roommates and my apartment and my school.

In January, I started seeing a boy I’d been friends with for a few months.  By “seeing” I mean sneaking around with, and by “boy” I mean, ya know, a fellow consenting young adult.  We secretly kissed one night after a party, and instead of just leaving it at that, we had to repeat our mistake and make things complicated.

We liked each other and I knew that and he knew that, but for some reason we never really got it right.  One of us was always afraid of something and the other was always worried about something else.  One day we’d say, “Let’s just be friends,” and then after two days of being the kind of friends who stay up all night talking, one of us would say, “I can’t just be friends.”  We’d start over.

It was frustrating and painful and yeah, frickin’ exciting.  It always hurt a little bit after one of our “we need to stop this” discussions, but we’d always change our minds, which always meant a few more days of sneaky bliss.

We finally decided to commit, and things immediately soured.  I don’t know whose fault it was.  Maybe if I had just let him ignore me instead of barging into his apartment asking, “Where the fuck have you been for five days?” things would have been better.  Maybe if he had actually told me what it was that made him want to run away things would have been better.  Maybe it’s because we were both 20 years-old?

I tried to end it a few times, and both times I was talked out of it.  It was confusing.  It was frustrating and painful and I hated every second of it.

Things came to an end over the summer when we both had to go back to our respective suburban homes.  He broke up with me.  When he called me that day, I knew exactly what was going to happen — it had been ages since we last spoke.  He said, “I have to break up with you,” and I said, “Haven’t we been broken up for weeks?”  I was sad, but I wasn’t hurt — I had gotten all the “hurt” out of my system back in Santa Cruz.  Furthermore, I wasn’t about to let him think I was surprised to hear that we were through.  Looking back, I shouldn’t even have been that nice.  I should have just blurted out a big, loud, “DUH.”

I’m a huge fan of monogamy and commitment and intimacy and all that, but, I have to say, the best part of this relationship was the “sneaky bliss.”  It probably shouldn’t have gone beyond that.  Maybe we’d still be friends and I wouldn’t be posting a poem I wrote about him.

I wrote this one night after visiting him in his apartment.  A few weeks later, I decided to submit it to a poetry contest that was being held by The Beat Museum in San Francisco.  I didn’t think that I was going to win, nor did I really care.  The only reason I mailed the poem off to the city was because it seemed like a fun little creative outlet.  Despite my lighthearted feelings, I still decided not to tell anyone.  This was just for me.

A month later I called my mom one Sunday morning to ask her something — I really don’t remember what.  My older brother answered the phone.

“Hi Bobby!”

“Hey.  I just read your poem.”

Pause.

“What poem?”

“The one about the diabetic boy.”

Yes.  My mother, being a Beat Museum enthusiast, had gone to their website that morning just for kicks.  Across the screen, she saw the names of the winners of that month’s poetry contest.  Honorable Mention went to Stephanie from Santa Cruz, California, for her poem “Sweet Love.”

March 2007

HONORABLE MENTION
Stephanie Callas Santa Cruz, California
Sweet Love

I know this guy who’s diabetic

Whenever he’s at my apartment

he has to go home every couple of hours

to check his blood sugar levels

I miss him during those few minutes

and I’m always overjoyed when he comes back

sipping his Capri Sun.

Once a long time ago at his apartment

he checked his blood sugar

right there in his room

and when the results were in

he shot insulin into his hip

I asked him if he needed a Capri Sun

“No sugar this time. Just insulin.”

He called me one night while I was

trying to write an essay

for some silly class

that I didn’t really care about.

My priorities don’t involve textbooks

“I need you to come over,” he said

“I had a seizure today at 4am.”

I was over an hour later

with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s

Double Chocolate Fudge Brownie

“Cause this time you where low, right?”

He grabbed my hand and said,

“Do ya ever have days when you

only wanna see specific people?”

Curled up on his bed

with the ice-cream close at hand

we watched the first half of a movie

and then we kissed for nearly two hours

Then I went home at 2am and stared at my

blank computer screen and told myself,

“I could love this guy.”

