Love Triangles

(You gotta know a little hollywood history to really get this. Suffisive to say, at the end of the day, we all can understand everyone's actions if we accept that in some ways we are alike. But Marilyn, she is the most beautiful, and it just so happens that in this situation, I identify with her the most...)

“Meanwhile she slept with Kazan,
who remained in town during February
to work on ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’.
Their sexual relationship did not end
now that she had become preoccupied with Arthur Miller...
Kazan found himself looking into Miller’s eyes
on the bookshelf over the bed...
But why did she leave his photography in view?...
Perhaps Marilyn, too, was turned on by the idea of a triangle.”
Barbara Leaming, ‘Marilyn Monroe’

Elia: The most egocentric
character in my head.
Of the three sides
he is publicly regarded as the most talented.
He represents my desire to name names.
To bask in the quiet shade of blame and guilt,
to fiercely protect my directorial accomplishments.
Alongside him I am consistently stunned
by how quickly the moment passes,
when they turn on you.
I am forced to remain unapologetic
and maintain a distance from
my former-friend attackers.
Sometimes he is who I am most
ashamed of.

Arthur: The smartest. Most logical.
This part of me understands all
rationales, and yet
refuses to refrain from over-analyzation.
I re-read dialogue and study
stage directions over his shoulder,
hoping for some insight
as to how an audience will view it.
He pushed me in over my head,
and in the end betrayed me
on a public stage.
He sold me on his idea of myself without bothering
to explore every inch of skin first.

Marilyn: The most lasting image,
and the most tragic end.
“Say goodbye to Frank.”
she said.
Those kinds of last words
will haunt the duration of your healing.
Her drug induced fits of self-loathing,
on or off set, are no easy accommodation.
But My God,
when the cameras start rolling
she becomes ‘the girl’. Her triumphant transformation
signals and escape from, among other things, herself.
Only through her can I rise to the occasion
and give the audience what they crave.
When she glitters she is blinding.
And she gets the last laugh
because she knows the whole story.
She knows the other two don’t matter.
How could their choices make a difference
when I can’t even choose myself.

And Elia goes on being successful,
regaining his power despite renowned notoriety.
Arthur falls for yet another ideal,
but will he ever be able to write something true?
And how can Marilyn, with all her
beauty and blonde and sparkle and drive
have the saddest first memories
I’ve ever encountered?
(Late at night,
it is her image transposed with my own;
naked under a soft white sheet
with a phone receiver dangling
from my delicate hand,
wondering if someone will be by
to save me.)