Tosh Berman's Blog, page 134

Tosh's Journal: September 16 (Korla Pandit)

TOSH’S JOURNAL

September 16

I was obsessing over Korla Pandit, both the man and his music when walking towards the Central Library in Los Angeles. I looked up at the Standard Hotel to hopefully get a glance of someone up there. Usually, when I’m on the street level, I don’t see a thing. But I saw a sole man, looking at the view of downtown from the roof. I immediately thought if he was going to jump. When I went into the library and began working on my memoir, I read on Facebook that a man jumped from the pool/roof area of the Standard Hotel just now. I felt terrible because I thought maybe that guy up there picked up on my thoughts about jumping. But to be honest, I often think about that. While walking around downtown, due to the tall buildings, one is always aware that someone can topple over the roof or their window, and hit you while you’re strolling along the boulevard. When I read the responses to that post, regarding the unfortunate soul who jumped, most didn’t comment on his suicide, but more to the fact that it is unsafe to walk around the downtown area. One person mentioned that a bowling ball almost hit him while he walked past a ten-story building. Whoever had that bowling ball, used it to keep their window open, for air, I guess.

Nevertheless, I went back to my writing and thinking about Korla Pandit. I find him fascinating, because one, I love the sound of the organ. Pandit was an incredible musician, and myself being attracted to visually stimulating people, found him magnificent. He used to have a show called “Korla Pandit’s Adventures in Music” that was broadcasted every weekday on the Los Angeles TV station KTLA. He never spoke but looked dreamily into the camera while performing his music. Each episode was 15 minutes long. He looked like he came from somewhere exotic, such as India. He had a white turbine and usually wore a tuxedo. One story I heard was that he was born in New Delhi to a Brahmin priest and a French opera singer who traveled from England to India. Eventually, the family made it to the United States.

At the time he was doing his weekday TV series, he also did the music for the radio drama series “Chandu the Magician.” The main character Frank Chandler (“Chandu”) had the ability to teleport, astral project, mesmerize, as well as project illusions. He learned the secrets of the occult from the Yogis in India. In many ways, Korla looked like Chandu the Magician. Chandler, after learning the secrets of the occult was told by his Yogi teacher to “Go forth in the youth and strength and conquer the evil that threatens Mankind.”

As one knows, evil is everywhere. Kierkegaard has commented that “Since boredom advances and boredom is the root of all evil, no wonder, then, that the world goes backward, that evil spreads.” If one can lose oneself into an exotic world, then I feel that there is hope to at the very least, force evil back into the Pandora’s box. By instinct, I feel Korla brings Eastern wisdom into the Western world, or at least he did so when he did his 15-minute television show. Not saying a word, and looking into the camera, and playing his organ, he speaks with significant volume. Even with my slight knowledge of Korla Pandit and Chandu the Magician, I couldn’t save the man on the top of the Standard Hotel. To do good, one needs to be a professional. -Tosh Berman

Tosh's Journal: September 15

TOSH’S JOURNAL

September 15

“A great many people have come up to me and asked how I manage to get so much work done and still keep looking so dissipated. “I have always been known to friends and foes to be the go-to-guy with respect to having a martini always near me. In all seriousness, “I know I’m drinking myself to a slow death, but then I’m in no hurry.” I have trouble sleeping at night, so I find having a chilled glass of martini at the bedside helps me sleep better. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I just reached the cooler, and take another sip, and I’m off to dreamland, where I try to imagine my life as a memoir. Which also keeps me up at nights, because I’m so damn busy remembering every little incident that went through my world from age 1 to 20. Youth is significant, but the memory of childhood is much more important. Luckily there have been substantial changes in the world of writing, one that “the biggest obstacle to professional writing is the necessity for changing a typewriter ribbon.” With the miracle machine, the laptop, I don’t have to worry about that. Now I can write till my fingers run off to the side, where the martini glass resides.

My life changed when I found out that I’m a distant relative of Gilles de Rais, perhaps the first serial killer on record. The Frenchman was alleged to killing up to 600 children from 1432 to the spring of 1433. I personally don’t believe the number is that high, more likely 200. Nevertheless, being related to such a brute (although a refined one, according to historians) hasn’t helped me much. The dark cloud that follows me I think came from my distant relative. I try to think and behave like François de La Rochefoucauld, who seemed to be a reasonable gentleman of nobility. I bear that in mind while writing my memoirs and sipping my drink. He wrote that “true love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen.” I had a dream the other night that I was on an island, and I came upon a sophisticated party, full of beautiful women - one of them looked like Louise Brooks. When I approached her, it was like I wasn’t there. She didn’t acknowledge me, and I had the feeling that either I wasn’t there, or she wasn’t there as well. The whole party appeared to be projected from someone’s dreams, but, to me, it wasn’t from my dream.

