On Golden Pond

photo credit: listener



To: drillingcompany@aol.com
Subject: Edwin Owens


Hi, I am Dylan Perlman, twelve years old, from the cast of On Golden Pond. I would just like to tell you about how kind and helpful Edwin was. On Golden Pond was my first national tour, so I was very homesick at some points. Edwin helped me through that by being extremely welcoming to my mom and me. We had a great relationship, and I'm very glad that I got to know him. We had a great day at the Minnesota State Fair, especially on the log ride. Edwin and I were the two who didn't get that wet. We had a lot of great times like that. I remember all the times we ran lines together. Whenever I think of Norman's lines I hear Edwin's voice in my head. He was really a great man, who loved to help others. In the few weeks I knew Edwin I really got to know him well. I apologize that I couldn't come today. Unfortunately circumstances don't allow me to come out from Seaford, Long Island. I wish I could've come to the memorial for an amazing man.

Dylan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Edwin had talked to me about this young actor. He was looking forward to working on Shakespeare with him. He also had a wonderful day at the Minnesota State Fair with Dylan and his mom, and Shadoe (whom Dylan was standing in for) and his mom.

In going through his papers, I've found so many letters from the children in his shows. He clearly treated them with great respect, which they, as clearly, felt.

Beyond that, I watched him take under his wing (with great delight!) the young actors he played with. It was very important to him that theatre continued to be peopled with actors of talent and mission rather than *Stars* ~~ and he was willing and eager to help them in any way he could.


.

The two men (not related to me by blood) I love most in this world. . . .

Today was just lovely. Small rain as we were leaving the apartment and arriving at the park. Christy, Agatha, and Sylvie met us with umbrellas. Christy had the key to the park, and we entered. No one else was there, perhaps because of the rain. Edwin Booth's statue, in full light was obvious (not so obvious the previous summer when we entered at dusk). He faces the entry gate. The statue is fully guarded by 6' high very thorny roses, so the plan to dust his feet was quickly revised. The garden at his feet has the thorny roses (a beautiful pale pink, and wonderful smelling!), and also low Rosemary, in bloom. The small box of Edwin's ashes I'd been carrying since yesterday was dusted in a complete circle around Booth. The roses duly smelled, and one petal taken and deposited in the box, as was one sprig of Rosemary floweret. Then a moment of silence among us all, during which I silently chanted Om mani padme hung. We hugged, and left.

Sylvie went to work, and the rest of us went across the street to the Arts Club and had a lovely lunch, and shared memories of Edwin. Our waiter was a fine waiter and an Irish actor, and we shared our mission a bit with him.

It was a sweet, good, fine day.

Ghosts and Ghost lights

Ghosts and Ghost lights

Tales of haunted theaters abound, not only in America, but also in Europe. Almost every theater in fact has an unexplainable occurrences that some attribute to ghosts. Jim Whitherell, who was head of the COS Theater Department for over 30 years, has one as well. It happened when the COS theatre was fairly new. One of the acting students had been killed shortly before this incident in a car accident. The stage lights flickered on and off throughout one dress rehearsal, when the lighting booth was inaccessible. Many theaters even attribute much luck to any one who sites one of their theater's apparitions. Anyone who sees the Drury Lane Ghost in London, England is supposed to have extraordinary success in acting.

Ghost lights are another interesting superstition. The generally accepted definition of a ghost Light is “… a single bare-bulb lamp left burning in the middle of the stage all night.” (Knapp) There are many ideas about how the practice of ghost lights came to be. There is everything from an urban legend about a burglar in a theater who sued when he fell off the stage in the dark, to that simply it is an equity mandate. (Primrose)

The Krannert Center for the Performing Arts gives this background on their ghost lights; “There is a special light on a pole that can usually be pointed out easily in this theater. This is known as the ghost light. There is one in each of the four theaters. They are there for two reasons- one more practical and the second more fun. The first reason for the ghost light is so when someone walks into backstage of the dark theater they don't trip over set pieces and hurt themselves or accidentally walk off of the edge of the stage. The second reason is that back in Shakespeare's time candles were burned in theaters to scare away ghosts from old performances. Many theaters burned down from the simple fact that fire and wood don't mix but since we now have electricity, that is really not a problem.”

