Then Again - Diane Keaton [40]
Love and Death
Throughout the filming of Love and Death, Woody wrote to me. I was his endearing oaf. He was my “White Thing.” Although his body was fit and well proportioned, he treated it like it was a strange assortment of disembodied appendages. His feet never touched the ground. He was constantly in the care of one doctor or another. We were quite a couple, one more hidden than the other. We both wore hats in public, and he always held my hand or, rather, gripped it without letting go. People were to be avoided. I had him pegged as a cross between a “White Thing” and the cockroach you couldn’t kill. We shared a love of torturing each other with our failures. He could sling out the insults, but so could I. We thrived on demeaning each other. His insights into my character were dead on and—duh!—hilarious. This bond remains the core of our friendship and, for me, love.
Greetings Worm,
We have enough rehearsal time, but not as much as in L.A. Still, I think Love and Death will be easier than Sleeper as there is not a lot of … falls and spills and water stunts … Our dialogue exchanges should be brisk and lively … but we’ll get into that … so snookums … speak with you soon.
Also finished 1st draft of 2 New Yorker pieces. Hey! My book—Getting Even—is a hit in France. Go figure. You remain a flower—too, too delicate for this harsh world & Dorrie is a flower & your mother is a flower & your father a vegetable & Randy is a flower in his way & Robin is a cat. And I remain a weed.—Will call.
Woody
Greetings Worm,
I am jettisoning some old socks in my travel bag to make room for some idiot’s sunflower seeds. Guess who? You, my pal, are my cross to bear.
So they’re all saying I’m a genius—but you know better, you little hellgrammite. Are you sure they’re not calling me the “White Thing?” “And he changes his underwear to sleep in.” And all the things you call me rather than genius? I am tortured with the most incredible dreams of sexuality that revolve around you and a large 2E BRA that speaks Russian.
That genial wit and good egg, Woody
Lamp-head,-simpleton-oaf—
I have decided to let your family make me rich! It turns out they are wonderful material for a film. A quite serious one, although one of the three sisters is a fool and a clown. (I think you can guess which, ducky!) I didn’t send you a big letter because you’re coming to Paris soon. I wonder if your observations about my family clock them as weirdly as I see yours? Do you have insights into my father & mother? I can imagine. The blind perceiving the blind. Last nite I had a tender dream about me & my mother. First dream of her in years. Wonder why? I wept in the dream & ate my laundry. Just kidding—I ate her boiled chicken which tastes worse.
Love from the fabulous Mister A, a man with healing humour.
Mom and the Downhill Slide, 1975
I’m sitting in the TV room in my blue, white-trimmed robe with my hair in hot rollers so I can go to my one day a week afternoon job looking acceptable. Why am I a compulsive conformist? Why do I always wear a scarf at my neck? Why am I always sprayed down with a controlled hairstyle? Why do my shoes always match my pants? Why do I always flash the stiff, put-on smile for passersby? Why do I do this? I don’t know. I feel like I’m under a foot of oppression as I take my last sip of coffee and my last drag off the Parliament cigarette. I don’t smoke. Why am I doing this?
Last night was the start of a continuing awkward and permanent silence. Damn it, I have such waves of insecurity. I’m no one to anyone. People look at me and see a midlife woman on the downhill slide. 55 is approaching. My brain is getting thinner. If there’s one thing I don’t want to lose, it’s my ability to think. I feel old and intolerant. It’s like I’m shutting the world out. I don’t like it. I really must not drink so much alcohol.
It all started Easter Sunday. Jack and I went to Mary’s to help her tackle the ordeal of tax returns, which she