Member Poem

Most of my memories are intertwined with movies.
The characters on the screen
play back and rewind in my psyche
while certain scenes play out in my reality.
The cameras in my eyes shake
in hand-held fits of rage,
or slowly pan the landscape
in thoughtful contemplation
of the next act before my life's completion.
In conversation I see everyone
in close-ups or mid-shots.
There's either tracking action,
as I try to follow someone
who too quickly fades away,
or I just stand there...
stuck in a still, as if bolted on sticks
trying to maintain focus
as people blur into the horizon.
I have boring over-the-shoulder
dialog-heavy discussions with predictable endings.
No Shyamalan-esque twists or fiery Rosebuds.
No Ah-Ha revelation
in a Kobayashi coffee cup breaking
or musical cue swelling
over a sweeping epic passionate embracing.
Just a future fade to blackness
with a short list of closing credits.
I think back on my awkward,
often unwatchable biopic,
and realize it's always been like this:
John Hughes and Cameron Crowe
shaped my musical tastes
with some help from Richard Linklater
and Christian Slater
during his Happy Harry Hard-On days,
and, in high school,
in more than just a passing phase,
and years before the Columbine mafia made it a stigma,
I wore a trench coat because of a character
played by John Cusack that I would often quote,
since not only did I like a particular movie
but because he was the guy that I wanted to be:
The epitome of a quiet cool...
a brooding rebel without a clue,
fuck-it-all attitude about everything...
except the girl.
Unfortunately, for me,
I wasn't nearly the Romeo in black jeans.
that Lloyd Dobler lead me to believe I could be
And, in that act of my screenplay autobiography,
I fell way fast and landed way hard
and completely missed my mark.
I went off page,
dropping lines and missing cues,
my character, confused, lost sight
of any sense of reason or motivation.
What can you expect
when you place your faith in fiction?
I truly believed that the definition of love
was to be found in a combination of
repeated viewings of "The Princess Bride",
along with "Wild Orchid" and "Say Anything..."
But how could I know anything
when I thought better of those aforementioned movies
and placed my faith
in the romantic teachings of "Twin Peaks"?
I wanted to live life
like a mix of James and Bobby
with the confidence of Dale Cooper.
The outcome wasn't pretty.
Instead it turned out I was just another geek.
Just another Duckie,
when every other guy seemed to be
either a Jake or a Blane,
and even if in actuality
I never had to compete with,
or even knew, anybody
named after a major appliance,
there were, and remain,
more than the fair share of major assholes
that need to be dealt with
on a day to day basis.
And, still, I try to be something out a movie:
The take-no-shit tough guy
who can calm punks or quiet the stupid
with no more than a look or a subtle motion...
albeit, sadly, there's nothing subtle about me.
And no, I'm no tougher now
than when some douchebag pantsed me
in gym class and laughed.
So, instead of being that action hero
who saves the day and gets the girl,
I'm the loner in the dark,
kept awake by the glow of a monitor
the hum of a processor,
the incessant clicking of keys,
and all the caffeine my body can handle
as I rattle off bullshit
about what I would do if I were different.
But that's the great thing about stories,
poetry, novels, and movies:
You can use your imagination
to cloud your memories,
alter drastically, or forget altogether
who you once were
and be whom or whatever you want to be.
Like me:
Living proof that with some creativity,
along with drive, the proper contacts,
and a mere modicum of talent,
even the awkward, the slow, and the ugly
can make it in the film industry.
 
Sean S. Strain
©2016 S3 Arts Entertainment