L’Amour.

                                                                                                          

It physically pains me to know that I’ll never get to sleep with Marlon Brando. I’ve lusted after many unattainable celebrities in my life, but Brando isn’t just any unattainable celebrity — he’s Brando. And he’s dead.

The most painful aspect of my predicament is that I know he would have taken me to his bed if I had been around to make advances. He was a self-proclaimed sex addict — if you made him an offer, he wouldn’t refuse. Of course, he’d only allow a woman to stay for two, maybe three nights in a row before he asked her to leave so he could “be alone,” IE: call another broad. This sort of bargain does not typically appeal to me, but a fling with Brando would be anything but typical. In fact, those two or three days would be the best damn days ever, especially if they took place before Brando reached 200+ pounds. We’d stay in bed eating ice-cream and popping Valium. He’d entertain me by playing his bongo drums or reciting Shakespeare. We’d hang out with Tim, his pet ocelot who knew how to use the toilet. We’d sing old songs at the top of our lungs. We’d dance. We’d talk about global issues and about how corporate fat cats were destroying the environment. We’d make love. We’d eat more ice- cream.

I find it interesting that despite being considered one of the greatest actors of all time (if not TheGreatest, until Meryl Streep kicks the bucket), Brando is only associated with a handful of classic films. Because this is my blog, I am going to go ahead and say that those films are (a) The Godfather, (b) On The Waterfront, and (c) A Streetcar Named Desire.

Only three films? Well, yeah, actually. Now, I’m not saying that these are the only films in which Brando is brilliant, because he’s brilliant in everything. I’ve simply listed his most iconic films. For example,just because his role in Mutiny on the Bounty isn’t as famous as his role in The Godfather, that does not mean it was not an astounding performance. Apocalypse Now, anyone?I first saw that movie in my film appreciation class in 12th grade. We watched it on a huge projector screen in a very dark room. George W. Bush had been re-elected six months earlier, and the terror (rather, “The Horror,”) of the Iraq War rarely left my mind. After watching this scene, it took me several minutes before I could formulate sentences:

Furthermore, Brando wasn’t exactly Lawrence Olivier when it came to performing Shakespeare, but did you seeJulius Caesar? Not only was Brando a huge Hollywood star at that point, he was a Hollywood hottie. Ya think the hottest hottie in Hollywood today could play Mark Antony? Leo’s great, but remember his Romeo?Brad’s hunky, but remember his Achilles? Robert Downey Jr would just be Tony Stark in a toga; Johnny Depp would insist on painting himself blue.

And have you seen THIS? This is, as young kids say today, full of win.

I’m not rambling. This is all very important.

All right. So even if you haven’t seen The Godfather, hearing the movie title most likely inspires you to think of a puffy old dude holding a cat. You may even be able to do a botched Don Corleone impression.

Haven’t seen On the Waterfront? You really should. At any rate, you’ve still heard someone say, “I coulda been a contender” (pronounced con-ten-deh).

No Streetcar? No problem. Does, “STELLAAAAAAA!!!” ring any bells?

“Steff, what are your favorite Brando films?” Gee. My favorites? I’d have to say The Godfather (funny accent), On the Waterfront (“contendeh”), A Streetcar Named Desire (“STELLA!”), and one more film which, in my personal opinion, is one of the best films of the 1970’s (and if it’s one of the best of the 1970’s, it’s one of the best ever made), Last Tango in Paris. What image does that movie usually conjure in a person’s mind? The scene that Last Tango is infamous for may be only half as well known as the “I coulda been a contender” monologue, but to the people who have seen the film, the words “Go get the butter” are quite significant.

