Tosh Berman's Blog, page 206
November 21, 2014
November 21, 2014
November 21, 2014
“Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” I “must not fear daylight just because it almost always illuminates a miserable world.” Mere hours before my appearance tonight at the Skylight Bookstore, I feel nervous and uneasy. On the other hand, I must put that aside, and concentrate on what I’m going to do tonight. The main focus tonight is my book of poems, and I’m presuming that I’m going to have to read some of the work from that book. Events like this, are both a celebration, but it is also a stop in time, where one reflects on what they did - and on top of that, sharing those views with an audience in front of you. To calm myself, I project what will happen later tonight. The event is at 7:30 PM, but I imagine it will really start at 7:45 PM. I will see people I know and I haven’t seen for awhile. What they don’t know is that I’m totally lost in my thoughts. The sense of failure or being embarrassed in front of an audience is a deep and bottomless fear. The imagination can draw up the worst images from the dregs from your worst nightmares. Of course, there are those, who wish that I will fail tonight, so they can just use me as a subject matter for their dinner engagement.
On the other hand, perhaps I’m thinking too much. Especially about myself. What is the worst thing that can happen tonight? Surely Skylight Books will exist no matter how well I do or not do tonight. The audience who will see me is seeing a free event (unless they buy the book). A lot of my friends will be there, and I imagine they want to see me succeed. So it’s a win-win. Unless I really mess up. The problem is that I will be in front of an audience that will be listening to me in great detail. Not only that, but more likely will be focusing on my clothing as well as my nervousness. Some may even be turned-off by my arrogance, not knowing that I’m that way, due to my crippling shyness. Often when someone reads from their work or from a book, the audience tends to drift off, thinking that what they will eat for dinner later that night, or maybe my appearance reminds them of an old boyfriend, and so forth. I may lose half my audience through their daydreaming. Therefore I speak to a full crowd, but maybe only 30% are paying attention to what I’m saying or reading. So I should really concentrate on that 30% - or should I think about trying to get the 70% back to my work and reading? Can I even do that?
Voltaire, a man who I greatly admire by the way, commented “the more I read, the more I acquire, the more certain I am that I know nothing.” The thing is, I want to hide this fact from my audience tonight. It is taking place in a bookstore, and not just any bookstore, but one of the best bookstores in Los Angeles. So many smart people are here. Surely they will be aware of the fact that something is up. Clearly they will look behind the curtain, and notice that I’m a total fraud. How can I hide this fact? Or should I be totally honest with my audience.
Ruth Bernstein will be asking me questions. I haven’t the foggiest idea what she will ask me. I just have to presume that it will be about my book. But then again, what happens if she asks me a personal question? Should I give her an honest answer? And the bigger question is: Am I honest? Is honesty good? “I honestly can’t characterize my style in words. It seems that whatever comes to me naturally, I write.” It seems “life obliges me to do something, so I write.” It is really out of my hands. I think I’ll be OK tonight, and if I just think of The Hawk (Coleman Hawkins) playing “September Song” and just go with the flow. At my age, I have always gone forward, and never look back. The fear I have is being trapped in front of the car lights, and forcing myself to see my life passing me by like a bad montage in a b-Hollywood film. I just have to remember “I don’t know where I am going, but I am on my way. ”
November 20, 2014
November 20, 2014
November 20, 2014
“Aw! Don’t embawass me!” My partner-in-crime Lenny the Lion would say that, and the children would go wild. From an early age, I was fascinated with obtaining the skills of being a ventriloquist. Ventriloquy is a work of stagecraft where one can make their voice come from a specific direction or place. I originally started out with a cardboard box and pretend that there was someone in the box. He would say to me (and me doing the voice of course) “let me out of the box!” I was really skilled in ventriloquism, but I lacked the talent to make a narrative or tell a joke. So over-and-over again, I tried to work out a bit where a man or this voice is trapped in a cardboard box. At the time, I myself felt that I was stuck in a box. I wasn’t proficient in any sort of work, and school was something I did as a pastime - mostly throwing my voice in girl’s lockers in the hallway. It didn’t win me any dates, but it did get me attention that I craved for.
