As I sat in my very first acting agency, a tall terrifically masculine fellow walked across the length of the room in front of me with dynamic intention.
It was Paul Sorvino. Paul was boisterous and young and extremely warm hearted.
We became friends and he would come over to my apartment and sing in a startlingly beautiful tenor. It was of stupendous magnitude; the rafters shook.
I went to Brooklyn and his daddy played actual records of -------------for me. When you hear the greatest tenor who ever lived sing, it is not like other life experiences. Albeit the recording system in the twenties consisted of a singer standing in a room with recording devices set on the floor in four places around his body and singing, the voice had the space of a continent in it.
Paul introduced me to Dennis Lupo, his friend from Brooklyn.
Dennis was short, with a pale nervous face that was malleable as though it had been recently pressed and pulled from clay. It changed and twitched as his mind roved over his constantly changing concepts and philosophies. His eyes were fervent, burning. He became my boyfriend. And Paul and Dennis and I owned the summer together and walked in the park, and thought we knew all about life and were happy with the depth of our shared understandings. Sometimes Paul would carry me on his shoulders.
They both loved me and I loved them. I was earth Karen and told them that you can't love life unless you love dirt. You gotta love the mess to accept whatever there is in each other and love whatever that may be. This was a most unearthly philosophy as it assumes that each person that you love is not only good, but expressive of and responsible for his own good.
I was to find that my persistence in implementing this philosophy could be ruinous.