Before I proceed, I have to say that while I LOVE this film, and while I believe that it is a work of art and not pornography, I must clarify that I would never show Last Tango to anyone who hasn’t seen worse. For example, while browsing through a Barnes and Noble with my Yia-yia (Greek grandma) last month, I picked up a copy of Last Tango on DVD so I could examine the price. My Yia-yia spent the next several minutes trying to convince me that we should watch it together. I let her know that that was not going to happen. “Is it too risqué?” she asked, grinning deviously. “It’s beyond risqué,” I said. My Yia-yia didn’t grow up during a time when you could type “tits” in to Google and get 45,600,000 results in 0.19 seconds. (Examine that sentence for a moment.) She has definitely not “seen worse.” I would also never show Last Tango to someone who wasn’t at least somewhat of a film enthusiast, or to someone who had zero interest in acting. If a person were to name Transformers, Eat, Pray, Love, or Talladega Nights as his or her favorite movie, the next words out of my mouth would not be, “Then you have to see Last Tango.” While I, Stephanie Callas, may possess the ability to watch the infamous Butter Scene and only focus on how great Brando’s dialogue is, I absolutely understand how other people could find the scene repulsive and upsetting. That being said, I am about to tell you why I, personally, think Last Tango is one of the most romantic films I have ever seen. If my writing inspires you to go out and find a copy of the film, that’s great. If you do a little research on your own and determine that you’d rather skip it, that’s fine, too. I get it.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, allow me to be frank: the romantic movies of today totally suck. They suck, and they’re all the same. There’s a formula out there that’s been used so many times that I don’t even have to see these Goddamn movies to know exactly what happens in them: there’s a young woman who is on her cell phone all the time who meets a young man who likes beer and boobs and they bicker until they finally kiss at the one hour mark and then the girl goes to visit him the next day and he’s being whipped with a dead fish by a beautiful blonde woman but he can “explain everything” but the young woman runs away crying and then in the last ten minutes the young man charters a plane and jumps out of it and lands on the young woman’s roof and his parachute says “I LOVE YOU” and he sings “The Way You Look Tonight” with the Count Basie Orchestra in the background and all is right with the fucking world.

Did I miss anything?

I’m tired of female protagonists who are all supposed to be tight-assed workaholics who only learn how to enjoy life after meeting happy-go-lucky Matthew McConaughey. I’m tired of male love interests who have no redeeming qualities whatsoever until they start to show tenderness during some bullshit Now-They’re-In-Love-Montage. I’m tired of flawless hair and supernatural abs. I’m tired of bleached teeth and fake tans. I’m tired of bad soundtracks. I’m even tired of happy endings. Thankfully, Last Tango features none of these things.

The movie is about 20 year old Jeanne, a beautiful Parisienne, who has a passionate love affair with Paul, an American ex-patriot whose wife has just committed suicide. Paul and Jeanne promise each other that their affair will remain completely anonymous — they won’t even tell each other their names. This arrangement works out fine in the beginning, but soon their feelings for each other grow strong. As Jeanne falls in love with Paul, she yearns to tell him more and more about herself, as well as learn more about him. At the same time, Paul’s behavior spirals out of control as he struggles not only to make sense of his love for Jeanne, but also to cope with his wife’s suicide. There are many ups and downs as Jeanne realizes she is in love with a man who does not want to know her at all. Meanwhile, Paul makes every attempt to push Jeanne away, but what he really wants is to be close to her. (Raise your hand if you’ve experienced THAT.) The sadness is believable, the frustration is palpable, the sex is truthful, and the pillow talk is hauntingly familiar. The last ten minutes of the movie, while not at all happy, are absolutely beautiful. Mind-blowingly beautiful.

The sex is “truthful,” eh?