“There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand imitations.” So perhaps my dream the other night was my experience of falling in love, but the girl didn’t even exist. Can one love just an idea of being in love? The other part of the dream that I remember quite clearly is when I heard someone from the party saying “Why don’t you get out of that wet coat and into a dry martini?” At that moment, I woke up and reached for my chilled martini.

Book Musik Episode 7 Podcast: "Doctor Faustus" by Thomas Mann

Tosh & Kimley tackle a work of fiction on this episode - "Doctor Faustus" by Thomas Mann. A twentieth-century, German composer (very loosely based on Arnold Schoenberg) makes a devilish deal. We get into the esoteric weeds on this one and focus on the themes of what it means to be an artist in society and why the work of an artist is so mysterious and mythologized. A little Nietzschean nihilism, some blood, sweat and tears and a backdrop of warfare drive this conversation. This book is far too deep for us to cover in full, but we have fun scratching a bit of the surface.


Book Musik No. 7 "Doctor Faustus" by Thomas Mann

We even put together a music

Apple Music:  book-musik-thomas-mann-dr-faustus

book-musik-episode-7-doctor-faustus-by-thomas-mann

Tosh's Journal - September 14 (The Lone Ranger)

TOSH'S JOURNAL

September 14

There is something so honorable about taking a stand in life, no matter what happens. I don't usually pray, but first thing in the morning, even before a cup of coffee, I knell in front of my full-length mirror and silently repeat to myself:



"I believe that to have a friend,

A man must be one.



That all men are created equal

And that everyone has within himself

The power to make this a better world.



That God put the firewood there

But that every man

Must gather and light it himself.



In being prepared

Physically, mentally, and morally

To fight when necessary

For that which is right.



That a man should make the most

Of what equipment he has.



That 'This government,

Of the people, by the people

And for the people'

Shall live always.



That men should live by

The rule of what is best

For the greatest number."


Many years ago, a bad man did an awful thing to my father, and ever since then, I swore that I wouldn't allow evil to come upon my house nor my neighbors. Usually around 9:00 PM, I go to my closet and get an outfit that resembles a Texas Ranger uniform, and with the cloth, from my father's leather vest, I made a mask to go with the outfit. I carried a pistol, but I swore to myself that I would never use it to take another's life. If anything, I would use it to signal help, or at the very least shoot a weapon out of the villain's hand. Sometimes I have missed, and I shot a finger or two off, but alas, it was a miscalculation of taking the wrong aim. Nevertheless, I use only silver bullets to remind myself that life is precious and not to be thrown away.

Also, as much as possible, I want to use perfect grammar and precise speech devoid of slang. If one is going to bring justice to the area, one has to set high standards, in case any children are following my career or my duties as a fellow citizen. Therefore I don't smoke or drink. I enter into the night because I embrace the darkness that surrounds the area. It is usually in the dark where bad men do evil things, but for me, I want to take the night back and bring it to its natural poetic, beautiful soul. I tend not to soil myself in such a fashion where I refuse to drink alcohol or eat fatty foods, but instead, I think water to purify my damaged soul.

As I wander into the night, I have to deal with the idea of revenge, but I do know that this is a fruitless form of activity, because that thirst can never be satisfied. If you go to that well, you will always find yourself back to that well, trying to drain the last drop at the very bottom. I did retire once and found someone else taking up my role or identity. If he followed the above creed or promise, I would be more understanding - but this man or creature decided to take the law into his own hands, by committing massacres one after another. So obviously, I had to go back into the night to clear my name.

After putting on the recording of "William Tell Overture" on the turntable, I approached the mirror again, and slowly put my costume on, knowing that I will never be able to leave my identity as the figure who fights for justice. I declare to the night and to all those who feel a false sense of security in the nighttime. I'm back.

