confrontation in the flesh, agressor, you can't handle it.

Young saint who paints his portrait in the marble floor of the cathedral. Surrounded by a tall fence of morals electrified by credence in an era where the out of place is made to think by the norm that it's from outer space. Sleeping on top of a crumbling pillar where below is a current of normality running through a narrow river, slowly, never overflowing the banks. Cast atop his small kingdom on the crumbling pillar where he's made to write the word 'alone' over and over on the flesh of his wrist. With his two eyes, he spots a bridge building itself upon the current of normality. Determined to hide his fears he takes a step off the crumbling pillar where his shoe meets the bridge. He crosses, cautiously, everybody is watching.

Defined by awkward motives, bizarre mannerisms and odd movements. The young saint spies a small tear in the fence. With his hands he rips the tear larger, and larger. It's a doorway now, he takes his first steps forward into a unique chaos. One with misplaced emotions, mothers who die young and a future that awaits his young death. He begins acting out the lessons 'alone' taught him. Young saint is a brilliant actor that wont be recognized for decades to come. Hollywood wont enamor him, Hollywood is the swinging gate to the fence of morals padlocked shut.

Audiences leave the theater after viewing young saint's first movie. A little bit heartbroken, confused and astonished at young saint's performance. Many still don't understand what he's trying to do. "Maybe he's trying to be another Brando", they say. Young saint overhears and chuckles. Plans are what he has to learn all the things that make an actor an actor that stand when the gales of rival performances gust against him. Somewhere inside, young saint already knows all the tricks of the trade. The first movie passes by, then the second and then the third.

Young saint is driving his roadster at 5:45 PM when he collides with a Ford. Barely breathing, barely breathing. The ambulance takes him away to the hospital where he's no longer barely breathing. Young saint is no longer breathing. Young saint, young saint. You've gone away someplace far away and left us to a society that's barely breathing itself. Now all the boys will dress up in blue jeans, red jackets and rolled up T-shirts. The fence of morals is crumbling, crumbling fast. And your pillar is getting healthy.

You mystify us, fascinate us, leave us wanting for more and make us hurt because that we'll never got to see what more you could have done. There are no more young saints, never again. You were a comet over Hollywood that came by slow and left so so fast. But all will remember it well. Watching the magic in movies you could have cast would be like a voyage to the moon and dinner with Monroe and Harlow.

James Dean dressed in rebellion. You left you imprints all over the future, did you know? I bet you didn't know you'd be so important to us, just like the two fallen blonde bombshells, Harlow and Monroe. We seek the items you touched everyday, to trace your footsteps in the places you laughed and cried, to travel on a beanstalk in your troubled mind. Oh, will you let us? James Dean, James Dean, we can't let go. And you still make us all put our hands to our mouth and say "Too young."

Too young.
James Byron Dean
1931-1955