We do not have a ghost light on the COS theater stage--not yet anyway. Fortunately, we do have light switches next to all the theater entrances, so that fumbling in the dark does not occur. Recently, I found that our neighbor, the Southern Oregon University theater stage does have one. They have even named it--Helga.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

N.B. ~~ At the Memorial Celebration, while setting up, I asked Joe about the hat tree. Though it had always been there, it wasn't. He found the Ghost Light, and arranged Edwin's hats and one scarf on that. Some time during the service, several people noticed that because of the stage lights, the Ghost Light with Edwin's hats cast a shadow on the wall to the side. From Agatha's post this morning at HEP:

"Tracey Denton was there and spoke from her heart. Tracey is the head of DFNYC, and during the Dean days, she blogged as Tracey in Hell's Kitchen. I think she and Edwin are similar in that they can both be absolute professionals and wonderful human beings without a seam present, simply because they are both very real.

"She was very sad and moved, and she was also struck by a certain shadow. puddle had Edwin's hats and a scarf arranged on a pole onstage. It created a shadow of what I would describe as a man with his back to the audience, very present and there but technically facing forward. Interesting. Edwinesque?"

When I looked, it wasn't "a man," it was clearly Edwin: The edge of the cheekbone, the collar, the shoulders, hair, Was about two thirds back, one third right side of the face. Not quite profile. The presence of the shadow was electrifying to say the least. Whether he actually arranged it or not, I'm positively sure he enjoyed it!

Bon voyage, Sweet Heart. I love you.

An Open Heart

Nearly a month and yet so raw
the pain.
Of course a celebration.
Of course move on.
Drink the kind words
yes even the laughter for
bright shining times there were
indeed.
And friends, so many friends.
Winter comes too cold
to be alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
we are all there with you puddle

by Phil Specht

I am SOOOOooo glad it wasn't a funeral. . . .

Just back, and threads read.

Longest celebration in my memory. 3:30 to 10:30 p.m. First part was at the experimental theatre where Edwin had done a number of plays, including as a director. Joe Clancy from The Drilling Company was the "producer" ~~ and offered the opening about theatre, what actors do, and why it's important, and then memories of his own. The next speaker was Paul Hilepo, who spoke about how kind Edwin was to him as a young agent, and how impressive it was to represent an actor who personified honor in the profession. Then Greg Simmons, maybe Edwin's closest friend, read from some other friends' memories. I talked, a bit, trying to fill in some spaces. And then we turned it over to the celebrators. And my, such lovely memories, from old and young. Those who'd worked with him ~~ both in theatre, and on the hustings. His young Maggie from the WV gig; drinking buddies, an upstairs neighbor, his shrink, incognito, spoke of how ill he was for how very long, and how it was that he never complained or used it as an excuse. Ever. Of what courage. Tracey Denton, DFNYC spoke of her love for the sheer reliability of the man: always being there when needed. Joe recalled an email from a 12 year old understudy from on Golden Pond that Edwin was helping (and was looking forward to coaching when they got back to NYC). Subway spoke, and Chris, and Agatha. Part one broke up at 5:30, and after a smoking break we headed to Joe Allen's, Edwin's "club" ~~ a place he loved dearly. We stayed too late to get to Gramercy Park, so we'll be doing that tomorrow. First rounds to toast Edwin, then a few left and a couple of more came. Edwin's CDs found new homes both at the celebration and at Joe Allen's. Left the last 10 or so at Joe Allen's so some of the waitstaff who wasn't there, who'd like a keepsake could pick them up. More memories shared at Joe's.