I read up on the history of ventriloquism, and originally it was a religious practice in ancient Greece. They called it gastromancy, which at the time they thought the sounds coming from the stomach were voices from the “unliving.” The ventriloquist would communicate with the voices in his stomach, and sometimes it was used to predict the future, as well as talking to the dead. In the 18th century, Ventriloquism became entertainment. The most famous ventriloquist of the period was Joseph Askins, who did dialogues “between himself and his invisible familiar, Little Tommy.” Over the centuries, the years, the decades, the usual act is between the ventriloquist and his or her’s dummy. The dummy is being a human being. What I did, and what was original at the time, was to have an animal as a dummy. So I was the first one to make an animal character who can speak. My invention, Lenny the Lion, became not only my pet, but after a while my best friend. As I got more famous, and started to do more shows throughout the U.K., I started to have full conversations with Lenny in the dressing room as a practice to warm up my voice. Over time, I found myself in deep and very serious conversations with Lenny.
Since he was a beast, he had some interesting insight into the human psyche. Over time, Lenny had a deep understanding of me, and I would like to think, that I too, had a profound effect on Lenny. It’s obvious that our relationship will not disappear with time. In fact, time will make our bond stronger. When I sleep at night, I usually put Lenny on top of a chair facing me. One time, I was awake when I heard his voice - it was nighttime, and the room was very dark. But usually from the bathroom night light I can make out Lenny - even though he’s in a shadow. But I had the feeling that night that there was someone else in the room. It didn’t scare me, because it seems Lenny was going to take care of the situation. But what I thought I saw was a man dressed in a coat, scarf, and hat. The thing is I couldn’t make out his face or his voice. It seemed like it wasn’t coming from his body. It took me awhile, but I then realized that Lenny was throwing his voice into this figure. At first, I thought the figure was a dummy, but I sense this ‘person’ was moving around. I sense life in this blank human being. He was sitting on a rocking chair by the entrance of my bedroom, and suddenly he got up from the chair. He came upon me and put his face close to mine. What I saw was a face with no facial features. It was flat, and there was no sign that he had eyes, mouth or nose. I sort of saw his ears, but even that, I’m not sure.
The next morning, I woke up looking at Lenny, and he didn’t seem to be move from his spot, and there was no trace of the “Blank” man. I asked Lenny if someone was here last night, but he told me he slept soundly throughout the night. I felt Lenny was lying to me, and this of course, caused a certain amount of heartache for me. From then on, I knew I could never trust my partner-in-crime. I did question him more about it, but he told me that I must have had an awaken dream, and I just imagined all of this. Yet, despite the fact that sounds practical, I got the feeling that he wasn’t telling me the truth.
My stage costume on the last tour was designed by Emilio Pucci. I usually work in drab theaters, so I felt a bit of color and glamour would be good for the act. The change of my costume seemed to perturb Lenny, and he would make cutting remarks to me when we were alone. We never brought up sex in our conversations, but all of sudden Lenny was calling me a sissy-boy. Him, a lion, calling me a sissy? That was a new one for me. Nevertheless our tour together is an endless one, and somehow I’m going to have to learn to work with Lenny, or not letting him bother me. What disturbs me the most is the wonderful intimacy that we have together, and now it has been shot to pieces, because of the appearance of this “blank’ man. Chemistry is extremely important for a relationship. One should not take these matters lightly.
