I Love the Devil (but not really)

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to read through and comment on some poems that a friend of mine was preparing to get published, and it got me in the mood to write some poetry of my own. It was a pretty rare mood actually, as the only times I’ve ever written poems in the last few years have been times when I simply had nothing else to do. Sometimes I wrote them at work because one of the rooms I was stuck in for 5 hours didn’t have a computer, and if I forgot to bring something to work on, it was an incredibly boring work environment. There was always paper and pen there as a backup for something to do, though. Unfortunately, those poems I wrote at work always turned out…shockingly depressing. I say “shockingly” because I had no idea I was feeling that way until they were written. So, honestly, writing poems wasn’t ever an especially pleasant experience.

I remember one incident where I was simply waiting for some spaghetti noodles to cook, and decided to write some poems while I waited. Afterwards I told my roommate that I just wrote two poems while my food was cooking, and that one was a love poem, and the other was about the devil. I read one aloud to her, and she asked, “Was that one about the devil?”

I hung my head, “That was the love poem,” I answered, a bit discouraged and confused. To be fair, I think that perhaps I do have a bit of a dark sense of romantic attraction. For instance, if I were a fictional character in a story, I can very well see myself as the girl who is secretly in love with the villain. Like, if I were What’s-Her-Bucket in The Phantom of the Opera, I know I would go for the Phantom. Crazy though he is. Seriously, villains are far more interesting than heroes, in general, wouldn’t you say? Incidentally, the villain in a story I was working on a long time ago was based off of the guy whom the love poem was directed to. So maybe there is more to this, “Was that one about the devil,” madness than meets the eye.

I guess perhaps I’m getting at the fact that when I do decide to share my poems, no one really gets them. But writing for clarity, with poems, is never my intention, anyway, so, I’m not entirely certain why that is frustrating. In fact, I think that when I do write them, they are basically about very personal information that I have chosen to put in a short enigmatic poem, rather than to elaborate on and actually explain. Because that would probably turn out to be even more shocking to myself, and if I decided to share it, it would be more embarrassing if people really knew what I meant. On the other hand, what would be the point of sharing it, if people didn’t know what I was talking about?

Luckily, with this sudden mood to write poems a few weeks ago, for the fun of it and not because I was bored, I actually wrote about positive and incredible experiences that I had. In fact, that was really the best part of being in my poetry mood. I made a list of really wonderful or important feelings in my life that I wanted to share with people, however or whenever possible. I’m hoping to be able to share these experiences with those of you that read this blog at least. And I will give some details so that you don’t confuse my feelings on love for my feelings on the devil. That incident was just…so odd.

My Letter Box

I have a letter box that contains practically all of the written correspondence I’ve had since high school. I keep as many birthday cards and thank you notes as I can remember to stash away. I keep every wedding announcement – even if I didn’t know the couple so well.

Yet of course there are the important things, like the original draft of a letter I sent once, that came as close to saying “I love you” as I could at the time. And the reply, still wrapped in the original red ribbon. I think his girlfriend must have picked it out. Read the letter. Tied the bow. I used to read it all the time. I tried to read it out loud once, to a friend, but couldn’t. My voice…cracks. That’s probably why when I felt that way for someone new, I couldn’t say it either. I wrote it in a letter. This time there was no mistake. It said, “I love you,” clear and true. Then again, do written words really say anything? I wish so, or that letter box is just a box.

I consider myself courageous, sometimes, for the things I’ve allowed myself to share through a box, an inbox. My friend once told me that the internet was like a refrigerator door, a place to look at memos and information at a glance. Except, my letters were an extension of that. My feelings, in words, and occasionally unrequited words, may as well have been that cold. I’m a great friend…like an industrial refrigerator, which is, essentially, a giant box.

I can’t write him the way I used to. And now that courage has nowhere to show itself. Oh, I could share it with those I don’t trust as much. But I don’t think they would understand. That’s where the courage has run. But I don’t want it hidden. I can’t stand it that way. Incredible moments, feelings, and ideas are not supposed to stay in my head, or my journal, or my inbox. I can’t hoard them away, and mix the powerful with the mundane like I do the notes inside my letter box. That deep red ribbon is of much more value than that pristine and glossy white one from that random wedding announcement.

More than the fear that people may misunderstand, I know, is the fear that they will not care to. The fear that to them I am really nothing more than a refrigerator door, with a memo that reminds them to get around to reading that book, eventually. Or to pick up batteries at the store. But they forget the errand nonetheless. Useless fears. I must encourage my courage to come out to play. Or else these words remain inside...my mind (a box), my heart (a box).

Pig-headed Cures for Pig-hideousness

I think that I am prematurely turning into one of those bitter old cranks that spouts off the saying, "they ain't as good as they used to be" about basically everything. In the case of movies, though, I generally do mean it. Maybe there are still a good number of interesting, novel, and unpredictable plotlines and characters emerging in at least the independent genre, but how often do we ever get to see that stuff? Surely not on a monthly movie night basis. That's how often I'd like to go out to the movies, if I felt it were worth it.

