marjorie-digest

Dear readers:

2012-01-25T19:30:00.001-05:00

This blog contains interviews, poems, and photos. In order to read past interviews and see previously posted photos, please click on "Older Posts" at the bottom of every page or click on back months to the right. Thank-you, and I hope you enjoy these entries.

KIDDIE RIDES

2012-01-12T19:27:00.003-05:00

I awakened and longed with desperation
To return to Brooklyn.
I wanted to ride until dawn on a creaky
Ferris wheel left behind by a carnival and
To visit the still standing luminous
Chartreuse home of my grandmother.
Memories behind stained glass windows
Beckoned like some naked amnesiac
Who struggles to reach home.

In the air, I could still smell the fullbodied scent
Of burnt potato pancakes that wafted through that
House and I often glimpsed the ghosts of ancestors
Lurking and sucking juice from the backyard peach tree.
I longed with desperation to return to old Brooklyn.

At 5 P.M. I slipped into my car
And drove south through Manhattan.
The pink sun soon sizzled on the Hudson River
And set, to my right, in bright blazing Technicolor.
In the distance, one kittiwake
Seemed to have found the way.

I headed for the elixir of the spinning
Teacups: the kiddie rides at intoxicating
Coney Island... in the most haunted and
Haunting of places: Brooklyn.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

TWO DAYS

2012-01-12T18:46:00.002-05:00

One hot sunny Sunday, in July, at Long Beach:
An amnesiac sat on the boardwalk watching
A strolling lady who was carrying a pearl-handled parasol.
A handsome soldier passed holding a love letter that was
Written on a faded lace white doily and a lonely spinster
Stared at vague images in the sand...
Lines soon to be scattered by an insouciant breeze.

An innocent, guileless, sienna-haired child
Paddled to shore in a teacup.

This is what happened on a hazy sunless Sunday,
In mid-August, at Westhampton.
A spiritual man, who once posed as an amnesiac,
Conducted past life regression sessions
In an old chartreuse theater and
A tattooed director, with wild cinematic aspirations,
Filmed the event in shades of mysterious gray.

Later, I rested on sands
And watched one lost kittiwake fly
In circles overhead while an organ played
Music from an invisible carousel.

I listened to the ocean and
Imagined mermaids swimming painlessly
In peaceful and seductive warm waters.

A sienna-haired child
Stepped out of a floating teacup,
And walked with sea legs
Along colorless sands.

Sometimes before twilight,
I think of those two days.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

NAP TIME

2012-01-12T15:33:00.003-05:00

At dusk, a dream through stained glass:
In a hazy deciduous forest, I am almost naked-
Pristine gown clinging like translucent second skin,
Chartreuse satin slippers, cheeks pale porcelain rose,
And humidity turning my hair burnt sienna.
The scent of dried lavender drifts through trees-
“Alone in nature, by nature,” ventriloquists murmur.
Bejeweled spiders, resting on carefully crocheted cobwebs,
Melancholy widows, eyes green tourmaline,
A soldier seduced by indifference...
Haunted beauty washed forever in soft pink light.

A fading fragrant French cologne-
Earlier a sweet intoxicating elixir- melting and melted.
An elusive black-throated warbler,
Pausing on a great oak, bears witness:
An icon is shedding mellifluous silver tears,
Reflecting my grandfather, wrapped in his tallit
Stirring, turning, saying, “You look very familiar to me.”

A clammy breeze passes through Manhattan.
I awaken this time, awakened last time,
Acquiescent and still, not knowing
If it is evening... or morning.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

Elisa Jordana, singer and songwriter

2012-01-04T14:01:00.012-05:00

Elisa Jordana says: "I love to write music, play piano, and sing. I am a terrific dancer, talker and overall creative person. I love animals and the muppets. Some people even consider me a muppet." She's more than a "muppet." She is a very talented and beautiful singer who I think you will all enjoy.

You can hear her sing her original song, "This Town," at her website here: Elisa Jordana.

I think you will love the mellifluous sounds of Elisa Jordana! And as an extra treat, you can hear her sing a lovely song with her friend, Benjy, called: "Online Sweetheart." In the song, they both are excited and delighted as they look forward to meeting each other. The tune is very catchy and may inspire others to try online dating in order to find their own "bashert."

