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Altenir Silva, my friend from Brazil, had a one-minute play produced at the New Workshop Theatre, Brooklyn College, in June. It is called “She Loves Pepsi and He Drinks Coca-Cola.” Needless to say, it is about relationships. I told him it sounds like “Waiting for Godot,” only with a redhead with a Russian accent. Altenir has written for Brazilian television and has also written several movies, including the touching “Curitiba Zero Degree,” about four men whose lives intersect in gritty corners of a large southern city. The film has a hopeful message, rare anywhere. The trailer for the film:
Altenir Silva
9/18/2016 06:19:17 pm
Dear George,
Brian Savin
9/18/2016 07:56:51 pm
This weekend we saw Humans on Broadway. No formal plot, not much of a story, either. Dysfunction absent clever dialogue and ultimately without any insight understandable by me. Altenir's one minute, in my personal view, examined more substance about relationships than the ninety minutes I yawned through last night. OK, Altenir, give us 89 minutes more please and then let's book a theater.
Altenir Silva
9/18/2016 08:31:58 pm
Dear Brian,
Alan Rubin
9/20/2016 11:49:11 am
Altenir-I enjoy your sensitive perspective.
Altenir Silva
9/20/2016 05:34:04 pm
Dear Alan, Comments are closed.
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QUOTES
More and More, I Talk to the Dead--Margaret Renkl NASHVILLE — After my mother died so suddenly — laughing at a rerun of “JAG” at 10 p.m., dying of a hemorrhagic stroke by dawn — I dreamed about her night after night. In every dream she was willfully, outrageously alive, unaware of the grief her death had caused. In every dream relief poured through me like a flash flood. Oh, thank God! Then I would wake into keening grief all over again. Years earlier, when my father learned he had advanced esophageal cancer, his doctor told him he had perhaps six months to live. He lived far longer than that, though I never thought of it as “living” once I learned how little time he really had. For six months my father was dying, and then he kept dying for two years more. I was still working and raising a family, but running beneath the thin soil of my own life was a river of death. My father’s dying governed my days. After he died, I wept and kept weeping, but I rarely dreamed about my father the way I would dream about my mother nearly a decade later. Even in the midst of calamitous grief, I understood the difference: My father’s long illness had given me time to work death into the daily patterns of my life. My mother’s sudden death had obliterated any illusion that daily patterns are trustworthy. Years have passed now, and it’s the ordinariness of grief itself that governs my days. The very air around me thrums with absence. I grieve the beloved high-school teacher I lost the summer after graduation and the beloved college professor who was my friend for more than two decades. I grieve the father I lost nearly 20 years ago and the father-in-law I lost during the pandemic. I grieve the great-grandmother who died my junior year of college and the grandmother who lived until I was deep into my 40s. Some of those I grieve are people I didn’t even know. How can John Prine be gone? I hear his haunting last song, “I Remember Everything,” and I still can’t quite believe that John Prine is gone. ----- https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/30/opinion/death-grief-memory.html Jan. 30, 2023 Categories
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