House of the Large Fountain

Here, not much remains. Among other things, there are a few sheared-off pillars and some grass-covered stairs, a pebble-strewn atrium, four marble thresholds of four bricked-up rooms, some nettles and a bowing brick arch. Yet the back garden’s eye-snaring fountain is still fully intact, with its patterns of stones and glass and shells, its mosaics of wing-spread birds and half-moon bands and a baffled looking river god with a scraggly beard of reeds, and its two stone-carved faces – a mask of Tragedy, a lion-hooded Hercules – gap-mouthed and flanking the sides.

You’ve got a brand-new book out called True Strength, talking about the series of strokes you experienced while shooting the Hercules series.  Give us an update on your condition. 

Doing fine.  Staying busy.  Just finished a movie in Baton Rouge.  Got to go to the LSU game.

 

I went to my first game in Death Valley when I was about three.

Oh man, there’s nothing like that stadium there.  One for the bucket list.

 

You continued to shoot Hercules after the strokes and were even able to keep your illness a secret.  How did you pull that off?

Suddenly I was awake.

“Don’t move.”

The words seemed to come from inside my head, low and emphatic.

What was that incessant, droning sound? I was falling backward, but I was not moving.

“Don’t move.”

I flexed my toes, balled my fists, and counted the tubes in my arms and in my groin, remembering the strict instructions not to reposition myself no matter what, because I might bleed out. That’s right . . . bleed out.