I adore Alan Alda. He has been a guiding force in my life and I promise him, wherever he is, that I will do as he says: I will take his advice and live my life. Really live it. I have always tried to do just that, but I occasionally I slip off into numb-times. I am back again now, living it again, and I will keep on doing just that.
Thanks for the advice, Papa Alan. Thanks for being your beautiful self. ...more
Despite years of teaching, acting and directing, there remain several gaps in my familiarity with plays. Sometimes there are plays from a playwright IDespite years of teaching, acting and directing, there remain several gaps in my familiarity with plays. Sometimes there are plays from a playwright I know intimately that I simply refuse to read (out of fear or disinterest), sometimes there are eras of plays I don't know because knowing every era of theatre in depth is almost impossible, and sometimes there are playwrights I just haven't been exposed to -- even though I probably should have been.
Paula Vogel falls into that latter category. I should know about her, but I don't, so when I was sifting through L.A. Theatreworks titles to buy on audible (because I do love listening to a staging of a play if I can't see it live) her name meant nothing to me. What did speak to me was the seemingly playful title -- How I Learned to Drive -- coupled with the cover art that included the insanely talented (and often hilarious) Glenne Headly looking passionate next to a smilingly handsome character actor, Randall Arney, looking vanilla and innocuous. It seemed like a light and fluffy play for a sleepless night. I bought it, and it sat for a while.
I listened to it last night. "Don't judge a book by its cover!" has been beating me over the head ever since. How I Learned to Drive was brilliant, but disturbingly so. Headly was heartbreaking and superb; Arney was tragic, sympathetic and horrible all at once.
How I Learned to Drive is not light, not funny, not for the feint of heart (view spoiler)[(trigger warning: sexual abuse & PTSD) (hide spoiler)], but it will stick with me for a long time (probably forever). And I will now dig much deeper into the work of Paula Vogel. If How I Learned to Drive is any indication, her body of work must be impressive. ...more
The parallels between my life and the life of the Wingos is terrifying. What happened to them in the story didn't all happen to me, but much of it didThe parallels between my life and the life of the Wingos is terrifying. What happened to them in the story didn't all happen to me, but much of it did, and some of it came close, and the parts that didn't happen to me and the people I love were still connected emotionally to The Prince of Tides, which, if you know anything about The Prince of Tides, tells you that I carry a lot of damage.
I read this book twice in the late eighties and once in the early nineties, the first time at the behest of my mentor, the second and third time because I am a glutton for punishment. Many years later, this time in fact, I came back to The Prince of Tides because my son expressed an interest in watching the film with me, and I wanted to experience the entire book one more time before I watched the adaptation (which would be a third viewing).
When I finished it the other day, I wept for the last hour of Alan Carson's narration. I was cooking dinner and my family was around the house doing their thing. I tried hard to stifle my sobs as I worked (not out of shame but because I didn't want to disrupt everyone's alone time), but my sniffles were too huge and my nose blowing too prolific (a tell-tale sign that I am sad or sick because I have no allergies and the tiniest of noses), and everyone of them appeared at some point to see if I was okay and give me hugs. When they knew I was joy-sad crying over a book they gave me love and wandered back to their happenings. I love my family.
And I love this book. I love this book for the way it dives into pain and unlocks it; I love this book for the way it challenges our sacred cows and sacrifices them to healing; I love this book for its honesty; I love this book for being a mirror I can stare into, can share my pain with, can heal just a little more every time Tom heals.
I dunno. This may not be for everybody, but it sure is for me. Thank you, Mr. Conroy. You have given me a gift with your words. I hope you found peace in death, good Sir....more
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