November 19, 2014
November 19, 2014
November 19, 2014
I served as an assistant to the photographer Louise Dahl-Wolfe, and I don’t think I ever held a conversation with her beyond her telling me to get a certain hat from the wardrobe department or to bring her coffee or water. When she is shooting in a studio, there is a certain amount of calm that she demands on the set. They say when you work with someone, that is when you know them best. But in this case, I think that is not true. Louise was always a mystery to me, and when I see the finished project by her, she still remains a figure that comes and goes in my life. When I’m not doing anything on the set, she expects me to be quiet. I pretty much stand behind her, handling the extra film and delivering the drinks. I just have to read her body language, because verbally she doesn’t talk to me. She is usually looking in the lens of her camera, and Louise would dart out her hand towards my direction, meaning I should hand over the film to her. My other responsibility is to deliver the models for the shoot. I would have to pick them up, and then drive them to the studio, which was located on West 34th Street.
I have always been fascinated with fashion photography, not because of the clothes or even the models, but more in the juxtaposition of these figures in the landscape. It doesn’t have to be a real world, but one that ‘hints’ that there maybe another dimension out there - somewhere. Even if the shoot is a real and iconic location, it is still transformed into something else. It’s magic, and working with Louise I still don’t know how she does it. I think because I see an image for what it is, but she sees it as an entrance way to a better world or where one can pinpoint their desires. On one level, it exists to sell the merchandise, but I truly do believe that it is more than that.
The one person I remember picking up for a shoot was the actor Clifton Webb. I had to go to his hotel, the Algonquin, and I waited for him at the bar. He came upon me, and he was in a bad mood. I felt I knew him, because I’m a fan of his work. I imagined him being prissy, and I wasn’t disappointed in the ‘real’ Clifton. He got in the back seat of the car, and didn’t say a word. When I brought him up to the third floor of the studio, he immediately sat down and waited for Louise to provide him with some direction. The thing is Louise told me what she wanted Clifton to do, and then I would tell him. I always hated to be the middle person when two people were working together. Sometimes she would have me instruct the models, after telling me in great detail what needs to be done. Communication is a tricky thing, because the way one reads information from the other, can be totally subjective. Louise would often get mad at me, because she felt I didn’t relay the correct comments to the model or at this specific case, to Clifton.
The thing is with Louise and her work, I feel what she conveys in her photographs is nothing specific, but more of a mood. Her use of color is revolutionary and this is something only Louise can do - so I’m hopeless in that situation where I try to convey her ideas and skills into something concrete. As you can gather, I didn’t last long in this occupation. I never do. Everything I touch, or do, has the desperation of failure attached to it. When I see Louise’s photographs, it reminds me of a world that I very much wanted to be part of - but alas, I can’t. My other big attraction at that time was watching the Dick Cavett Show. He always had great guests on, and to me it was always the best of Manhattan. Of course filtered through Hollywood, but still, it was an indication of sophistication - and again, just my mere moments of touching such a world - but never grasping it to hold forever. Oh damn…
November 18, 2014
TOSH BERMAN at Skylight Books for "THE PLUM IN MR. BLUM'S PUDDING" November 21, 2014
TOSH BERMAN reads and discusses his book of poetry THE PLUM IN MR BLUM'S PUDDING, with special guest RUTH BERNSTEIN
The Plum in Mr Blum's Pudding
(Penny Ante Editions)“My hours of leisure I spent in reading the best authors, ancient and modern, being always provided with a good number of books; and when I was ashore, in observing the manners and dispositions of the people, as well as learning their language; wherein I had a great facility, by the strength of my memory.”- Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels
The Plum in Mr. Blum’s Pudding is Los Angeles native Tosh Berman’s first printed collection of poetry. In 1989, Berman left the United States behind, moving to Japan after learning his wife's (artist Lun*na Menoh) mother was ill in Kitakyushu. The Plum in Mr. Blum’s Pudding was penned while both rapt and lost by this transition. Gracefully toiling between the quirky and earnest, these poems describe the liminal space of the foreigner caught between the strange and the familiar. The result is surreal and unclassifiable, a book of love poems overshadowed by isolation and underscored with curiosity and lust.
