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02/28/11 - (2)
For Free
In past years, I've steered severely clear Of devoting my focus to the hoopla of Hollywood's gala Oscars night, That glitzy celebration in which glamour, fashion, and cachet Stroll the red carpet, with passionate cinematic bragging rights — The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences' dramatis personae.
But last night, I found myself fascinated, mesmerized, entranced, Rapt, with anticipation, as each category was singled out, for distinction, Its finalists named and profiled, its winner announced, The fortunate one or duo or group making their ways stageward, To muster what nervous, awkward poise they might.
After all, Linda, you and I, during the past twelve months, Had seen each of the ten movies selected for Best Picture accolade. More so, for us artists (you a ballerina, choreographer, instructor; I a widely published free-verse poet, author of dozens of books), We possessed a visceral connection, empathy, with every nominee,
Especially Aaron Sorkin, winner of Best Adapted Screenplay, For the provocative, timely drama The Social Network, Who, in his extremely eloquent, incisive acceptance speech, Confessed that he'd be just as happy creating his scripts for free. Both of us knew, intimately, what he was referring to: a labor of love.
And so it was, during the three-hour broadcast from the KodakTheatre, That we shared in all the ebullience and disappointment, As, inexorably, the momentum evolved toward, then crescendoed in, A splendid fanfare for The King's Speech, The film you and I chose when we cast our fantasy's ballots.
After the long-anticipated epiphany of recognition Had faded into the too-brief afterglow of our sated expectations And those stars and behind-the-scenes luminaries faded out, We slipped into bed and, holding each other tight, Watched our own dreams slowly roll into focus, on love's screen.
02/28/11 - (2)
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