To tell you the truth, I'm not concerned about wasting time or money on movies that aren't very good. Sometimes the bad movies are so entertaining that they happen to be a welcomed use of my time and money. But, that's not what I mean by "worth it" regardless. The issue is, I don't want my standard of what makes a great movie to be compromised.

While I'm on the subject, is it a bad thing if someone pays for your movie ticket (date or otherwise) and you start laughing at how absurdly awful the movie was afterwards? Particularly when you know the other person doesn't agree? Cause, I do that. Sometimes. I'm specifically remembering the incident after the latest Hulk movie. I imagine it must have been better than the previous one...but I honestly can't picture how.

I know what you are thinking, "Why should we listen to someone that loves movies like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure?"

And I'd say, "Come on now, you know that is truly Keanu Reeves' best work."

There are a few different things I could decide to go off on regarding what I don't like about a lot of the movies I've seen lately. But today I am irritated by the movies that promote inner beauty and self-acceptance, and then create a physical manifestation of beauty and social acceptance as the reward for having done so. That is clearly ironic, and clearly unintentionally so. And the combination of "clearly ironic" and "clearly unintentional" spells out, "WTF were you thinking?" Then again, that's the current Hollywood scene for you, in regards to romantic comedies at least.


What got me thinking about the inner-beauty moral was a movie I saw recently called "Penelope." It's about a pig-nosed girl that is cursed with this deformity until she gets a blue-blood (old money, aristocratic type) guy to marry her. Interesting thing is (and by that I mean it is entirely uninteresting), the girl is very attractive besides having a snout. So, right away we can see where this is going. The curse will be broken and she'll be beautiful once the prosthetic is gone.

And cliche of cliches, what actually breaks the curse is her own self-acceptance of who she is and what she looks like. That's not a bad cliche, except since this self-acceptance magically caused the problem to completely go away, doesn't that completely defeat the purpose? That's right, your strength of character and confidence in yourself is only good for acting as a mystical potion that dispels your nasty pig-hideousness. After that, you can trade it in for some equally bogus cure for vanity.

Now, we are all familiar with the movies about the pretty girls with low self-esteem who just get a make-over and suddenly they are Miss Awesome. That seems to defeat the purpose of the message that is trying to be communicated, that we shouldn't dismiss the geeky kid, or even the smelly one, because deep inside they are wonderful people. For that "inner-beauty" stuff to ring true, wouldn't the smelly kid have to stay smelly? And we just love him despite the fact?

That's not the crime of the modern film makers alone by any means. How bout that tale of the ugly duckling? A swan?! Oh, please. Why can't the "special" person really be ugly? And stay that way? Is it because wonderful people don't deserve to be ugly? That too tragic for your comedy? Or is it because we can't swallow the self-acceptance tripe we are dishing out? Either way, this trend is the hallmark of a bad movie. It doesn't quite rank up there with the mistake of using monkeys for comic relief in my book, though.

Positively 4th Street

Either I spoke too soon, or Bob Dylan is magical, cause I found "Positively 4th Street." I think that's more of the type of song I was after. The last line even gave me a good laugh.

It Ain't Me, Babe

I will confess right now that I simply don't relate to any good guy-bashing songs. I've never had that kind of bitter hatefulness, feigned or true, that needed that sort of outlet. I'm proud of that. However, some months ago I heard Bob Dylan's version of "It Ain't Me, Babe," and suddenly felt that someone had expressed my personal feelings on the matter of smack-talk just right. I mention it now because it has been running through my head the last few days.

While this song does take some shots at the person (Babe) in question, this really isn't the focus of it. It mainy focuses on what kind of person the singer is, in effect by relating what kind of person he is not. This includes a look at what the nature of love is to him, in that it is not "perfect," and is better off for being so.

Essentially, the feeling that rings true realistically here is that when a relationship ends, the worst and yet the most respectable and amiable reason you can give for it is that the other person didn't (or never will) really love you. That can be both a smack in the face, and a sad but civil truth. And yet there is a bit of hope on the fringes of this truth as well. But wait, this describes a completely different type of song I hadn't considered before starting this blog entry. The bittersweet song. Blast! Now I'll have to retract my statements. It looks like I still don't relate to any guy-bashing songs, or the like. That's actually pretty good news. My pride remains intact.

Anyway, the lyrics to this song really are so simple and melancholy, yet very enlightening and empowering at once. And while I used to make fun of Bob Dylan's sound...I really think I like it now. Afterall, he wrote protest songs with harmonica solos in them. That is boss! At least, I'm sure that's what the kids in the 60s were saying...

Here are the lyrics, which I found on a really awesome website where you can not only listen to this song, but also a bunch of other Bob Dylan songs. In fact, I think it's got his whole collection! Plus I like the site because you get to watch a record turn while the songs play. Yes, I am that simple-minded. Too many years of school have turned my brain to goo. Gray-mattered goo.