Originally published in 1990 by “Cole Swift & Sons” (Japan) as a small hardcover edition of two hundred copies, this new edition acts to preserve this work and features an introduction by art critic and curator Kristine McKenna and an afterword by Ruth Bernstein.
Tosh Berman is a publisher and writer. His press, TamTam Books, has published works by Boris Vian, Guy Debord, Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Mesrine, artist Lun*na Menoh, and Ron Mael & Russell Mael (Sparks). He is the author of Sparks-tastic: 21 Nights with Sparks in London. As the son of artist Wallace Berman, Tosh has delivered talks and various essays toward furthering his late father’s artistic legacy including his influential folio series, Semina (1955–1964). He resides in Los Angeles.Ruth Bernstein lives in Highland Park where she writes postcards and collects books.Event date: Friday, November 21, 2014 - 7:30pmEvent address: 1818 N Vermont AveLos Angeles, CA 90027
November 18, 2014
November 18, 2014
“Art is the expression of an enormous preference.” The key reason why I like art. For me personally, art is pretty much anything that I’m interested in. I see a pretty girl walking down the street, and I think to myself “wow that’s a great piece of art.” But now that we live in the “art of advertisement, after the American manner, has introduced into all our life such a lavish use of superlatives, that no standard of value whatever is intact.” So in a nutshell, it is getting harder and harder to express myself in such a world that we all live together in. There is a woman that I live with, and I want to tell her that “I love her,” but that phrase seems meaningless. Holidays are even worse, because any true sentiment is always tied to a bigger event that is happening outside one’s life. When you give a present on Christmas, it is no longer a present from love, but more likely a collective manner due to a holiday everyone has to acknowledge. I often wish to break free of the restrictions that I’m placed in, but alas, to fall so apart from society or my culture would give me freedom, but also alienation. On the other hand, I feel so distant. There is no win-win, only lose-lose.
Art is the only place where I can go to, and feel I’m interacting with a set of values that are my choice or choices. For me, beauty is totally subjective, I even find ugly as being beautiful. So what I’m looking for is something that will give meaning to my life. And I think whatever that “meaning” is - it is usually expressed as a work of art. I have been writing poetry not to express a moment, but to dig deeper into ‘that’ moment. I’m a scientist, who is tearing into the different layers, and it is like I take each layer with my fingers and take it up to a light to examine it. The French philosopher Jacques Maritain wrote that “the more the poet grows, the deeper the level of creative intuition descends into the density of his soul. Where formerly he could be moved to song, he can do nothing now, he must dig deeper.” So for me, writing poetry is very much like taking a shovel and digging into a hole, or at the very least, my consciousness.
The other day I went to the Bruce Conner show at the Kohn Gallery, and was totally frozen in time, while sitting in the main huge gallery, watching his “Crossroads,” which is a film that uses footage of the Operation Crossroads underwater nuclear test at Bikini Atoll in the Pacific. The film technically lasts for 36 minutes, but I couldn’t tell you if I was there for three minutes or the whole film time. Everything stopped. There is a beginning and an ending, but I couldn’t really tell where the beginning starts and the end ‘ends.' All I know I was transformed watching the super slow-motion of the bomb going off, and just getting lost in the textures of the atomic cloud. Beyond that beauty is horror. So like everything else in life, horror and beauty walk down the sunny side of the street, holding hands, and skipping down the street together. It could have been my imagination, or I was asleep at the wheel, but “once upon a time the world was sweeter than we knew. Everything was ours; how happy we were then, but then once upon a time never comes again.” So it is best to live for the moment, and then reflect on it with a shovel and dig deep.
