Wednesday, September 21, 2005

How I envisioned it (but still do)

By this time in my life I would have been heralded as the great acting genius of the planet. Either that or the great guitar genius of the planet. I do not play guitar so that seems a rather remote possibility. I would have toured the world performing in many languages, or at least english, performing the great Shakespearean works of the day. Not today but yesterday. My wife and I, and our two children (Ernan y La Susi) would rest casually in our lovely home in the british highlands. By day I would drive into town and order a Turkish coffee and other comestibles. Finely fit and in herculean shape, I would drive then to the ocean, where I would begin my swim and tussle with the porpoises. Afterwards, a lie on the sand later, I head home in my Astin Martin, driving up the winding roads of Britannia to the top of my villa. I would speak to my agent, who had an offer of work in a new Fentolini film shooting in Brussels. I would not return his call that day, but several days later. As night fell, my wife Antonia and I go for dinner at the fine hewn Indian restaurant "Indira" for lightly basted Chapati dipped in Dahl, followed by Some Samosas and Papadam. She orders a Sweet Lahsi as the lassie across the restaurant eyes me from afar, knowing all too well who I am. The immortal one. The Machiavelli of the movies. Antonino and Antonio, together, swaddling in silks and florid fabric.

I go home, play a game of Kinof with Ernan ( he beats me 5 to 3) and I proceed to my study, drinking sherry and opening up the script to my new one-man show "the Ganif", not to be confused with the yiddish translation. This Celtic Rhyme Song has been my masterpiece dream all my life. Ever since I moved to the UK and assumed the mantle to the throne of the stage. I browse, mildly, at my neglected George Bernard Shaw mini-series ( I would play both he and the audience who assaults him with fruits and vegetables-modern technology), and begin late night sessions of fricative and plosive excercises. My diction is legendary. The finest that any human has attained. I begin verbal tumbling scales, running arias as fast as the wind, and am deeply satisfied at my primacy over the rest of the plebian competition. I laugh, that hopelessly arrogant smug grunt, at my settled position as the grand thespian of all time.

My newest play will begin next week. A mountainous tour de Farce about the life of Marley (Jacob and Bob). This will be performed in fridgian cadences laced with jamaican sugar beet twango. I have grown dreadlocks and wear padlocks in this marvelous, musical feast. All the performances are sold-out until the end of the trimester. Yes, Antonia is girthed with another charmed and golden child. I will call him.....Tony, in deference to my Italian uncle, soon to depart us, a victim of gout.

This life. This time. Me...god and lord of the overworld and seer, prophecier of the generations of actors. Genius beyond genius. And rich beyond riches. This is me.

But, if she is a girl...


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