Channeling Elsa

I have conversations with her in my head. Not surprising, since over the years I’ve read so much by and about her, talked about her endlessly, watched so many of her films, listened to all her songs, and have, of course,  written a play in her voice. Not surprising, since I’ve even dreamt of her several times—in dreamland, she and Charles are so kind and encouraging they feel like old friends. 
 
She tells me that if she’d only known I was going to be devising this show, she’d have left me some money to get it right, because I’m not getting it quite right. She wants more costumes and she wants me to learn some of her dance moves. “People who know me will expect these things”, she says.
 
She’s not happy with the way some of her benefactors are handling her bequests. At least I listen to her, she says. They haven't even read her books.
 
She’s confounded by so many tattoos of the Bride image, but oh well, it has nothing to do with her, really. It’s all Jimmy Whale’s doing. And that awful Jack Pearce, the makeup man at Universal. That’s what people want permanently etched on their bodies, not her.  “Poor silly cows”, she sneers, “one day those bloody Brides on their young shoulders will sag to their elbows.” 
 
She has advice for me, of course.  She thinks I should lose weight, if it bothers me so much, it doesn’t bother her at all, and she thinks I shouldn’t worry about wrinkles and gravity and whether to try filler and Botox: “Don’t be stupid. You’re wasting precious time. Just stop looking in the mirror.”
 
She thinks I’d be happier if I had a garden. Or at least learn the names of plants. And spend more time out of doors. “You’re PALLID”, she says.
 
She wants to know why it takes me so long to finish my projects. “Actors are a dime a dozen”, she says, “good writers aren’t. Keep at it till you’re good.”
 
She thinks my attempts at honesty are funny. “You hide behind manners”, she says. “It’s so English of you. Try being more American. That’s what I did.”
 
She hopes the story of her marriage is of help to some people, and that the story of her life in show business will amuse others. She tells me to remind everyone that she was a writer, too.  She says to embrace life without guilt. And to sing. She says everyone would be much happier if they’d sing and dance more.
 
She chastises me constantly, about so many things: vocalizing, warming up, exercise, minding my blood pressure, my posture, my diffidence, my wine intake, and above all avoiding gossip. “These things are CRUCIAL”, she says, “but suit yourself. What do I know? I’m only dead.”

Except, as I remind Elsa and myself, the title of my love letter is "She's Alive!"--which, lately, she IS.  At least to me.