A lovely day really, a few tears, much laughter, and a LOT of very sweet memories of a very kind and great man.
puddle*in*NYC | Homepage | 10.17.06 - 12:39 am | #

Got the copied pictures cropped and in a collage ready for the memorial celebration tomorrow. Need to transfer some of his ashes to a smaller container for the after celebration dusting in Gramercy park. At the foot of Edwin Booth's statue. Do NOT want to start a day with that task ahead of me. The basket full of his CDs is ready to go (asking friends to take some: I have taken many, but so many are left). The prayer bowl was polished weeks ago it seems. The hats need brushing, but that's all. Friends are coming early to help carry things over to the theatre. His friend, Ofrit, has composed some music for him, and is sending it over (from Israel) to play at the celebration. Everything feels done, or nearly, and right on track.

And it's all making me feel desolate. As if from now on, it'll be everybody's job to get back to life, to forget and get on with it.

I'm not even close to wanting to get on with it. . . .

One thing, however, marriage has done for me. I can never again believe that religion is manufactured out of our unconscious, starved desires and is a substitute for sex. For those few years H. and I feasted on love, every mode of it — solemn and merry, romantic and realistic, sometimes as dramatic as a thunderstorm, sometimes as comfortable and unemphatic as putting on your soft slippers. No cranny of heart or body remained unsatisfied. If God were a substitute for love we ought to have lost all interest in Him. Who'd bother about substitutes when he has the thing itself? But that isn't what happens. We both knew we wanted something besides one another — quite a different kind of something, a quite different kind of want...

~~ C.S. Lewis
~~~ from A Grief Observed

All I can add to this is: Indeed!

"I must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on."

The Unnamable
~~ Samuel Beckett

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face… You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

~~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Journal, such as it is. . . .

10 - 12 2006 9:27 AyeM

Beginning to feel doors close here: RCN called yesterday about the late bill. Which prolly means I don't have two weeks. . . . Have to find the new bill and call them. Also, need to pay my own bills in WV, so that I *can* go home again.

~~~~~~~~

Just checked. Cable will go on the 19th, phone on the 24. Or I can pay the bill. . . . $249. Hardly seems worth it. . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thinking about the mess I'm trying to clean up. Very nearly got pissed a minute ago. Guess pissed is a good thing: everyone sez so.



October 13, 2006 9:54 ehEm

The first laughter feels like betrayal.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going "Home" to a place that doesn't feel like home anymore. Hasn't in fact *been* my home for a year an a half (since I first came here). Home was where my heart was. Now home is ashes. And I have to leave this place: things shutting down around me, faster than I'd like: lights burning out, phones shut down, and about to be shut down. The landlord will be knocking on the door soon. So I clear, clean, and pack. Pain, gnawing bones, must be put on the back burner so "things" can get done. And when "things" no longer matter, then what?

So March has become a museum,
And the April curtains move.
I travel the vacant gallery
To the last seat...
The actors pitch tents..
Their cries in the powdered dark
Assemble in mourning over
Ambassadors from the wings....
I move to the interval,
Done with this repertory.

~~Harold Pinter

Wuzzup with that?

Heard him tell this once or twice. Back when he was in hollywood, working on black hat/ white hat movies, the actors would be sitting around between takes. The "bad guys" would be exchanging pics of cats, dogs, and toddlers whilst the "good guy" was passing around photos of his new Uzi he'd gotten on his last trip overseas. . . .

These nice little blue flowers are forgetmenots. . . .

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 10 -10 ayem

He was not dead in my dreams last night. He was not present, but he was not dead. Progress of a sort, I think.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 10-10 2:36 peeEm

Greg just woke me from a nap. In which Edwin was! Alive and acting, and in which I got a huge, surprised (on his part) hug! Literally lifted me off the pavement. He was busy, running along side a train, or building with lots of doors, and I was looking for him, and he saw me, grabbed me up into the air, then sat me down, and hurried some more.


xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lear ~

During the hospitalization, I had occasion to be in contact many of his friends in the business, and five or six times heard a version of: Well tell him to get better: he plans to die at 82, on stage, while performing Lear. . . . He'd told me that when talking about the impossibility (for him) of ever retiring. "God help me, but I *love* what I do" was something he said oftener. Musing on this just now, and looking through The Players Club site's membership rolls to find Marian Seldes. . . . I remembered something she said to him at the opening night party for The Right Kind of People.