November 17, 2014
November 17, 2014
November 17, 2014
Some years back I was approached by the filmmaker Russ Meyer to help him with a script that was written for him by the now-famous architect Rem Koolhaas. His script is called “Hollywood Tower” and it is about a group of rich Arabs who buy up the rights to a Hollywood archive, with plans to build a giant computer, which they can choose any dead (or live) star and put them back on the screen. The second level of the narrative is about the Nixon administration who focuses on getting out-of-work actors, including Lassie, get jobs in the movies - and the last is about Russ Meyer shooting a porn film. Meyer thought it was too large of a project, especially the first and second segments. He felt that it should only focus on the part of him making a porn film. I convinced Russ that he should forget the part with the Nixon administration, and focus on both the first layer of the film and the part of him making porn. I convinced him that we could use the narrative about movie stars replacing the porn stars in his erotic romp. He loved that idea. Of course we didn’t have the rights, and as far as I know there is no giant computer that can use stars who were in specific films and put them into the new Russ project.
Nevertheless he suggested using specific stars, but we can’t (of course) mention their names. I did research and I came up with two possibilities, or use both in the film: Frank Fay and Peter Cook. I also wanted to add Rem’s point-of-view as well. I find architecture sexy, and there is something very seductive about Mr. Koohaas’s approach to his favorite subject matter. I even began to think that perhaps Prada can provide production money for this film. I remember reading a quote from him which he stated that “a building has at least two lives - the one imagined by its maker and the life it lives afterward - and they are never the same.” Which I think is the basis for his first part of the Russ Meyer film. To re-cycle a building as something else, why not also make stars into porn actors?
But really, it is not the actual footage of the stars, or the film itself that is in question, but the subject matter of memory and what is true and false. Last night I had a dream of my deceased father, where I acknowledge in a sense that he died. The truth is (my truth mind you) is that I never accepted his death. I just feel he left and went out to get a newspaper and didn’t come back. In other words, I’m still waiting by the window to hopefully take a view of him walking back home. It won’t happen of course, and I intellectually know that, but emotionally I don’t accept his death. So putting a ‘dead’ star in Russ’s film is sort of like denying death. Architecture is the same. When I walk around Downtown Los Angeles, and look at old buildings like the Bradbury, Mayan, Brockman, and the Biltmore Hotel, I think I’m seeing death, even though the buildings are in use, to me they’re dead.
Peter Cook, the great British humorist, and Frank Fay, the vaudeville comedian, were both, even when they were alive, sort of death-in-waiting. One can sense that their life is really an act of an instinct, where eventually it will burn down, and then out. So I thought it would be interesting to “cast” these two in the Meyer film. Frank Fay is of interest, because he was married to Barbara Stanwyck, and it has been reported that their lives together were the inspiration for “A Star is Born. The wife’s career went up, while at the same time the husband’s goes into sharp decline. The film didn’t happen, because I think the subject matter of the script was too bleak for Russ, but nevertheless it was the only time that I really dealt with the subject of death in my work and life. Meanwhile, before I go to sleep at night, I still look out the window hoping to get a glance of my father coming back home to me.
November 16, 2014
November 16, 2014
November 16, 2014
I’m happy. I stripped all my possessions the other day, by taking my entire vinyl record collection to Amoeba to sell, which in turn will finance a poetry journal called “Not.” My plan is to write the entire journal but using false names. It will all be poetry, and I will also do the graphic design as well as the illustrations for the publication. My father left me his hand-print press, and I learned how to add the type, so I’m ready to go. My goal is to make an edition of 100 copies of each issue, and give it out to either friends or people I admire. I don’t plan to sell the publication, because I don’t believe in the world of currency. I’m thinking that maybe if I contact a small market owner, I can trade issues of my journal for food. I’m a home owner, but since I’m paying a monthly mortgage, I’ll instead, offer the bank that owns the mortgage free issues of my journal instead of the monthly payment. I also approached the Gas company as well as the Department of Water and Power, to see if we can arrange a trade of my journal for the use of gas and power.
Hand printing each magazine or issue is very satisfying. Knowing that someone will read or hold your publication, one that you made by hand, is very personal. I have been involved with mass printing of a book, but to me it seems impersonal. Of course, websites and blogs are totally out of the question. What does it matter if one guy to a million people read your blog? The digital world is an illusion, where in fact, when I’m holding a publication I physically made, I can feel it is real. I want to remove all of my illusions in my life.