Alan Berliner, filmmaker and media artist

2012-01-02T21:36:00.000-05:00

an encore, from October 2009:

My interview today with Alan Berliner was different from any other that came before. Alan Berliner is the filmmaker who two years ago invited me to join an NYU class on film archiving that was visiting his lower Manhattan studio. The specific purpose of my visit was to discuss a possible solution for the preservation of my old family photos. During the class discussion, Alan suggested I post the photos to the internet where they would be saved and available to any viewers who might discover the site. And shortly thereafter my memoir in a blog, marjorie-pentimentos, began. Today, Alan called my visit to the class an "intervention."

Many months ago when I began marjorie-digest, I asked Alan if he would be interviewed by me for this blog. He thought it would be worthwhile if I again joined another class from NYU and talked about my experience of two years ago and how the process was suggested in a concept during the first visit. Alan requested that I arrive early and that would give us a chance to talk. I was excited and I looked forward to today. I had no idea that the interview that I had intended to be about Alan would somehow morph into an interview about me!

We began and I told Alan that on Sunday many of the descendants of my great-grandparents, Abraham Levine and Goldie Benjamin, gathered at a restaurant in Manhattan for a family reunion. I told Alan that I expecially loved watching the family home movies from around 1952 that were brought by my cousin, Allen. As I talked about Sunday, I slowly began a stream-of-consciousness about so many different topics I felt somehow as if I was going to places that should never have left the imaginative confines of my own head.

And Alan sat there taking notes. He asked just the right questions to bring me to these personal places that were bittersweet and emotional. I talked and talked... about reincarnation, and quantum physics, and consciousness, and past lives, and memories. When I talked about time travel, I think my mind was on that train longing for "Willoughby" where I could enjoy the comforts of the past.

I talked about my life in retirement and my life... and I even spoke about my OCD. I just kept talking and talking... and dialogue flowed (probably from my subconscious) about personal feelings, old family photos, and home movies. I told Alan I love home movies because they are the closest thing to time travel we will ever get. The conversation was layered at times with fantasy, and imagination, and wishful thinking. And Alan kept writing.

He was able to somehow make me want to become nostalgic and share thoughts on so many things... when I was there to be the listener and learn more about him! I was embarrassed and I apologized to Alan that the interview became about me. He waved his hand and seemed to not care and said something like "Maybe I wanted to do that."

And this must be why he is a phenomenal filmmaker. He has this uncanny and kind ability to inspire people to be real and in a defenseless and in a very unguarded way to discover meaningful feelings.

Well, I had to temporarily shut-up because the class arrived and Alan played some very interesting and engaging sound effects for them and then they sat in a circle while I was asked to speak about the birth of my blog. And I did.

Alan inspires me to want to be a better "keeper of the memories." If after I contacted him two years ago Alan had not graciously invited me to meet with him, all my "stuff" probably would have one day been lost forever in a Staten Island landfill. That makes me sad. It makes me sad because one of my personal treasures is a letter that was written by my grandmother to my mother in about 1929. It appears in my memoir in this entry with a poem I wrote in 1992 which developed from some of my feelings about that letter... maybe sentimental memorabilia is in a sense a "madeleine."

In "Synecdoche, New York," the writer Charlie Kaufman ends the film with a monologue: "Now, it is waiting, and nobody cares. And when your wait is over, this room will still exist, and it will continue to hold shoes, and dresses, and boxes. And maybe someday, another waiting person. And maybe not. The room doesn't care either..."

Alan cares and I am on Alan's wave-length. And maybe there is a large group of total strangers who share these thoughts about time and the passing of time and the importance of, as Alan said, "saving pieces of individual lives" even in small scale ways.

At his website Alan has a link to his articles, essays, and journals. Please read his essay, "Gathering Stones." Alan showed me the way to help my own "orphaned photos" find a home.
And in his journal piece "Nobody's Business," Alan writes: "But yes, it is me who returns to visit -- not any of their children, their grandchildren, or any (other) of their great-grandchildren. Just me."