So, you've always wanted to play Lear?

Nod.

Well, I believe you just did.

A pause, a little light in the eyes, a grin, and another, emphatic, nod.

Thank you, Marian Seldes, for the comment, and the memory! He was very pleased.

I walked across that bridge in Selma, I was shot at in Mississippi, I’ve done what I was capable of doing over the years.

Edwin and activism

One of the things he was most proud of in his life, and therefore spoke of least often (usually prefaced by, I'm not bragging but. . . . the rule of his household of origin was that you didn't speak of things that you were proud of: that was "bragging") was his activism. His very real, "put your body into it" activism. Put your time, put your money, put your brain and heart into activism. Speak up even if you are afraid activism. Do it even if it's dangerous activism.

What I know for sure of that is what he told me. As a young man, first away at college in the late fifties, early sixties, he started at Tulane, and gravitated immediately to the theatre department although his official major was pre-law. The theatre department was crawling with community organizers. He wasn't adverse, and joined them. After that he was at Carnegie, and then at Lambda, in London. Was back in the US in Florida, doing Shakespeare in 1965. Just in time for the King and Meredith Marches.

He told me once about sitting around a camp fire in the dark, surrounded by state troopers. Everyone being afraid, and Seeger striding through with his guitar and everyone singing their fears away.

Yesterday, I found the pictures of that very intense young man in Florida. The piercing gaze, the soft curling hair. And loved him all over again. Last night, I was looking through pictures of the marches, and found this one. It's from the March Against Fear in 1966. They'd stop every night, and the leaders would speak to them, encourage them.




Perhaps this *isn't* Edwin. Some other white boy with soft curling hair. But I kind of think it is. The way the ear lays against the head is one I'm heart-breakingly familiar with. . . .

I have to say, that in the process of messing around in this man's great glorious messy life, I've discovered a whole bunch of really remarkable women. Noticeably, clearly, amazingly remarkable women: strong, talented, gifted females. I've talked a good bit with a couple, more briefly with others. The fact remains: the man had an eye, and a talent for picking great ones. . . . I'm honored to be the last in the line. . . .

And yes, I think I would have been. We came home to each other.

Update: failed to mention that his Best Man at his second wedding was a woman. . . .

When he'd get depressed about the state of the universe, I'd send him this. It helped.

You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour. Now you must tell the people that this is the Hour. And there are things to be considered:

Where are you living? What are you doing?

What are your relationships? Are you in right relation?

Do the children want what they see in you?

Where is your water? Know your garden.

Does your life grow corn?

It is time to speak your Truth. Create your community.

Be good to each other. And do not look outside yourself for the leader.

This could be a good time!

There is a river flowing now very fast.

It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart, and they will suffer greatly.

Know the river has its destination.

The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and our heads above the water.

See who is in there with you and celebrate.

At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally. Least of all, ourselves. For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.

The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves!

Banish the word struggle from your attitude and vocabulary.

All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the ones we've been waiting for."




~~ The Elders, Oraibi, Arizona, Hopi Nation

We talked, once, of what a beautiful couple they made. . . .

~My Beloved~

Beloved partner, keeper of my heart's odd secrets,
clothed in summer blossoms so the icy hand of winter
never touches us, I thank your patience.
Our journey is like a tree to earth,
a cloud to sky, even more.
We are the reason the world can laugh
on its battlefields, and rise from
the ashes of its selfishness to hear me say,
In this time, this place, this way,
I loved you best of all.

~Nancy Wood

What we did, spring into summer. . . .