One morning I was very hungry. I went to a diner here near my home, and I asked for a table. When the waiter came upon me, I showed him my hand-printed journal, and told him that I wanted to trade this work for a meal. Since I didn’t know the worth of a single journal, I asked him to bring me food that he felt was equal to the worth of this journal. He told me to hold on, and I can see him taking my journal to the manager. Both were in discussion, and finally he came back and told me he can make a plate of toast for me in exchange for the journal. Overall I thought that was fair. I asked him if I could possibly add a cup of hot coffee to the exchange as well. He said “no.” Basically it is a piece of one bread, sliced in two, and toasted. No jam or butter. I did have my choice of bread. I decided to ask for sourdough, because to me it seemed more filling. Although I was hoping for a larger meal, I was satisfied in obtaining the toast and on top of that, a complimentary glass of tap water. It was in a spiritual sense, probably one of the best meals of my life in a restaurant.
I basically live off my journals in this fashion. Sometimes I feel that the amount of work I have put into a single publication - including the writing as well as the printing, I come up short with the trades. I still haven’t heard back from the Bank that owns the mortgage. Nor from the gas and water company. I’m hopeful that something can be worked out. The one company that totally refused my offer for a trade was my cable company. Which in the long (and short) run is perfectly OK. Hundreds of channels and usually nothing on.
November 15, 2014
November 15, 2014
November 15, 2014
When I proposed to my (ex) wife for marriage, I told her “I am, though I say it myself, about the cleverest young man of my age in the country… and I know you would like my companionship.” Of course, she said yes. Like others, she presumed that I had money or came from money. The truth is I allow people to think that, but in all honesty, and for those who know me well - when was the last time I picked up the check? Never. My recurring motif is to pretend to receive a phone call, around the time when the waiter brings the check to the table. I excuse myself, and from a distance, I watch the table to see my dining partner pay the check. It is then I come back to the table, and pretend to look for the bill. At that time, the friend good naturally tells me he took care of the check.
The truth is I pretty much live off the estate’s earnings. At times, I tend to spend a tad too much on goods, and therefore I find myself stranded in my large home, with a lot of places to go to, but no funds to pay for the experience. In fact since I don’t drive, I usually have to depend on the kindness of acquiescences. Even paying for the bus, has got too expensive for me. Food is not so difficult. If you just have one piece of toasted muffin, and use old coffee grains for your morning café, then you make it through the day OK. I know how to sew, so I can keep my clothes in good condition. So for appearance sake, I’m totally fine. I never worry about the lack of money in my life, because no one likes to hear someone grumble about finances. It’s such a bore of a subject to bring up, and once you do, you can immediately see the eyes of your visitor or friend clouding over. No, it’s best not to say anything. They may find my starved body by my moldy and mildew swimming pool, but alas, I will still look fashionable.
One of the few pleasures I have with respect to shopping is finding used copies of Mantovani albums. If for nothing else, I love his cascading strings, which places me in an imaginary place. Well, my home actually, if it was better cared for. I had to let go of the cleaning lady, due to the financial situation. Nevertheless I tend to enjoy putting an apron on, and wander through the hallways with a duster. Besides the enjoyment of Mantovani, I focus on the mailbox for a hopeful check, but more realistically, an invitation to a dinner or cocktail party. I know how to control my hunger and not run up to the catering table and go crazy. Allow a piece of cheese to melt in your mouth with a taste of white or red wine - and one is fine, if you keep your wits about. What I just have to keep in mind is to “put a higher value on yourself. Being hyper-realistic about everything is too simple a get-out.” At the same I feel very much like an impostor, and already my mask has begun to bite into my face.