Jeanne and Paul’s first sexual encounter takes place while the two of them are looking at an apartment for rent. After an unremarkable conversation (“So, do you like the apartment?” “I don’t know. Are you going to rent it?” and so on), Paul shuts the door, walks over to Jeanne, throws her hat across the room, takes her in his arms, and lovingly carries her to the…wall. They make love like maniacs. Paul doesn’t bother removing any of Jeanne’s clothes — he simply rips the crotch of her tights. He remains fully clothed as well — his long, camel-colored coat hides everything. Jeanne wraps her legs around Paul’s waist, and they make love standing up. This first encounter, while romantically fantastic (a chance meeting with a stranger you proceed to screw against a wall of an apartment in PARIS), is actually quite realistic. While Maria Schneider, the actress who plays Jeanne, is rather petite in the film, Brando has a difficult time physically supporting her in this particular position. (Stanley Kowalski may have been able to maneuver this scene with a bit more sensual flair, but Last Tango Brando was 48 years old at the time.) As Paul makes love to Jeanne, he hunches forward, struggling to hold her upright. This doesn’t ruin everything, however, because there is still a fair amount of gasping and moaning. The sounds Paul and Jeanne make, however, aren’t the sensationalized screams of pleasure typically featured on Boardwalk Empire — they’re the sounds two people make when they are trying their best to keep the noise level down. They eventually fall to the floor, and after they climax, Jeanne breaks free from Paul and rolls to the other side of the room. They each lie on the floor gasping for air, neither of them aware of each other’s presence. There is no cuddling, not even nods of recognition — just two people trying to regain their composure before going about their day.

Paul moves in to the apartment, and he and Jeanne continue their affair when Jeanne arrives at his door to return the key she initially borrowed from the concierge. Paul then establishes the ground rules for their relationship: “I don’t want to know your name. You don’t have a name, and I don’t have a name either [. . .] I don’t want to know where you live or where you come from, I want to know nothing, nothing, nothing!” For whatever reason, rather than run back to her boyfriend (yes, her boyfriend, Tom, a filmmaker), Jeanne chooses to commit to the anonymous affair. Of course, Jeanne does not know that Paul’s desire to remain so distant from her stems from his newfound isolation brought on by his wife’s death. He has to control something. However, the next time Paul and Jeanne make love, they begin to establish a sense of intimacy:

Some people may think this scene is just weird, but I think that while it is unusual, it is also very sweet. No, Paul and Jeanne are not lying side by side gazing into each other’s eyes spouting out “Goo-goo gah-gah” bullshit. Instead, they’re acting silly. They’re daring to appear unattractive. They’re being themselves. They may not know each other’s names, but they do know that, for some reason, they are comfortable.

There are several scenes where we see Jeanne and Paul’s bond grow stronger during their post-coital interactions. Sadly, Paul is not always on board for more emotional intimacy. During one scene, Jeanne tells Paul a good deal about her childhood, blatantly ignoring Paul’s explicit conditions. Surprisingly, Paul does not protest. He only says, “I don’t mind if you tell the truth, but don’t give me the names. I can’t handle that. But go on, tell the truth.” He, too, talks about his childhood (his monologue being one of many moments in the film that make you want to raise a glass to Stella Adler). After Paul realizes that he has broken his own rules, however, he tries to distract Jeanne by asking her a rather unorthodox question: “When did you first come? How old were you?” She answers him, and when she finishes her story, Paul walks away from her without commenting. The camera remains on Jeanne for awhile, but when we see Paul again, he has tears in his eyes. He struggles to breath. His chin trembles. He is overwhelmed. How can he possibly have feelings for this half naked hot young thing? Why did he let her tell him about her past? Why did he listen? Why did he do the same? Walk away. Be very quiet. Cry.

Oh, Brando. How were you always so damn BELIEVABLE? How did you nail it every time? (By the way, there’s a scene where he talks to the body of his dead wife after she’s been all made-up for her wake…it’s astounding. The first lines of his monologue are, “You look ridiculous in that makeup. Like a caricature of a whore.” WHO SAYS THAT? Bravo!)

Jeanne does not know about Paul’s wife’s suicide until the end of the film. Therefore, she has no idea why Paul is acting so, well, so damn weird all the time. Still, she falls in love with him (like ya do), and she keeps coming back for more despite his unpredictable behavior. Every time Paul makes Jeanne cry, I want to cry, too. Every time she goes against her better judgment and ditches her fiancé to visit Paul, I can feel the burden of her desire. She’s stuck on a miserable old bastard who treats her like crap, and she comes back to him again and again. Oddly and refreshingly, despite her sub-par decisions, she doesn’t seem like a moron — she seems human.

