Simon and Garfunkel

December 13, 1970

december-13-1970

I met Luke on my first day of classes. Prior to this entry, we’d been together, give or take a few brief break-ups, for 18 months – my longest relationship ever at that time. Our friends  expected us to get married. Our parents prayed we wouldn’t. He was so much a part of me, I feared I’d shatter without him.

first-look

Although Luke was an art major, he was as much a writer as I was; he kept voluminous journals in spiral-bound notebooks.  We talked about movies, literature and life for hours. On the day we met, we talked for 11 hours straight. He was a year ahead of me in school with a natural air of authority. I took everything he said as gospel.

His help with the play was invaluable – there wouldn’t have been a play without him. He didn’t stop there. He had no interest in learning Swedish, but he drilled me on my Swedish vocabulary anyway. He’d already read the classic Greek plays, but he read them again – aloud, with me – which brought them to life. He didn’t write my papers, but he read them and offered suggestions to go deeper.

contemplation-by-the-river

We were college students with few responsibilities and endless hours to get to know each other. It got harder in post-UCLA real life. It takes time to trust people, let alone get close to them. It’s probably no coincidence I met my husband of 41 years when we were in college (he was in law school, I was in grad school). We were young and free with hours of free time to spend together. With every passing year since then, when hit with life’s inevitable disappointments and betrayals, I bolster my defenses. That’s not to say I’m a rock or an island, as in the famous Simon and Garfunkel song.  Family life with three children forces me to be flexible.

Luke and I didn’t have that glue to keep us together. We could walk away from each other and never look back – and we did. We haven’t spoken or seen each other for decades.  We loved each other once. How did it go so wrong?

Anais Nin writes,

love-never-dies-a-natural-death_edited-1


 together

I don’t disagree – but each death is a little bit different.  I’ll dissect this demise in future diary blogs. Do I sound cold and cynical?   That’s to hide the hurt. Don’t get me wrong,  I believe my life worked out the way it was meant to. I love the man I’m married to and wouldn’t have it any other way. Still, even after all these years,  I miss what Luke and I had, I miss the way we were. Maybe  I miss the girl I used to be.

 

November 17, 1967

 

november-17-1967 

Mary Canopa (Evans)
Mary Canopa (Evans)

I think this show took place at the San Jose Civic – is it still standing? I was – and still am – a devoted  Simon and Garfunkel fan.

Ticket stub for the Simon and Garfunklel concert
Ticket stub for the Simon and Garfunklel concert

I’m fascinated by boyhood friends who become successful creative collaborators only to discover they can’t stand each other and implode.  I’ve read several Paul Simon biographies –  all of them discuss the friction, none of them explain it in a way I understand. They’re far from the only paired performers to be so afflicted, though, so a lot of people probably relate.

Sweet shy Mary in our backyard in the sixties
Sweet shy Mary in our backyard in the sixties
Me in our backyard in the sixties
Me in our backyard in the sixties

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The truly remarkable thing about this night was Mary and I actually blazed a path all the way to Simon and Garfunkel’s admittedly empty dressing room. Granted, security would’ve been tighter if the stars were still on site, but factor in the fact Mary and I were as far removed from bona fide groupies as possible.  I wouldn’t have known what “groupie” meant, let alone believed there were girls who actually acted like that. (And there were. Lots of them.)

Mary and me suburban matrons - about a decade later
Mary and me suburban matrons – about a decade later

For another thing that makes you go “huh”, tomorrow’s diary blog finds me on a trans-Atlantic phone call with Gene Simmons in London; he wants me to write a groupie movie for him.  Stranger still, while I’m not as naïve as the girl fighting my way backstage at this Simon and Garfunkel concert 49 years ago tonight – I’m not that much wilder, either.

October 22, 1971

 

October 22, 1971

PROJECT ONE

 

Less than a month after I bought that splicer from Larry Kemp, he served as cinematographer for my award-winning Project One film. He also functioned as my AD, my confidante, driver, grip, sound technician and comic relief. He stepped up and played every role that I asked him to because he was the only guy who was there. That’s not a bad description of Larry and what he meant to me. He was the guy who was there.

LARRY KEMP, circa 71-72
LARRY KEMP, circa 71-72

He was the youngest of three boys and I was the oldest of three girls. He was from New Jersey, I’d been in California (by way of Iowa) most of my life. We both loved the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel (okay, not exactly crazy choices in those days, but I doubt we’d have gotten along so well if he’d been into country.)
 action

 

Laughter was easy with Larry. On the day of my shoot, we were both in hysterics when Larry leaned on Josie’s couch, causing her to almost poke her customer’s eye out with a tweezers. (Maybe you had to be there.)

Larry - Filmmaker2

Of course, it couldn’t be a real friendship without an occasional conflict or two. Larry met my Inner Brat and witnessed my pettiness up close and personal but he didn’t lecture, judge or reject me. It was the kind of friendship I expected to last a lifetime but we took different paths and lost touch after college.

Kathy - The Filmmaker_edited-1

 

We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since the 70s. We are Facebook “friends” but almost never email or message.  In other words, our friendship today is nothing like what it was – but we’re not who we were forty years ago either. The knowledge those days are gone doesn’t diminish the friendship that once existed. I’m happy just to know he’s alive and living happily ever after in LA – one of relatively few people I went to film school with who actually wound up working in the film business.

If a time machine dropped me back in 1971, I’d buy Larry’s splicer all over again. It was worth every penny. I got the deal of lifetime.