And so I realize that I had forgotten to tell Alan that on infrequent down days when I have little to do, I ride to the still-standing buildings in Brooklyn where I once lived. It seems to be always gloomy and raining on those days. But even on bright sunny days, I think about the homes and the times inside those homes. My mind wanders and I can still hear my mother calling me, at 5:30 PM, for "supper." Sometimes, when I arrive at one house... I park my car slightly down the street, and look at the outside of the window in the room where I once lay in bed at night, so long ago, listening to the sounds of whooshing cars as they passed while I watched their shadows dancing on my bedroom wall. And I still visit my grandmother's house in Bensonhurst.

Alan Berliner is a creative award-winning filmmaker. You can learn more about him and his work by clicking on the links below.
bio

films

The Sweetest Sound

Nobody's Business

Intimate Stranger

The Family Album

Wide Awake

Short Films

online Interviews:
POV - The Sweetest Sound

San Francisco Film Festival: Wide Awake

Robert Siegel, writer/director

2012-01-02T21:02:00.000-05:00

an encore, from May 2009:

This interview with Robert began on a Thursday evening at a Chelsea diner. And we concluded the interview the following day, on a muggy Friday Manhattan night in the same diner. So, this was my first two-part interview. I was excited and happy.

Robert was editor-in-chief of "The Onion" from 1996 to 2003... when it was in it's original phase as a Madison, Wisconsin publication. The editor of "The Onion" when Robert arrrived was Ben Karlin, who later left to join "The Daily Show" as executive producer. He was followed by David Javerbaum, who is still the executive producer of "The Onion" and he wrote the music for the Broadway show, "Crybaby."

In 2001, "The Onion" moved to new headquarters in New York City. And shortly thereafter Robert began writing "The Wrestler." Robert explained that the process of creating a film is a long one. It can sometimes take five years from "script to screen." But Robert knew from the beginning that Mickey Rourke was "ideal" for this film and he wrote "The Wrestler" with Mickey Rourke in mind. Robert knew he would be just perfect for this part. Robert wanted to create a compelling character and story. Yet, he realizes the story is both sad and emotional. And throughout, there are many scenes in the film that show the character's great and extreme loneliness with moments of so much sweetness.

The audience knows at the end of the film that "The Ram" will not last long after he makes a decision to go back into the ring. He has made a decision to die. It was the director's decision to end the film with a freeze frame... to perhaps leave the final moments without a closure.

I think there are huge emotional moments in "The Wrestler" and it was Robert Siegel from whose fingers this heartbreaking film began and... he indeed created the film which gave Mickey Rourke his "comeback." Robert was nominated for a WGA award in the category of "original screenplay" for the film.

We moved on to a discussion of "Big Fan," the film which Robert wrote and directed and which will premiere at BAM on June 19th as part of the Next Wave Festival. In the film, Patton Oswalt plays Paul Aufiero, a loner who is obsessed with the Giants and he spends much of his time calling in to a sports radio show. For this role, Patton Oswalt won the award for "Best Actor" at the Method Festival. Robert describes Paul as a "Marty" or "Rupert Pupkin"... and perhaps "Big Fan" is the "King of Comedy" of sports movies. I asked Robert if he personally knows any of these "obsessive nerds" and he said he based the character on his imagination. But we have all had experiences which make us lonely and we all share basic human emotions and it is those feelings which Robert hopes to bring to film. "Big Fan" will open on August 28th.

Well, another interview had ended. As darkness was falling, the sidewalks were still packed with people and the streets were crowded with busy traffic congestion. I started thinking as I began the walk home. People weave in and out of our lives.... but I have known Robert for several years, and tonight I continued to be impressed by Robert's sincerity, integrity, openness, and warmth.

addendum: "Big Fan," written and directed by Robert Siegel, was nominated for the 2010 Independent Spirit John Cassavetes Award.

Jerry, the "Marble Faun"

2012-01-02T20:14:00.000-05:00

bumped up, from May 2009:

I was more than elated when Jerry Torre agreed to be interviewed for this blog. Don't you know who Jerry Torre is? He's featured in the great documentary, "Grey Gardens," by Albert and David Maysles. You've seen it, haven't you?