Finally, while this movie is jam-packed with moments that make me sigh with cinephilia, I need to say, once again, that the last ten minutes of this film are too good to miss. I will not describe them here, partly because I do not want to give anything away, but mostly because I don’t think I could do the sequence justice with my words. All I will say is that the first time I watched the film, the last ten minutes — the only part of the film where Jeanne and Paul venture outside of the apartment together — took my breath away. I was literally on the edge of my seat, and I wasn’t sure why. I felt nervous, excited, and giddy. I was overwhelmed by how beautiful everything looked. Brando was hilarious and charming. I smiled at everything anyone said, and yet I felt like crying. It’s a perfect depiction of terrible timing. Don’t expect me to explain any further.

Movies that deal with romance need to be more than superficial puff pieces if they’re going to be any damn good. I don’t want to sit there thinking, “This woman is an idiot” or “This man isn’t worth a damn.” I want to think, “This poor woman is trapped” or, “I wish this man would get it together!” To me, Last Tango is one of the most romantic movies out there. Does Last Tango scream “FOREIGN FILM”? Yes. Is Last Tango a bit retro-looking? Yes. (All of Schneider’s outfits are kick ass, and her bush is epic.) Is some of the dialogue a bit too, “Hey, look at me”? Yes. Is Last Tango absolutely gorgeous? Does it make me want to cry for the past? Does it make me want to fall in love? Yes, yes, and yes. This film dares to show us its characters’ flaws. This film dares to suggest that sex isn’t always cinematic. This film dares to explore what happens in that moment when a person realizes that what he feels in his heart has changed from lust to love, and he knows he’s completely fucked…

It’s a Hell of a flick.

Bon nuit, mes amis. Bon nuit, Brando. You’re still the greatest leading man we’ve ever known. Je t’aime.

“How was the movie, Steff?” “FUCK THAT MOVIE”

Talk about a total downer. I want to punch something.

I just came back home from seeing Going The Distance, the “romantic” “comedy” about the trials and tribulations of long distance relationships, starring Drew Barrymore and Justin Long. Awww! It’s cute cuz they’re DATING IN REAL LIFE! Gag me. Rather, to quote a line Miss Barrymore says more than once in this movie, “Suck my dick.”

I love Drew Barrymore. I have loved her since I was in fifth grade. I think she’s adorable and talented, and yeah, she was adorable and talented when she made this movie, too. “I’m a Mac” wasn’t bad, either. He, too, is adorable and, as far as I can see, somewhat talented as well. The two of them work very well together on screen, and whenever they kissed or laughed or told each other, “I love you,” I really did believe them. What I couldn’t believe was the fact that all of their friends were such total fucking morons. Justin Long’s friends, his only friends, are two Dudes who say really stupid, unfunny shit. They were trying to achieve the “realistic” dialogue portrayed in intelligent films such as Knocked Up, where the ridiculous conversations between Seth Rogen, Jason Seagull (ha), Jonah Hill, and the Other Two Guys were like totally realistic stuff that guys would like totally say! The Dude Dialogue in this movie was painfully forced. The movie could have had “realistic” dialogue and still not involved a superfluous, HACKNEYED, “You suck your own dick?” scene. I don’t care how vulgar young men can be — I don’t believe that even a stupid guy would put his arm around an old woman to help her across the street, meanwhile talking to her about his roommates’ masturbation techniques. Like OMG! Guys just don’t give a FUCK! It’s SO TRUE!” To this I say, again, “Suck my Dick.”

Meanwhile, Drew Barrymore doesn’t seem to have any friends. Well, she does, but we only really meet two of them, and they each get about two minutes of screen time. Instead, we get to hear Drew yack about dry humping and cunnilingus with her sister, played by Christina Applegate. Whatever. The sister character is married to a fat, unhappy guy, and her daughter is possessed by some devil. The two sisters are such different people! It’s sooooo interesting! Kill me. Drew! Don’t end up like Christina Applegate! Take your time being a party girl and go ahead and date Justin Long from a distance! Be unconventional and HAPPY! Why, God?

