I am still not fully resolved as to how much exactly her Ladyship Lady Mac does exactly hold sway over the heart he bears.
An x-girl friend gave me a good talking to the other day. I came over for a routine pick up and drop off, change the lightbulb, pet the cat, etc, rituals that have become the lingering remnants of our relationship. I have all intents and hopes to keep a friendship with her, and I was telling her about a certain scene I was working, specifically the scene in Annie Hall in which the Diane Keaton's Annie is leaving Woody Allen, and she and him need to sort out the books which had been once their mutual estate, now bound for division. I was working on the scene for a directing the actors class at Columbia. I told her, my x, and this may have been a bit fool hardy, that I couldn't help but think of our particular break up scene, how I was gathering my belongings, while she sat, almost the eye of a storm, herself a contained storm, while I was the wind swirling around her. This sad disturbing image made me keen to the multiplexed confusion of the whole situation, and that hearts are no light matter, and have to handled with kid gloves. Of course, in telling her this I think I was probably condescending. I really was hoping that this event that occured probably over two years ago could be something we could reflect on with some composure. Well, I was wrong. Somewhere a bit later, in our evening's conversation, the dam broke, and she went after me about love, telling me that though I never told her I loved her, she believed that there were times that this had to be true, and that as a man, and as an actor, I should not be afraid of admission of this kind, that acting is in fact putting your heart on your sleeve, and your soul into harms way.
I think she's right. I suppose I shouldn't be afraid. Lately, I got this new girl friend, and I tell her I love her every day like tomorrow will be too late to say it. Its not a joke really, and there is a weight that goes with it. Like Greeks used to say that speaking puts spirits into the air, so such love mustn't be inadvertantly tossed. I tell Lady M, she is my dearest love.
At a recent rehearsal, the director spoke of loss of love as a loss of one's best friend, for love like anything else is comprised of images and experiences, memories of hair, and eyes, and postures that are completely relavent and active. There is a specific joy commensurate with the beloved mate. I'd love to bring in some of that reality into the reunion scene. And some of that failure, into the news of her death.