Ten years ago three men proposed to me. One was a young slender man who said God told him he was to marry me and have six kids. He followed me to my lunch with my mother and gave me a dozen red roses and a pack of espresso and laid it at my feet. He followed me home. He slipped letters under my door. He trembled when he spoke to me. I had to gently tell him to please stop following me to my door step or I might have to call the police. The second proposal was a…
Twelve hours after getting off the plane from Pisa-Paris-Montreal-Ottawa-Vancouver I sit around the table and read my play, Espresso, with the new creative team. I still have orange blossom and mimosa in my nostrils and sweet wined Italian vowels in my mouth. I forgot how devastating the play is. I forgot how much it makes me laugh. I forgot how absolutely sensual it is. And I am overwhelmed that I have to enter into this world again. It’s like getting pregnant, forgetting what labour feels like, until the first contraction, then remembering – WHAT DID I GET MYSELF INTO?! Once…
A list for Italy includes “camera”. I fish mine out from the bottom of my “tech beyond my understanding” drawer. Poor old man Canon. His face is popping off, his memory is jarred, his eye is stuck out, permanently unfocused. It looks painful. Like a bad day with Levitra. I bring him to Camtex on 5th and place him in the loving hands of a man from the Ukraine who knows what it feels like to be discarded when no longer useful. I say to him, “I am so sorry about what they are doing to your country.” Whatever profit…
Once in a while I have the privilege of participating in a donor appreciation night for Pacific theatre. Last night we gathered at the Jones’ lovely home with its delicious red walls and honeyed floors, Richard pouring excellent wine and Maureen handing out all sorts of elegant nibbles. It’s wonderful to meet the other side of the family. Out of Pacific Theatre’s thirty years of existence, I have been around for twenty four. During that time I have grown to truly love so many patrons and staff and I’ve worked with at least three generations of artists. Maybe I would…
In my head, my broken Italian is utterly charming as I string together the very few verbs and nouns I know with all the wrong tenses and pronouns, combined with some deliciously fun charades and sound effects. I fantasize restauranteurs give us complimentary prosecco, hotel managers give us the ocean view, tour guides show us the secret grave of Marc Antony and extended family members tear up with joy that I have made the effort to learn my father’s tongue. But the reality is: I am way way way behind on my Rosetta stone and I leave for Italy in…
The holy road trip. And it is holy, as far as I’m concerned. It’s the modern pilgrimage. And when we can’t go on that pilgrimage ourselves, we watch film after film after film of two people in a car on a quest who end up having some sort of massive revelation in Utah before either dying or crossing over into an Utopian Mexico with no border. Modern forms of prayer, parable and pilgrimage fascinate me. We find ways of doing them, even if we never walk the Camino to Santiago, take the road to Mecca or wander in the wilderness…
Imagine. There was a time before free porn. If I took off my clothes it may actually cause a little wonder. Imagine the time when even a real Cassanova might only see dozens, maybe hundreds of paper or real women, not thousands by the time he’s old enough to get an erection. What is it like to have your innocence robbed in one second? In the click of a thumb? To have your eyes raped? Little boys. And little girls. Imagine there was a time when you didn’t have to see hard porn if you didn’t choose to. If someone…
Today I am going to refer you over to Rebecca Coleman’s excellent blog where she asks me a few questions about writing and I tell a few stories I haven’t told before. Partly I am sharing these stories because International Woman’s Day is coming up and we must never forget what the women before us have striven so hard to achieve and what we still have to protect: http://www.rebeccacoleman.ca/2014/03/07/writers-on-writing/writersonwriting-4-lucia-frangione/
Tonight the Flame felt like a family reunion. (for those of you who don’t know the Flame, it’s a night of storytelling at the Cottage Bistro first Wed of every month – the story has to be you, true, and a few minutes only) It was jam packed this rainy evening. I was one of the speakers, came early, and still couldn’t get a seat. The story tellers ranged from school teachers to a Doctors Beyond Borders to an actor just out of school who came out to his Iranian parents to Anton Lipovetsky singing about never having kissed a…
The phone rings today. I see an unfamiliar Alberta number. “You’re not gonna get me you telemarketer, sorry sucker” I say. I get an email shortly after. Turns out it is an artistic director! He makes me an offer for a three month acting role! It’s a real gem of a situation that I’m delighted about. Wonderful artists involved. I’ll give more details when all is confirmed. I am so surprised! I do a little jig all day while I finish cleaning up the wicked dirty apartment I’ve been griping about this week. I wipe glass. Grateful. Two hours more…