“The falsification of everything has been shown to be one of the characteristic features of our period, but falsification is not in itself subversion properly so-called, though contributing directly to the preparation for it.” I pretty much live in people’s opinion on who they think I’m. My role is to never give them doubt or a sign of concern on my part. I observed that the more I talk, the less they listen. Therefore my life is a performance. As long as I focus on myself, and avoid the outside world, I should be acceptable. One of the wonderful things about my work is a “degree of selection and separation from the dross of living.” I do have these moments of doubt, and a feeling of fear, but generally I brush it off. “The end of the world never is and never can be anything but the end of an illusion.”
November 14, 2014
November 14, 2014
November 14, 2014
Everyday I wake up in the morning to write. Often I’m in a very sad or angry mood. Other times, quite cheerful. Oddly enough, when I start composing my thoughts and thinking what kind of words to put on the empty computer screen or notebook, it is neutral. I empty out all my fears, desires, being poor, and trying to remember which Brahms’ Symphony I’m crazy for (ah, it’s the 4th). Nevertheless, I’m swimming in a sea that is endless, and that is why I have restricted myself in working only in the mornings, and must finish the essay by either 11 AM or 1PM (Pacific Standard Time) that day. As of this being number 318, I haven’t failed yet. But who knows about tomorrow. The truth is I made plans to finish this project on December 31, 2014. I pretty much know that I will wake up each morning, and immediately start thinking about what I’m going to write about. Obviously by now, there is just one subject. Me. But is “me” that interesting? I can’t tell, because I never felt boredom or even being self-critical. I literally don’t care what people think of me. The funny thing is I never think about myself, except in the mornings when I’m writing. After I finish, and post the piece on Facebook and my blog, I totally forgot what I wrote.
After I finish the work for the day, I often fantasize that I will die. Death doesn’t bother me, but what bothers me is that I won’t finish this writing project. If I die this afternoon, the work I have posted will become meaningless. It will only have meaning if I finish the project on December 31. So, I do spend time taking care of myself. I don’t drive, but not only do I not drive, but I also don’t get into cars. I don’t care who is driving, I just don’t trust fate or that driver will make it to point A to point B. Buses I don’t have a problem with, because it is rare an accident happens, and even more rare that everyone dies in a bus accident. So yeah, I have a lot of phobic thoughts, but only when I’m sitting down and composing a narrative, these morbid images in my head disappear and I’m looking into the white light, that is blank as my computer screen.
In the afternoons, I have been working on a memoir about my childhood years. So far, it’s going OK. Again, one can go on forever, but I’m restricting myself to a certain period in my life, and I plan not to go beyond that. As a role model, I’m using Louise Brooks’ “Lulu in Hollywood” and Lord Berner’s “First Childhood.” There is not one wasted word in either of those two memoirs, and I have to keep in mind that the great masses out there really don’t care or are interested in me. I’m the only one that has an interest in “me.” But only when I’m writing, as I mentioned above, I have no interest in “me” whatsoever. After spending six hours a day just focusing on myself, I’m usually tired. Self-reflection is so tiresome. If I didn’t write, I would never bother with it. I can’t believe that people actually spent time or money on focusing on their identity or not. If I was going to an analyst, I wouldn’t know what to say. I guess I would just give him or her this essay, and let them figure it out. I wouldn’t want to know the results.
The only thing that is important to me is that I finish these series of daily narrations. I guess I would hope that they will be a book of some sort. But being practical, it is unlikely a publisher would want to publish all 365 pieces. I for one wouldn’t read it! Would you? Of course not! So, it is weird that I spend at the very least, six hours a day working on this project. By the end of the year that will make it 2,190 hours. So many hours working on just one large body of work. I don’t socialize that much, because after working, I have very little to say to people. I tend to like to play music on my turntable. I’m a fan of Wendy Carlos’ “A Clockwork Orange” soundtrack. I’m not that crazy when she is doing Bach or some other classical material - I much prefer her own compositions. I have played this album for friends who come by the house, but then they want to discuss it. That I found draining. I like the act of writing and listening to music, but seriously, I don’t think I can discuss it afterwards. I think what I like about composing words and listening to music is that it’s a verb. I’m doing something. Afterwards it becomes a ‘thing, ’ and I just don’t care at that point.