In all the productions of Hello, Dolly! I'd seen before this, my first live Matchmaker, Irene Molloy had never really come alive as a treasurable character. With Elizabeth Meadows Rouse as the hungry-for-life milliner, I was almost sad that she'd lose her Horace to Dolly. Together with Edwin C. Owens' robust portrayal of Vandergelder, the duo fairly well upstage diminutive Kirtan Coan in the title role. When Wilder's stage directions call for "minor convulsions" at the dire prospect of opening his wallet to Mrs. Levi, Owens goes so red amid his coughing and sneezing that I thought somebody would call for an ambulance. It's this sort of titanic discomfiture that tends to make Coan's Dolly seem, by comparison, more calculating and prudent than you might expect. But there is abundant resourcefulness in Coan's conniver to win our affections.

Edwin would have *loved* this!

He maintained that his tradition teaches that seven hugs a day is minimum for health, that at least 11 are needed for growth. I always tried to see that he got at *least* thirteen. . . .

Click title for video.

A message of thanks from puddle

Three weeks ago, a phone call changed my life forever. In so many ways. That night, I stepped off a cliff.

There has been fear, there has been sorrow, there has been anguish and anger, there have been moments of peace, and even, too briefly, moments of joy. And pain. And hope. And despair.

Throughout it all, you were there, in every imaginable way. Posts of encouragement (Thankful read me much of the blog during breaks), songs, hearts, love, news, planning, donations, poetry. I have been and am now buoyed up on the wings of your love, expressed in so many concrete ways: time, money, words, thoughtfulness.

Edwin loved and trusted this community, this group of amazing souls drawn together to act by Howard Dean. He was right to do so, you failed him in no way. You have risen even above his highest expectations of you. You *do* have the power, you have used the power, and will yet use it. No matter what happens this year, or next, or the one after that, you have won. And will win. Because you, in and of yourselves, have acted. In love. And with unimaginable caring and creativity. The world can never, will never, be the same.

I can't name names, there have been too many; I expect there will be more. It will take me years to process, to seek out, to discover the dimensions of this web that Howard created with a few simple internet tools. But I know the beginnings start in each of your hearts, and expands to each of those hearts acting in some way for the good of others.

Thank you is too small a phrase to even begin to express what I feel. But there is no other. Thank you for being who you are, for doing what you do, and for the hope.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox
puddle*in*NYC | Homepage | 09.22.06 - 12:26 pm |

AMI = Acute Myocardial Infarction

When you are going to move or just to move the altar to another room, visualize that the Holy beings enter your heart chakra or a Dharma wheel in the form of lights before you move anything on the altar. After you have set up the Buddhist altar again at the new place, then visualize the Holy beings return to their images in the form of lights.

LET ME FLY LOW

Sad is the feeling, dreadful the grieving
When one remains and the other must go
It won't be Heaven without her beside me
Please tell the angel Lord let me fly low


Let me fly low Lord, let me fly low
Let me watch over her when she's alone
If it's your will Lord, if I must go
Please tell the angel to let me fly low

Many a loved ones gone on to glory
Now its my turn to be laid out and cold
I can't let go of the hand of my darling
She who was given to have and to hold


Let me fly low Lord, let me fly low
Let me watch over her when she's alone
If it's your will Lord, if I must go
Please tell the angel to let me fly low

Shovels of clay and a blanket of roses
Then tears will fall on my pillow of stone
That's when she'll need me, so Lord let me hover
Waiting to carry my darling on home


Precious the lifetime we spent together
Now everything but the memory's gone
She brings a handful of pretty white daisies
Oh what I'd give just to follow her home

Let me fly low Lord, let me fly low
Let me watch over her when she's alone
If it's your will Lord, if I must go
Please tell the angel to let me fly low
If its your will Lord, if I must go
Please tell the angel to let me fly low

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-- Elizabeth Bishop

A message from Joe Trippi

ChrisNYC had contacted Joe about Edwin's death. He remembered meeting us very well, and wanted to write something for the blog/memorial celebration.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"I remember meeting Edwin after the Dean campaign had ended -- I remember being really depressend and down -- completely in the darks -- and trying to hide it -- Edwin saw the pain I was in -- and reached out and bolstered my spirit -- such was this man -- who helped wake me up to not giving in and encouraged me instead to redouble the effort to bring real change in this world -- and with his passing he has awakened me to just how precious the time we have to bring that change really is -- I will miss him -- but a part of his flame is now carried in my torch as it is with anyone Edwin touched."

