Angels in America
In happy wire news, there’s an off-Broadway revival of Angels in America in the works. I’ve only ever seen the fabulous HBO version, and it would be even more fabulous if I could see a touring version of the off-Broadway production here.
The play reminds me of my friend Roy Oakes, may he rest in peace and joy, because it was his oft-stated favorite. I met Roy the year I started writing — he and I took a beginning fiction writing class together and were the only two invited by the instructor to join her advanced class. I remember both of us standing outside her front door on our first “advanced” evening, terrified that we wouldn’t fit in or that no one would like our work. And of course it turned out neither of us had a reason to worry.
Roy eventually moved to Taos, New Mexico. Visiting him was my first real vacation. I met great friends of his. It snowed. We ate Stilton (well, *he* ate the Stilton) and drank port and fed cookies to the Corgis in his living room, feet bare with the radiating heat warming our toes. I fell in love with Taos so hard he had to push me into the van that would take me and my luggage back to Albuquerque. You have responsibilities, he said. You can’t stay here. True, but I kept on coming around when I could.
When his favorite play was slotted to be shown on HBO, I ordered the channel (which I don’t normally keep) just so I could see it. I thought of him often while I watched.
I ordered the soundtrack and played it incessantly while I wrote for the next year or so, and it became the soundtrack to one of my novels, Skin and Bone. I thought of Roy often then, too.
And here I sit, thinking about my friend some more. What a blessing he was and is.