So, in a nutshell, I like to think of this writing project as an act, or a performance. What happens afterwards is not all that interesting to me. Eventually I’ll perish, and turn to dust. The work I do may live on, but then it just may end up on the third floor of The Los Angeles Downtown Library, and only made available as reference material, meaning one can’t check the book out and take it home with them. When you see things in that objective light, it is not worth the bother to work for 2,190 hours, that will just eventually end up in a dusty vault. On the other hand, I very much enjoy myself and the act of “doing” is the pleasure itself.
November 13, 2014
November 13, 2014
November 13, 2014
“Money doesn’t buy happiness. But happiness isn’t everything.” A beautiful actress in Godard’s “À bout de shuffle, made that comment, and then eventually she killed herself in a parked car in Paris. Of course, she was hunted down by the FBI for donating some of her Hollywood and European dole to the Black Panther cause. The FBI hated that. Basically they hunted her down, followed her around, till she killed herself. You’re given the tools and the means to move a certain way, and you follow that path. I think that could be regarded as a murder, but alas, the perception is perhaps stronger than the truth. Nevertheless I seem to have a lot of her pictures on my wall. Not due to her death, or her politics, but the fact that she represents something new and fresh to me. To be honest, I only saw one of her films, and that was “À bout de shuffle.” I always wanted a girlfriend like Jean Seberg, someone slightly mad, yet fun. My guess is the fun part wasn’t that prominent and her sadness at the world was a cup overflowing.
Another beauty of that period was Oskar Werner, who starred in François Truffaut’s “Jules et Jim” and “Fahrenheit 451.” He had the facial glance of a lost sheep in a harsh cruel world. If you look at him, he seems to melt in front of you. I never felt he was alive. I have an active imagination, and I just presumed that I thought him up. Surely a creature such as Oskar could exist? In my mind, I think Oskar and Jean would have made an interesting couple. Some people live by chance, but I feel that Oskar and Jean’s fate were made - not only by the cruel mechanics of the Hollywood machinery, but due to their fragile state of consciousness. These two sad characters (but beautiful) made me be aware that I need to take my life in my own hands, and not depend on others. For many years now, I have declined to work, or even leave my house.
If I do travel, it is through films and books. First-hand experience is not all that important to me. I logically feel that having an experienced traveler writing about ‘their’ experiences is a much better situation for me. Why go out and get yourself burned, when someone else can do that leap into the unknown. “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.” In many ways, I can be that pinball stuck in a machine, and I’m just endlessly bouncing off the side rail. Therefore I totally trust the experienced traveler to lead me to hopefully, or if nothing else, a different world. But it is always a battle between a life that is planned out and those who just follow their desires.
The one story that comes back to me is when the late 19th century actor Edwin Booth saved Abraham Lincoln’s son, Robert, from falling between the train and platform. As the train began to move away from the platform, Robert started to fall between the crack, feet first. A hand came upon his coat collar and pulled him up onto the train. Robert recognized Edwin Booth, due to his fame at the time. He thanked him. Two or three months later, Edwin’s brother John kills President Lincoln. When I come upon this story, I always wanted to know how Robert felt to be saved by the brother of his father’s assassin? It is like when I know someone died in a car accident, and knowing it was just an issue of seconds, that the person driving behind that driver didn’t die instead. Is that chance, or a fate being played out? I try to pinpoint people who have consistent back luck, and I avoid them at all costs. I lost friends, but that’s nothing compared to having their bad luck rubbing off on you. Putting images of those with bad luck on my wall, somehow makes me feel more safe. An illusion, perhaps, but if I’m going to throw my life to chance, I rather beat the odds in any fashion or manner that is in my power to do so. I just have to remember to “keep my fears to myself, but do share my courage with others.” Right now, fear is standing up proudly.