Joe Trippi

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Below is my entry from the DFA blog at the time:


puddleriver*in*NYC wrote on June 3, 2005 12:55 PM:
Okay: will try one last time. And pray I don't lose it, LOL!

ChrisNYC either arranged, or knew Joe Trippi was going to be in town the night of Meetup. He came. Then he came to the little after Meetup dinner that Chris, Slyvie, Agatha, and The OC have been doing.

Details: only that Trippi is a true trip. Mind like a bear trap, and that's the troot. Clearly he loved Dean.

Beyond the obvious brilliance, there is a kind of spiritual depth I hadn't expected. An inner light, informing.

I came too late to the blog to have ever perceived him as The Jedi, so I never adored him nor blamed him. I did kid him a little about playing with light sabers ~~ his response, in my words: NOT. And I believe him.

The evening was fascinating from start to finish, and I feel incredibly privileged to have been a part of it. And I did make an issue of thanking him very personally and profoundly for creating the blog, and told him what a huge difference it had made in my life. He seemed moved. And I was touched that he was.

That is all. Over. Out.

p.s. ~~ the NYC bloggers, plus one WV blogger are having a reprise get-together tonight. I *love* the blog. And bloggers!!

♥s

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The torch is from jc (click title) ♥s!!

The Very Blue Bicycles of Bahia


~~ Peace, and the families come

~~Small bright girls like butterflies flutter by

~~ A small boy with withered legs,
escorted on rainbow wheels
by sisters, his sisters,
through the sunbright courtyards of Bahia.

All is green ("green is the new black, this year"),
and orange, and magenta, paths of brightness
carefully trained to drip from the flat roofs
and peek from between the folds of the modest skirts
of stone-age arborvitae.

Jewel thieves case the place in a red
convertible, kissing goodbye over and over
on behalf of any on-lookers.

From the all but one floor balcony,
the villas across the way
show their false fronts to morning sun
and sparkle.

How peaceful here at the edge of the peaceful sea.

The paper comes before the coffee and croissants.
Do not read it. The Dr.'s eye is dark. Leave it be.

There is a world at war,
and we must not know it;
here, where the houseboys
wheel by on very blue bicycles,
and laughter and squeals of joy
echo from the hidden courtyards.

This is the real world!
It is.

For now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The was written at the Bahia Resort Hotel in San Diego, the day before DeanFest began. (The picture is from Bahia, Brazil.) The night before, we'd spent at a motel in Malibu which was suitably comfy and modern, on the coast highway, and which cost "an arm and a leg". . . . Our room at the Bahia cost less, actually. (Probably because there was some kind of staircase in the middle of it.) My guess is that we were the poorest guests they'd ever had. [ . . . . From $275 - $560 per night] And Edwin, probably the only actor/activist. And me? Nurse's aide/dollmaker?

Erat Hora

Erat Hora

“Thank You, whatever comes.” And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

~~ Ezra Pound

A name by any other rose is still a name. . . .

By the time we went public at all (in a situation where I needed introducing), we'd been working on the relationship for nine months. The first time was I was introduced as a friend. The next time was only explaining to friends who knew us both that we were "together." And that sufficed. After a few months, however, the "friend" thing began to get a little old for me. And yet, it was his burden, not mine ~~ we were in NYC, not WV. I didn't have to introduce him.