Jerry is who Little Edie Beale called the "Marble Faun," in that "artistic smash." I always loved Edie Beale. I never thought of her as an "acquired taste," as Big Edie describes her in the recent HBO film, "Grey Gardens." She seemed to be filled with excellent wit and humor and she had such a great spirit. She actually is one of the people I miss who I never met. And I was thrilled when Jerry Torre met me for a late lunch on this Friday afternoon. I recognized him immediately as he crossed the street.

Jerry found his way to East Hampton from Brooklyn one summer when he ran away from home and was looking for adventure. He became an assistant gardener for Mr. Gerald Geddes, and he had his own little room over the kitchen in that home. And when he was on his bicycle wandering around one day, he found Grey Gardens.

We started talking about the mansion, Grey Gardens. Grey Gardens was quite dilapidated and Jerry said raccoons would watch from the rafters, cats would jump all over the room, and cobwebs draped the staircase... and on rainy days water would seep into the house through cracks. Jerry says "Mrs. Beale was very comfortable with the untidy conditions of the house." He never questioned the conditions because he did not want to be impolite. But one day, when a kitten died it took some time to convince Mrs. Beale that the kitten needed to be buried.

Then I asked Jerry what the Beales did all day. Jerry said that Little Edie dedicated her life to her mother and she was always in the house. He told me they had no television and just a small radio. Jerry said they would sing, and Little Edie would recite poetry and read to her mother. She would entertain Big Edie with little costumes that she created and run in and out of her dressing area. And they challenged each other in great debates about everything and that kept them going because they bickered all through the day and night. "They were like lawyers." The topics included the Kennedy clan and how to get through the winter. They would discuss men, etiquette, and have endless discussions about the environment. They often discussed the social politics of their East Hampton town. They "stayed occupied with their minds." Little Edie was an interesting woman filled with ideas. She was a very "complete human being" and she very much wanted to express all of herself. Jerry told me that Little Edie would often sit in the "forgotten chair" when she wanted to escape from "the scene." It was red leather and in a garden surrounded by overgrowth in the back of the house.

Jerry had great concern for the Beales and he fell in love with them and felt a huge sense of responsibility for their safety. He explained that Big Edie used a Sterno (which was next to her bed) to prepare the corn, and he wanted to be called over every time the Sterno was used. He had great fear that somehow that dangerous Sterno would cause a fire. During the interview, the deep love that Jerry had for the Beales was always very apparent and revealed in his thoughtful and kind demeanor.

Jerry lost touch with Little Edie after Big Edie passed away. While Edie was a very strong woman, she very much missed her mother. Edie stayed to herself and lived for about two years alone in Grey Gardens until it was sold. I felt overwhelming sadness as Jerry spoke because I believe that Edie had to be very lonely during that time.

We then moved on to discuss what Jerry has been doing all these years since his appearance as the "Marble Faun" in the great documentary "Grey Gardens." Jerry explained he has kept to himself because he wanted to own the relationship with the Beales and keep it private. Only in the last few years has interest in him and his time in the house become mainstream and at first he was not sure he wanted to share his memories. This is a renewed "avalanche of interest" in what Jerry calls a magical time in his life. He said, "after all, it is 33 years old." He asked me if that made sense.

In the years that have passed Jerry has lived and experienced so much. He is now a sculptor at The Art Students League of New York and one of his awarded works is "Confetti."

Jerry did openly speak about and share his memories and feelings with me during this interview and I was very moved. I felt an almost overwhelming general nostalgia and a longing for a time gone by. I was overjoyed to meet Jerry and very happy that he allowed me a glimpse into those few years of his life.

We left the restaurant and we promised to stay in touch. Jerry, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Lunch with Jerry, "The Marble Faun"

2012-01-02T19:12:00.000-05:00

an encore, that was written on October 22, 2009:

Jerry and I met for lunch at a restaurant in midtown. We spoke about the Beales and Grey Gardens, and relationships, and where life takes us as we move along through the decades. It was wonderful seeing him again, and each time we are together we grow closer. Jerry is a very interesting man and he has many memories and it was a pleasure to spend part of the afternoon with him on a very beautiful day in Manhattan. Here is my interview from last May with Jerry, Edie Beale's "Marble Faun."