Tosh's Journal - September 13 (Friday the 13, and the number 13)

TOSH’S JOURNAL

September 13

Triskaidekaphobia is the fear of the number “13.” The composer Arnold Schoenberg had a deep fear of that number, and in fact, died on Friday the 13th. He was reminded by his friend, mentor, and a fellow composer, Oskar Adler that when he attained the age of 76, and that the numbers 7 + 6 = 13. At that point, Schoenberg avoided multiples of 13 but never considered adding the digits of his age. For that whole year, Schoenberg suffered intense fear, in fact, the day he died he was feeling fine, but the thought of “13” made him go to bed, where he was sick, depressed and anxious. Like his friend Oskar, Arnold was also obsessed with the horoscope. A dear friend of Schoenberg, Oskar taught the great composer the rudiments of music and played chamber music with him. As well as being a member of the Society for Private Musical Performances, organized by Schoenberg as a private listening club for the purpose of playing modern music to other composers and those who are fans of the “new,” also gave spiritual advice as well as horoscope readings.

To go to the concerts presented by The Society for Private Musical Performances, you have to join the organization, and it was an attempt to keep out hostile critics who would attack the music or performances. On the entrance door as read “Critics are forbidden entry.” Also, the applause was not permitted after the performance of any of the music carried out by the musicians. To be a member, you have to be interested in modern music.  One is there to be exposed to the music that was being made in Vienna, 1918. It was regarded as a success because the organization gave 353 performances of 154 works in a total of 117 concerts. Schoenberg, who created the series didn’t allow any of his music to be played for the first two years of the organization. Instead, programs included works by Stravinsky, Bartók, Debussy, Ravel, Webern, Berg, and others.

When Schoenberg moved to Los Angeles to teach music composition at USC, he met a very young woman by the name of Amy Camus, who either came from Brooklyn or as she later claimed, from Callao, Peru. Nevertheless, she wished to study with him, specifically voice. She had a singing voice that was over four octaves from B2 to C♯7 (approximately 123 to 2270 Hz). According to the composer Virgil Thomson, her voice is “very low and warm, very high and birdlike”, but her range “is very close to four octaves, but is in no way inhuman or outlandish in sound.” This is a viewpoint not shared by Schoenberg.

Camus had an eerie sound, and it sounded like it came from another part of the world. Some would think “Peru,” but it could have been anywhere from Central or South America. As a European, Schoenberg had never been exposed to such a voice or a culture that Amy brought to the table. He was intrigued by the range and sound of her voice, but once she filled out the application stating that her birthday was on September 13, he withdraws that application and claimed to have lost it. Nevertheless, she did find some success, and eventually signed a record contract with Capitol Records, where she had numerous hits during the 1950s.

As for Schoenberg, he was offered a chance to do the soundtrack to a Hollywood film. The studio wanted him to write incidental music as well as a major theme in the film’s beginning and ending credits. But Schoenberg insisted that if he takes the job, he would need to have complete control not only of the music but the entire soundtrack of the film, including all dialogue spoken in the movie. The producers were taken back by his demands because they have not previously heard such a thing. Sadly, the studio had to turn him down, and a young Les Baxter was approached and ended making the music for “Ritual of the Savage.” The film never came out, but it did become a Broadway show, that unfortunately wasn’t much of financial success. It was reportedly inspired by the book by Raymond Roussel called “Impressions of Africa.” The producers pulled the plug of that show after only 13 performances. - Tosh Berman

Tosh Berman at Beyond Baroque, Reading from TOSH with Interview with Pat Thomas: Feb 14, 2019

Tosh Berman will read from TOSH: Growing Up in Wallace Berman's World (City Lights) and also chit-chat with Pat Thomas. Do come and support the Beyond Baroque world as well.
Saturday, September 14 at 8:00 PM
Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center681 Venice Blvd, Venice CA 90291
Tickets and more info:  Tosh Berman Pat Thomas at Beyond Baroque info/Tickets

"Artaud 1937 Apocalypse: Letters From Ireland by Antonin Artaud" Translated & Edited by Stephen Barber (DIAPHANES)

