Today’s episode is guest hosted by Leslie Sainz.

Transcript

I’m Leslie Sainz, and this is The Slowdown.

On the first day of my first (and last) screenwriting workshop in college, the professor polled the class about our concentrations within the creative writing major. Because the institution did not have a screenwriting track, the room was overwhelmingly comprised of upperclassmen fiction writers, convinced that their command of narrative would effortlessly translate into scriptwriting. Professor Bernstein was less convinced. When she asked if there were any poets in the room, I hesitated before raising a shaky hand. Nobody joined me.

I felt like the living embodiment of Elizabeth Bishop’s cheeky and all-too-true proclamation: “There’s nothing more embarrassing than being a poet.” Professor Bernstein smirked. “You,” she pointed at me, “you’re the one to watch. All these fiction writers think this will be easy for them, but screenwriting isn’t really about plot or story, it’s about imagery. You, as the poet, have the real advantage here.”

I learned a great deal in this workshop, which challenged me in ways I continue to unpack, even decades later. It might have been in our third or fourth class that Professor Bernstein dropped this provoking nugget of wisdom: “Every film is about redemption, every poem is about sex, every story is about love.” The first adage here, the one about film, feels most true to me. Maybe that’s why feeling as if you’re living inside a movie, whether it be a manufactured or spontaneous sensation, is so addictive. Between redemption, sex, and love, might the pursuit of the former be considered the most universal experience? Who among us hasn’t tried to release our shame by reframing how we relate to the world?

Staring out of a train window, wistfully. Enjoying an evening walk while listening to a perfectly curated song, one that borders both the melancholy and the sublime. Becoming a regular at the local café whose décor channels both European luxury and small-town coziness. Accidentally brushing your hot neighbor’s thigh on an airplane before catching them lingering on the interaction just a whisper too long.

Exhibiting what social media sometimes lovingly and sometimes derogatorily refers to as “main character energy”—that is, personifying the kind of self-confidence that places you at the center of everything—comes down to the details. Romanticizing one’s life as though it were scripted requires a certain level of mindfulness. It necessitates slowness and surrender.

Today’s poem performs the mundane in cinematic fashion. Through sharp auditory imagery, deliberate juxtaposition, and the suggestion of ritual, it reminds us that, though the musical scores of our lives are never not playing and not always pleasant, our job is, always, to listen.

Screenplay
by Harryette Mullen

Birds chirping. Loud orchestral music. Music stops. 
Foreign speech. Water boiling. Orchestral music resumes.
Music slows, then stops. Foreign speech. Orchestra playing. 

Subway in motion, clattering on track. Eerie music.
Children playing. Ominous music. High heels hitting sidewalk.
Staccato heels clicking. Car honking. Keys jangling. Door closing.

Jittery music. Water bubbling. 
Electronic beeping. Delicate cracking. 
Suspenseful music. Footsteps.

Full orchestra playing. Dissonant cello.
Orchestra stops. Hearty applause. 
Subway train clattering. Tense music.

Water bubbling. Insistent beeping.
Light tapping. Water running. Brittle cracking.
Water dripping. Hurried footsteps. Droplets falling. 

Children talking distantly. Fence rattling. Bird cawing.
Cars honking. Clicking. Gusting wind. 
Fence rattling. Car honking. Child distantly shouting.

Bird chirping. Vehicle passing. Car honking.
Traffic noise. 
Silence.

"Screenplay" by Harryette Mullen. Used by permission of the poet.