On my own, I went down the possible list: friend, lover, mate, significant other, POSSLQ (person of opposite sex sharing living quarters): none felt very natural. In January, in the surgery waiting room, his doctor (who'd last seen me in the pre-surgical prep room) called me Mrs. Owens, and I thought that was no time to correct him. At the opening night party for The Right Kind of People, he introduced me thusly: This is Julie, my (gulp) partner. I chuckled. A little.

We talked about the possibility of marriage, and he felt strongly that he wasn't "good" at marriage, and did NOT want us to end the way his marriages had. I accepted that (deciding that marriage was a custom I'd ascribed to, but was not necessarily necessary. . . .). So it wasn't ever going to be "my wife" ~~ Nevertheless, it continued to nag a little. . . .

I toyed with "my old lady" and "my old man" -- but at our ages, lol!, that didn't exactly mean what it meant in the sixties and seventies. . . . One night I'd told him I thought I was his biggest fan. He'd said: "You are my biggest fan, my best friend, my partner, my lover, you are my everything." Who was I to be unhappy I had no "official" title?

After the horror show we went through with HIPAA at the hospital in Fort Worth, I didn't care about the name. I was just glad to be able to call and find out what kind of night he'd had, and to be able to sit and hold his hand.

A couple of days ago, I talked to the company manager from On Golden Pond who went with him to emergency. He'd had an initial dose of morphine for the pain, and was in the process of being admitted. She said she was listening intently to the description of what each form did/meant. Nothing about who can be told, who can be here. Later that night with the doctor, before surgery, she was wanting to know if she as well as I could be told until I arrived (since there was no one else locally), and Edwin who was awake and alert if a little drugged said: "My lady lives in my apartment."

That one had not, ever, occurred to me.

Bless him.

I've wondered, from time to time, how somebody so aural hooked up with somebody so visual.

As a child, his grandmother (who had been an actress in Norway) had sent him to the Episcopalian church near or on the University of Chicago campus. The really salient factor was they had a fine boy's choir and an excellent Choirmaster. By the time he was 14 and "borrowing" his father's Pontiac to sneak to the South Side jazz clubs with his friends, he was already applying what he knew of liturgical music to the jazz he found there.

That love of jazz stayed with him the whole of his life. But church music, too. And we shared an adoration of Bob Dylan through all his musical incarnations. Nevertheless, as I sort through his CDs, I am astonished at the breadth and depth of his collection.

But sound, too, was his own instrument. His voice. He viewed with real dismay the micing of actors on the stage. Felt deeply it was a result of so many tv and movie actors migrating to the stage. Those without breath or training. For him it had become simply natural. . . . I am just at the beginning of going deaf, and there is much I miss. When his voice would drop a little too low for me to hear, I'd say: Honey, I need your theatre voice, and he'd switch, without effort, or actually raising his voice at all, to a voice I could easily hear.

I'd figured this was a special gift to me.

Alas.

As I write, I am watching workmen build scaffolding down the main walk of the view from Avenue C. They'd put some up, close to the buildings in May as I was getting ready to leave for North Carolina, but it's not "in" the view.

I've been meaning to get pictures of the view for a year and a half, and had made arrangements, last week, for a friend to bring her camera and get shots from afternoon into evening, since in a month I'll never see it again.

This borders on cruelty by the universe. . . .

Sonnet 17
Pablo Neruda


I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

from Ash-Wednesday

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

~~ T. S. Eliot

Edwin came home this morning.


It was better than I'd expected.

I had expected to get a slip in the mailbox, to trek three blocks, stand in line, show ID, negotiate the plexiglass box exchange system, and to carry him home in my granny cart.

Instead, the postman rang (more than twice), said he was on the way up.

I waited in the hall.

Signed twice.


He is now on his altar.