ISBN: 978-0358-0153-8"Artaud 1937 Apocalypse: Letters From Ireland by Antonin Artaud" Translated and Edited by Stephen Barber (Diaphanes)
Through my parent's world, the face of Antonin Artaud was very much part of my landscape.   In my dad's studio or workspace, there were usually photos of Artaud taped to the wall.  His face was beyond handsome to me.  Almost beautiful, but with disturbing touches of his mental illness, he was the poster icon for those who were insane and highly creative.  If the punk world had Syd Vicious, and the 90s had Kurt Cobain, then Artaud was a figure of revolt, but in a solemn manner.   He was an actor, poet, theater fellow, but he did his uncompromising work, and maybe even impossible to follow through.  Still, Artaud's essays on the theater, peyote, cultural studies and his inner pain are something that speaks to those who are out of the world.  Perhaps even more important, those who wish to remove themselves from such a (so-called) sane world.
In a state of insane mania, Artaud went to Ireland in the year 1937.  Without money or a specific plan, he became the village idiot, with his cane, who he felt it belong once to Saint Patrick.   "Artaud 1937 Apocalypse" is a small book of his correspondence to 'friends' in France, that even to this day, is a frightening read.  The difference from hearing someone ranting on the street, and reading these letters, is Artaud's poetic vision.   A superb stylist, even when he's on the brink of total mental collapse. 
I can imagine being Andre Breton (some of the letters were sent to him) and be either amused or read with horror.  Still, what is painful to understand is the raw emotional state of Artaud's mind.  Stephen Barber did a remarkable translation, and his afterword is excellent as well.   Artaud believed in apocalypse scenes.   In truth, as he was put in a mental hospital in Paris, during the occupation and World War II, perhaps his visions were actual projections of things to come.   A remarkable little book. 

Tosh's Journal - September 12 (Bathtubs)

TOSH'S JOURNAL

September 12

If I have one addiction, it is the sweet addiction of taking two or three baths a day. In the past, this was not a big deal or a person would barely raise an eyebrow about it - but alas, us citizens of Southern California are experiencing a drought that is severe, and more likely (and we have to be honest here) will kill us. I can imagine shortly that visitors will come to visit the landscape, and it will be full of skeletons with their skulls in a dry ditch. So, there is a certain degree of guilt now when I take a full bath or two (or three).

What I have done is put an extra bathtub in my bathroom. When I either flush my toilet or use the bathroom sink, the water automatically goes into the main tub which is made out of fibreglass. Since I'm the only one who uses the bathtub, I'm not concerned if the toilet water is slightly dirty, or if there is some strain of toothpaste from the sink that ends up in the main tub. The other tub, is used for the evening, and what I do is to transfer the bathwater from the first bath to the second tub. Meanwhile, whenever I walk by the restroom, and of course, due to my liquid diet, I need to use the toilet consistently. So the water supply is reasonably fresh for the main tub.

It is common knowledge that John Russell, 1st Earl Russell (who also served as Prime Minister) invented the bathtub for the full adult body. Before that, it was the size of a glorified dishpan. The "modern" bath came to the United States as recently as 1842, and it was reported that the tub was made from mahogany lined with lead. The bathtub for whatever reason was a controversial topic matter, until President Millard Fillmore had one installed in the White House. After that, bathing in a full tub became quite popular. Before 1842, Americans were tended to be dirty.

Since I tend to use the toilet a lot throughout the night, I do have a sizable amount of water in the bathtub. For one, I don't use shampoo or any soap. Soaking in water should be adequate to enable one to be clean. After I get out of my bath, I use a rubber hose to suck up the water from the tub and put the tube into the other tub. Similar to the practices of siphoning gas from a car. Also, as a rule, I don't put anything unclean in the water, except perhaps a rubber boat, which I like to play with while taking a bath.

So, with this in mind, I can save water and still enjoy my bath time. There is nothing like having the music of George Jones in the background, specifically his early recordings around "White Lightning" and enjoying the landscape outside my window, which is a field of dirt and rocks. Once there was vegetation, but alas….

Tosh's Journal: September 11

TOSH'S JOURNAL

September 11

When the twin towers fell, I was thinking about Barbarella. When something horrific comes upon me, I immediately turn to a pleasant thought, or to be honest, an escape. There is always that moment in time when you don't know what's happening, and you are on the computer or watching television, and you're not getting news, but just the raw feelings of anxiety, fear, and numbness of watching the jet hitting the building over and over again. It becomes pornography after a while, and I prefer the Eros of Barbarella than seeing a death machine hitting a skyscraper. To have used that jet, not as a missile, but as a spacecraft going to another galaxy for the purpose of having sex with Barbarella. That is the purpose of machinery, to give and receive pleasure, not death.