I am not the cynical fucking person many people think I am. I did not go to the cinema tonight thinking, “Well THIS is gonna SUCK.” In reality, I actually wanted to see this damn movie. As I said before, I like both lead actors, and furthermore, I’m actually really hoping that one of these days there will be a romantic comedy that is actually romantic as well as genuinely comedic. Alas, Going the Distance is just as bad as all the other shitty RomComs that Hollywood manages to churn out year after year. It just stars better people.

What makes a movie funny? I don’t know. Definitely not a scene involving an open-door bathroom policy. I also don’t prefer Hitler jokes, but hey, I’m just an overly sensitive Santa Cruz liberal who needs to chill the fuck out, right? Gas chambers are hilarious. I’m missin’ out on all the yucks. “Suck my dick.”

The real question is What makes a movie romantic? Again, definitely not a fucking montage of two people frolicking (yes, FROLICKING) on the beach to The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven.” I want to care about the characters. I want to really want them to be together. I know I’m supposed to care because I’m just supposed to, but for some reason I didn’t really give a shit that Drew and Justin missed each other. They were in a long distance relationship. Those happen, ya know. And they’re difficult to maintain. And yeah, there were scenes here and there of Drew and Justin texting each other and missing each others’ calls and all that stuff, but at no point did I really feel their frustration. Whenever they would visit each other and desperately make out, I totally believed their passion…but still. This movie was about a long distance relationship. I wanted to see the distance. There were hardly any tears. There was only one argument. There were no nights of waiting by the phone. They seemed completely content to spend Christmas morning Skyping with each other. That ain’t right.

I recently re-watched the movie 500 Days of Summer. This movie is never going to end up in my Top 50 Favorite Movies, but damn, I really enjoyed it both times I saw it. Why’d I like this particular Boy Meets Girl flick? Because I felt every single second of Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s heartbreak. From the moment Zoeey Deschanel first says that she doesn’t want to be in a relationship with him, I am in that guy’s corner 100%. You don’t even have to have had that exact experience to identify with the character. Everyone has had the experience of having a crush on a person who didn’t feel the same way, and it’s brutal. Absolutely fucking brutal, and ya wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy. Therefore, the second you see that things are going to end rather horribly for good ol’ Joey, you become his best friend.

I wanted that from Going the Distance. I, myself, have been in several long distance relationships, and yes, that is why I saw the damn movie. I assumed that because I have experienced the pain and confusion of wanting to be with somebody who is hundreds of miles away that this movie would tug at my heartstrings in ways that other lame-o RomComs haven’t. It did no such thing. Instead of identifying with the characters, I was constantly annoyed. I kept thinking, “What the fuck are you whining about?” Their OH SO IMPOSSIBLE LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP was a fucking walk in the park. They were perfect for each other from beginning to end. Their ONLY problem was that they lived far away from each other. Neither of them ever questioned if they were doing the right thing by remaining loyal to someone so far away. There was never any mention of, “Hmm. This girl’s 31 years old and she goes out and gets completely hammered every single time something goes wrong.”

For me, the most painful part about long distance relationships is when you start getting the feeling of, “I’ve worked so hard and sacrificed to much to be with this person who I don’t even get to spend ANY time with, and now I wonder if I’ve been wasting my damn life.” There was none of that in this shitty movie. We know they missed each other because they kept saying, “I miss you.” I heard it, but I didn’t see it. Definitely didn’t see it. Nor did I feel it. I couldn’t ignore that there was a ton of bad shit that wasn’t happening in their relationship, and, therefore, I was in my own head the entire time thinking about my own failed fucking relationships. I wasn’t romanced. I didn’t laugh. I got depressed.

That’s why I go to the movies. To Escape.

They stay together, by the way. “Suck my dick.”