It's Only A Paper Moon

I never feel a thing is real
When I'm away from you
Out of your embrace
The world's a temporary parking place

Mmm, mm, mm, mm
A bubble for a minute
Mmm, mm, mm, mm
You smile, the bubble has a rainbow in it

Say, its only a paper moon
Sailing over a cardboard sea
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Yes, it's only a canvas sky
Hanging over a muslin tree
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Without your love
It's a honky-tonk parade
Without your love
It's a melody played in a penny arcade

It's a Barnum and Bailey world
Just as phony as it can be
But it wouldn't be make-believe
If you believed in me

Anonymous said...
When You Are Old and Grey

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

- W.B. Yeats

11:43 PM, September 30, 2006

Edwin Owens: A Memorial Celebration

The Drilling Company
invites you
to jon us
as we remember
a great
man

Edwin Owens: A Memorial Celebration
celebrating the life and stories of an actor's actor:
innovater, humanitarian, and activist - Edwin Owens

Monday October 16th 3:30 - 5:30pm 3rd floor
78th Street Theatre Lab(1 block from the #1 train subway stop at 79th Street)
236 West 78th Street
New York, New York 10024

If you can recall a story Edwin relayed,
or have a story *about* him,
please bring it along. We will
be recording. If you cannot attend but
would like your words or story
at the memorial pease relay
to drillingcompany@aol.com

Please call 212-229-8310 with any questions
or visit www.drillingcompany.org
Look forward to having you with us!

peace,
hamilton clancy, ad

Dead Woman


If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you no longer live,
I shall live on.

I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.

I shall live on.

For where a man has no voice,
there, my voice.

Where blacks are beaten,
I cannot be dead.
When my brothers go to prison
I shall go with them.

When victory,
not my victory,
but the great victory comes,
even though I am mute I must speak;
I shall see it come even
though I am blind.

No, forgive me.
If you no longer live,
if you, beloved, my love,
if you have died,
all the leaves will fall in my breast,
it will rain on my soul night and day,
the snow will burn my heart,
I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,
my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but
I shall stay alive,
because above all things
you wanted me indomitable,
and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man
but all mankind.

~~ Pablo Neruda

In summer's heat,
we find at last
a seat, together,
on the cross town bus.

You reach
and pull me close
under your wing
and bend to kiss
my hair.

My heart turns
over.

Winter TV watching
You in your chair
Me, beside you,
on the couch.
I reach for your hand
and find it already
there
waiting for my
reach.

Night, waiting for sleep,
you, propped against the wall
my head on your shoulder
my hand tracing dreams
in the fur of your chest.
You, who cannot sleep,
always drift away before me,
the one who can.

~~ Julie

Truly, Madly, Deeply

I'll be your dream
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy.
I'll be your hope
I'll be your love
Be everything that you need.
I love you more with every breath
Truly madly deeply do..
I will be strong I will be faithful
'Cos I'm counting on a new beginning.
A reason for living.
A deeper meaning.


I want to stand with you on a mountain.
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever.
Until the sky falls down on me...


And when the stars are shining brightly
In the velvet sky,
I'll make a wish
Send it to heaven
Then make you want to cry..
The tears of joy
For all the pleasure and the certainty.
That we're surrounded
By the comfort and protection of..
The highest power.
In lonely hours.
The tears devour you..
I want to stand with you on a mountain,
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever,
Until the sky falls down on me...


Oh can't you see it baby?
You don't have to close your eyes
'Cos it's standing right before you.
All that you need will surely come...

I'll be your dream
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy.
I'll be your hope
I'll be your love
Be everything that you need.
I'll love you more with every breath
Truly madly deeply do...

Funeral Potatoes

6-8 potatoes, cooked, peeled, and grated
1/2 c. minced onion
1 can cream of celery soup
1 pint sour cream
1/2 c. grated cheese
3/4 tsp. salt
optionally:
2 tbsp. melted butter
1 c. crushed cornflakes

Spread potatoes in a buttered casserole dish. Heat soup, sour cream, and onion in sauce pan, then pour over potatoes, but DO NOT STIR. Mix the cheese, butter, and cornflakes together, and then sprinkle them on top. Bake at 350 F. for 30 minutes.