I had to go to work that morning, and it was strange because I worked at a bookstore, and there were a lot of customers that day. I think they wanted to be with other people, and somehow a bookstore fits the location and the need when those wishing to make contact with others. I remember a customer coming in and asking if we had books on the al-Qaeda. I never heard of them, and it took me a while to get the correct spelling of the name to see if there were any books in print on that subject matter. Then shortly, another customer came in and wondered if we had any books on Osama bin Laden. Again, a name that I never heard of. What was interesting is that a lot of people were either freaking out or trying to comprehend what happened and what does that exactly mean in their lives. One thing I do remember was that the Sheriff's department closed off traffic to the West Hollywood City Hall. I thought to myself of "why would anyone want to attack the city hall of West Hollywood?" Nevertheless, I think everyone who saw a plane in the sky thought it might be a missile of death.


The cultural significance was when Salman Rushdie came into the store to shop, and this may be two or three days after September 11. He just wrote a book called "Fury", and he consented to sign the stock for our store. Rushdie was friendly and very disturbed about the attack. One thing he said that made an impression on me was that his novel ("Fury") is not important anymore. Rushdie stated that his book was the old New York, and now the attacks happened, his version of New York doesn't exist anymore. He was likewise left stranded because he couldn't fly back to his home in New York City. At the time, I read a lot of observations by New York writers, and all of them were interesting. The one that stays in my mind is a column in the Guardian newspaper, written by Jay McInerney, where he comments on the "before and after," and although it is a stock statement or cliché, it is also totally understandable. For me, my fear for the then future would be how the U.S. would react to the crisis. Sadly, and not surprisingly, they did everything wrong. Not only Iraq but our policies in dealing with the international world as well as the terribleness that is happening in the States. The terrorists sent us a box, and the U.S. opened that box without any hesitation. All the evil things came out, and no one will never ever be able to box up the ingredients of pain. The other thing that stayed in my mind was that our best selling title at the bookstore that month was "Zagat Los Angeles 2001."


Somewhere down the line, we traded our fantasies for despair and horror. We could have gone on the Barbarella route - to explore space and bodies, but instead, we now have a world that is not enjoyable or aesthetically pleasing. Just dread, misery, poverty, and a century (the 21st) that will be my last.

Tosh's Journal - September 10 (Georges Bataille)

TOSH'S JOURNAL

September 10

I have weekly meetings with the College of Sociology, which usually takes place at lunchtime at various cafes and from time-to-time, in people's homes. We had a meeting last week, which took place in my living room. The one thing we all have in common is that we strongly disagree with the theory of Surrealism. We all feel that the surrealist's focus on the unconscious privileged the individual over Society, and therefore ignores the social dynamic of experiencing the human that works in various social groupings. As a group, we're interested in "Sacred Sociology, and we study all manifestations of social existence where the active presence of the sacred is quite clear." We have studied and critiqued the army, Marquis de Sade, English monarchy, literature, sexuality, Hitler and of course Hegel. Each one of us must present an essay or a lecture every week.

Within this group, there is a secret society where we meet on a monthly basis, always late at night, in the nearby forest. Our meeting place is by an oak tree that was once struck by lightning. The "acéphale" (greek for headless) Society is devoted to performing certain practices, including nudity and eating raw meat of some sort. Using a flashlight in the pitch blackness of the forest, we read aloud passages from Sade and Nietzsche. We see these two writers as liberators of the human spirit, and therefore in great secret, we celebrate their thoughts as it is written in their books. For purity, we read the works in its original language: German and French (for Sade). We all discuss carrying out the human sacrifice, but we couldn't agree on who the executioner should be. Every one of us in the group wanted to be sacrificed, and none wanted to be the executor.

We were fascinated with the art of "slow slicing," or better known as "death by a thousand cuts." It was a type of torture and execution used in China from AD 900 until it was banned in 1905. During the execution, a knife is placed on the body, where the executors would cut pieces of the flesh, till the prisoner dies. Opium would be applied mostly to prevent fainting of the criminal. The criminal must be conscious of his or her body being stripped slowly. In general, these executions took place in the public square, where the citizens can watch the drama that is taking place in front of them.

"We have in only two certainties in this world - that we are not everything and that we will die." The ritual of death is fascinating and sharing our thoughts within this group, is something that I treasure greatly. "Sacrifice is nothing other than the production of sacred things." We tend to stay by the oak tree till the lightness of the dawn, and then we wander back to our homes, thinking it was just a dream. Alas, we know it isn't because we all shared as series of moments reflecting on death.  Therefore becoming more alive knowing that the moment will happen eventually. A good friend of mine told me once that "work is making a living out of being bored." Thinking of death somehow frees me from boredom, and knowing that, makes living way much more intense. And on top of that, I don't have a job; therefore, I'm never bored.