And this just in: Jerry, In Production! Jerry has had a very interesting life and I am thrilled, delighted, and excited... and I cannot wait to see this documentary!

And this, from June 2009:
Tonight was the reception at The Art Students League of New York for the 2008 Merit Scholarship Winners. The winners of merit scholarships from 2008 presented their work. Jerry Torre received the Martha T. Rosen Memorial Scholarship and he presented two sculptures: "Bohack Dorata," in Italian sandstone and "Confetti," in Spanish limestone.
I attended the reception and here are some photos of the event.

This is Jerry with "Bohack Dorata."

This is Jerry with "Confetti."

Albert Maysles arrived with his daughter, Sara, and I was thrilled to meet him. Albert Maysles is the filmmaker who, with his brother David, made the documentary "Grey Gardens." Sara and her sister, Rebekah, are the authors of the brand new book, "Grey Gardens." Albert Maysles told me tonight that it was thirty years after "Grey Gardens" was made that he was reunited with Jerry. He kept in touch through correspondence with Edie Beale, who had moved to Florida. And Edie had told him that Jerry was living in Saudi Arabia, working as a gardener for a royal family.

This is a photo taken tonight of me and Albert Maysles.

And this is a photo of Jerry (Edie Beale's "Marble Faun,") Albert Maysles, and me! How wonderful it was to see them together again, almost 35 years after that legendary documentary was made.

And here is Jerry with Little Edie Beale and Big Edie in 1975, from the original documentary "Grey Gardens."

Mary Engel, photo and film archivist

2012-01-02T19:10:00.000-05:00

from 2009:

This interview with Mary Engel about her parents, the talented filmmaker Morris Engel and the creative and legendary photographer Ruth Orkin, began over the telephone. As she requested during that call, I submitted a few questions to her in an E-mail... and her answers appear below.

The many biographies of Morris Engel all state he was a combat cameraman with the US Army Signal Corps during World War II, and he was present during the D-Day landings at Normandy. Morris Engel took much of the film footage that has appeared in documentaries featuring the D-Day landings. Morris Engel wrote and directed three films: "The Little Fugitive" (1953), "Lovers and Lollipops" (1956), and "Weddings and Babies" (1958). I recall first seeing "The Little Fugitive" as a child. It is about a young boy who is tricked into believing he shot his brother. He runs away to Coney Island and he has quite a day of adventure before his brother finds him and brings him home. Today, "The Little Fugitive" is recognized as a very well done independent film which influenced such filmmakers as John Cassavettes and Francois Truffaut. In April 2009, TCM aired a tribute to Morris Engel called "Morris Engel: The Independent" (2007). The documentary is by Mary Engel and it explores her father's life, career, and work with his wife Ruth Orkin.

During that same day in April, TCM showed a documentary called "Ruth Orkin: Frames of Life" (1997). The biographical documentary was also directed by Mary Engel and it is about her mother’s work during her career as a very talented and gifted photographer. So many of Ruth Orkin's photos give me a general feeling for times gone by and "Comic Book Readers," New York City, 1947, evokes a very personal and emotional nostalgic response. Mary can be seen in her mother's photo, "Mary and Morris Shaving," New York City, 1966.

These are Mary's replies to the questions:
Q: How do you think your father influenced independent film?
A: My father Morris Engel was one of the first independent filmmakers in New York City, and his film “Little Fugitive” (1953) has tremendous significance in film history. He made the film with my mother, photographer, Ruth Orkin. I think they both inspired many filmmakers, and the response to the film even today 56 years later is extraordinary. My father made the hand-held 35mm movie camera with a friend Charlie Woodruff, and that enabled him to shoot “Little Fugitive” from the little boy’s perspective, with only one assistant. The film was made for only $30,000, during a four-week period over the summer in Coney Island. “Little Fugitive” was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Motion Picture Story (now known as Best Original Screenplay) and won the Silver Lion at the Venice Film Festival. It has also been added to the Library of Congress National Film Registry, and was restored by the Museum of Modern Art. Francois Truffaut said, “Our New Wave would never have come into being, if it wasn’t for the young American Morris Engel who showed us the way with “Little Fugitive.” Also, as stated in my new film “Morris Engel: The Independent” there were several important documentary filmmakers such as Albert Maysles and D.A. Pennebaker who were influenced by him, and who made their own cameras after seeing my father’s camera. The French filmmaker Jean Luc Godard also wanted to borrow my father’s camera.

