Lucia Frangione

Misty squints at me over the Tarot cards and says, “You should try to meet Cee Lo Green while he’s in town”, as the answer to my question, “Will I financially survive if I stick to theatre?” She also suggests, “Write a horror like Stephen what his name” and “Book a gallery space and do a 24 hour open house”. I sit on her walker, her out door tarot card reading studio, and watch Nora swing from the monkey bars. “Question number two, dear?” She asks. I am not really here to know my future. I am a big fan…

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My guard is down tonight, fatigue I guess. By the time I do Espresso for the second time today…my Dad cooking for me…I want to suspend time. I want him to stay in my kitchen, peeling the ends off the rapini, patiently. And Tony gets me tonight. The lost love. The mix of experiences he came from. i know who has freckles on his shoulders like a boy. I know what happened in Beacon’s Hill park. Parts of me gone and yet not. Memories I spin into fiction that all come from something beautiful and painful and worth reliving. Worth…

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I have to sign a paper to take my name off the mortgage, “we got divorced a year ago…” I say. “Yes, we just missed this niggling detail…” says John the banker. “Ah.” He hands me the pen and I lay down my signature next to Michael’s. “Woah!” says John. He reels back a little in his chair. I see what he means. Michael’s signature is lean, jagged, direct, masculine. Mine…well…it’s twice the size, a roundy loopy piece of spaghetti splattered onto the page, shaped like three naked ladies dancing. The difference is remarkable. “Explains everything, doesn’t it?” I say….

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A toothless Happy-Go-Luck with his shirt wrapped around his head stretches out his brown leathery arms and legs across Commercial Drive in a full body “arrêter!”. He beckons me to cross. “You’re the kind of girl to stop traffic”, he grins.  “Why thank you very much”, I nod, queenly, sashaying past him on the way to buy some eco-friendly fish. Halibut season is here and I have fresh dill and lemons. The day is warm and bright and my neighbourhood is out flying all sorts of flags in the sun. Two people with shaved heads, cut offs and plaid shirts…

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NORA: Truth or dare, Mommy? LUCIA: Truth. NORA: Do you have a boyfriend? LUCIA: No. We sit at Joey’s on Burrard as Nora bites into the last of her slider burger and lip smacks the ketchup off her fingers. NORA: Do you want a boyfriend? LUCIA: I didn’t for a long time but now I think I might be interested. NORA: It’s that guy. Your boyfriend is Addy’s Dad. LUCIA: Rob? You’re picking out Rob for me? Nice choice. He’s talented, he’s a hard worker, I love that guy so much but no. We’re friends. I work with Rob. Mommy…

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I understand the fear of disillusionment behind the quote, “Never meet your heroes”, but I suggest the opposite. There’s wisdom there whether they disappoint you or inspire you further. I had the great privilege of meeting one of my heroes this week. I worked with him on set on Tuesday and then he just showed up at my play tonight. Not every day do you have a movie star hovering in the lobby, waiting to tell you how much he loved the script and performances. He told me he is going to send the director of the film to see…

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I am grateful for late season planting. It is still possible for peas and all sorts of lettuces, carrots, beans, zucchini, possibly even a golden cherry tomato if I’m lucky. Sometimes it takes me a while to get my seeds in. My soil. It’s a kind of second chance. I am thinking quite a bit about second chances today. I dig in the dirt. I squint a smile at the sun. I spray my hose at the cat tromping on my carrots. Now that I’m a bit older, I run into all sorts of late planters, like me. Maybe it’s…

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At the return counter at Home Hardware, while screwing together a bracket I dissembled…blasted useless thing adjusts in three places but not the place I need. I get a phone call telling me I booked my first big film. I am shocked. Middle aged woman with zero union credits gets to play Ciaran Hind’s wife. (he will always be Caesar to me) How did I get that gig?! Everyone and their dog must have auditioned for it. I day dream it is because Ciaran came to see Espresso and being Irish appreciated my use of language and the Irish joke…

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As I walk up the street, my neighbour is in his backyard, tying up his fabulous tomato plants. I say “You must be Italian, the gorgeous fig tree, the grapes, the red rose, the peppers and tomatoes -” He smiles with pride. “Yes…Tony.” “I’m Lucia.” He nods, recognizing my heritage. “Ah”. And he hands me an extra Cuore de Bue seedling he has grown in an old coffee cup. “I have an extra one.” I gasp at his generosity! It’s a perfect example of an heirloom (ox heart) Italian tomato and of l’arte d’arrangiarsi. (the art of “making do”). Old coffee…

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Performing in my own semi-autobiographical play is akin to having open heart surgery while awake, filmed on youtube, with “comments” open. I feel very exposed because I am very exposed. And exhausted. The more mature I become as an artist, the more blood I leave on the floor. The more I realize the absolute need for alacrity of thought, focus, honesty. And it must have a psychological toll: revisiting actual times of trauma like that without the safeguard of being detached. I try not to go to the centre of the actual event, but when I say, “his chest has…

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