Skip to main content

Broadway

A love song is the thought you have as you study the rearview mirror--the things you couldn't say when you were in the other person's presence.

"I hope you don't mind that I put down in words....how wonderful life is while you're in the world." "I've seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars....But I don't want to waste more time...." "I can't stop loving you. Why should I even try?"

In the musical "Fun Home," Alison narrates her father's life:

Quick dashes mark the property ends.
Beech Creek, a rope that turns and bends...
Little squares for houses, strung along roads.
The land--transfigured into topographic codes.

Alison plants her father on this specific land, then she dares to consider where his thoughts may have been roving. He was gay, and in denial; he had an active mind.

Four miles from our door--
I-80 ran from shore to shore.
On its way from the Castro
To Christopher Street.
The road not taken--
Just four miles from our door.

At the end, Alison drops the pretense and just addresses her father directly; it's a moment for goosebumps.

You were born on this farm.
Here's our house--
Here's the spot where you died.
I can draw a circle.
I can draw a circle.
You lived your life inside.

The effort to live a lie exhausted Bruce Bechdel; he couldn't even commit suicide in an interesting place. He died a few yards from the spot where he was born. The final line has a double meaning: "You lived your life inside a tight space," and also, "You lived your life inside your head, inside your closet."

The word "love" isn't uttered in these lines, but that's the topic. It's a remarkable and painful song. 


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iiLjzZAWNwc

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more