I WAS JUST SITTING HERE, AND
Before I knew what I was doing, I was writing a sestina about Shelley Duvall.
At first, I thought it might be a sestina about Conway Twitty, country singer,
Or perhaps Engelbert Humperdinck, the “King of Romance”.
But it soon became apparent that the subject of my continued fascination
Was indeed the willowy bug-eyed star of
The Shining and
Popeye,
The latter providing a role so suited to her it was beyond uncanny.
But what does it mean to be beyond uncanny?
I find it hard enough just to be canny. I’m no Shelley Duvall—
That’s pretty obvious. But I wish I’d been born early enough to play Popeye
To her Olive Oyl, though I’m not a very good singer.
(It was a musical, remember?) True, Popeye’s pipes need not be fascinating—
The salty old seaman’s raspy voice is an indispensable part of his romantic
Charm, after all—a part of his character. Ah, romance:
A true sailor’s only weakness. Its power over us is uncanny
(Us being Popeye and me). Both of us find ourselves fascinated
By the same woman. The only difference is that, to me, she’s Shelley Duvall;
To Popeye, Olive Oyl. One is an actress, the other a character. Both are singers.
But what is the real difference between the two? I don’t know. Popeye,
Do you? Oh, who am I kidding. He wouldn’t know. Why is it that Popeye
Is aware only of Olive, while I am aware of Shelley as well? Is it romance
That causes me to conflate the two into a perfect whole and then to sing her
Praises as if Shelley/Olive were a single entity? And yet, the uncanniness
Is hard for me to get past. If only I could ask Shelley Duvall
What she thinks about all this. But she probably would not be fascinated
If I sent her a letter—who am I, after all? Nobody famous or fascinating—
At least not in the way movie stars can be, or comic strip icons like Popeye,
Though I must admit I wish I were. Oh, what I’d give to be with Shelley Duvall
Up on the screen, instead of here in my apartment, full of romantic
Fantasies, but short in romantic realities. How I’d love to find more uncanny
Happenings in my life, more strangeness, fewer strangers, more singers
And dancers and poets and actors, perhaps even seamstresses at their Singers,
Sewing costumes for big-budget Hollywood musicals that fascinate
Millions with sheer loudness and bigness, not to mention those uncanny
Moments when people break into song for no reason. Oh wait, where’s Popeye?
I’ve gotten off track. I’ve once again let myself lapse into sappy romantic
Musings on the life I’m not living, inadvertently leaving Shelley Duvall
By the wayside, or the seaside, with Popeye and Swee’Pea (who look uncannily
Alike, despite the latter’s being adopted.) Oh well, that’s romance—fascinating
Enough to make one forget one’s favorite singer, say, or even Shelley Duvall.
