They Were Dying, Part 3 of 7

(By the time of the shooting of "The Misfits", the Miller-Monroe marriage was in deep trouble. The Pansy is Montgomery Clift, The Tusker is John Huston.) After the Fall It started as a mental exercise. I wondered if an East-Side Jew like me (Richard Rodgers, Brooklyn Dodgers, Staten Ferry, Tom and Jerry, Radio City, Walter Mitty, Buddy Rich, Seven-Year Itch) could sing the song of Stetson-wearing guys, could capture something of the poetry of men who have no words. But then it grew, as all these projects do. And then I fell in love with Norma-Jean (no, Marilyn is someone else). I knew I had to show the world what I had seen of men who chase the herds. (Levi jeans, chilli beans, mustang culls, rodeo bulls, Misfit Flats, lariats, pony carts, engine parts, happy hour, whiskey sour, bronkin' bucks, pickup trucks, buying beers, tying steers, fancy boots, turkey shoots). Sincerely? Dearly? Yes. I loved that woman - the one inside, not on the billboard, pouting. I cared so much, I guess I had it coming. I was The Man, the one to take it out on. A mustang in the dirt, the more I squirmed, the tighter drew the ropes. She ran to Gable. Primal passion? Rather, the one thing that extinguished all my hopes: he was, to her, the archetypal father. Varieties of hurt are infinite. The Pansy, Gable, Tusker - all sorrowing for something. Norma-Jean has kept her looks (can't say that for The Husker). Inside, she putrefied. Love turns to mean, it's ugly to behold. The pills? The booze? Or was the problem me? Or maybe everything just comes unraveled, but some can hide it where the world won't see. The consolation of philosophy? The journey is itself the prize. I travelled in the realms of gold.