Q: Do you have any memories of participating in "Mary and Morris Shaving," New York City, 1966?
A. My memories of the photo “Mary and Morris Shaving, NYC, 1966” are primarily from the photo. My mother had 500-watt lights in every room so she wouldn’t miss anything. However, she primarily shot everything candid, so I don’t have memories of being posed, or resenting having her constantly shooting. I love now having all the photos that I do have of my childhood.

Q: On a personal level, "Comic Book Readers," New York City, 1947, gives me a general feeling of nostalgia and a feeling for times gone by. Can you talk a bit about how other photos may evoke that emotional nostalgic response?
A. I think both of my parent’s photos evoke memories of the past because they were taken primarily in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s. It brings back an era that people think of as golden, and when New York was a different place. Obviously, for me, I can only dream about what it was like, because I was born in the 60’s, but I love looking at all the photos to see how different parts of the city used to look like. In addition, much of the architecture was so wonderful, and it is a shame that so many buildings were torn down, that it is great to have memories of these landmarks from their photos.

Q: Are you planning any exhibits of your mother's work?
A. I work full-time as the archivist of my parent’s work, at the Orkin/Engel Film and Photo Archive so I’m continually trying to promote their work by arranging new shows, working on various projects, and planning new books. I have published several catalogs of their work on my own. The websites are a great way to learn and see more of their photographs. Go to The Ruth Orkin Photo Archive, and The Morris Engel Photo Archive.

The above Ruth Orkin photo, "Comic Book Readers," New York City (1947) appears at this blog with the written permission of Mary Engel. It is from the "Children" collection.

Brian Gari, songwriter/performer/author

2012-01-02T18:26:00.000-05:00

from 2009:

I first saw Brian Gari on October 24, 2008 at the Friends of Old Time Radio Convention held in Newark, NJ. He moderated a very interesting panel discussion with guests such as Lucie Arnaz, Betty Rose, and Ervin Drake. Joe Franklin was there, too. Brian presented a loving tribute to his father, Roberto Gari, who passed away in January 2008. I was very impressed with Brian's participation, so I went to the Drama Book Shop and I bought his book, "We Bombed In New London," to learn more about him and his career.

I sent this on April 15, 2009:
Brian:
I am almost finished reading "We Bombed In New London," and I am loving it so much I am not wanting it to end. This is a fascinating story of a true journey... and I think what is so amazing is how the narrative is factually presented with visual memorabilia and is also written with layers of extemely dark wit and humor. It is hilarious! I am just astounded by so many parts. And it is so well presented that I feel as if I am actually watching the "vignettes" unfold.
The book has sort of Larry David "Curb Your Enthusiasm" moments:
p. 47: "(David Susskind) wasn't on the phone more than ten seconds when he screamed, "I'll never get involved in musicals again!" I guess he was right; he died a very short time after my phone call."
p. 115: "He didn't give a shit. He would report me. Imagine continuing to ride with this obstinate jerk."
p. 116 "I was flattered. My songs being bootlegged? What fun!"
p. 182 "Gee. I was shaking in my boots. I had incurred the wrath of the great Cindy Adams."
I think you did a great job showing in subtle ways how people interact and relate to each other. Brian, your book is just wonderful. Let me put it this way: it's a book that is the best independent film I have ever read.
Marjorie

Shortly after I sent the above E-mail to Brian, I wrote to him again and asked if he would be interviewed for this blog. He immediately replied, "sure," and we met on Thursday, April 30th, at noon... in the Key West Diner on upper Broadway. We started to talk, and right away I was impressed with Brian's straightforward, honest, and down-to-earth manner. He spoke about his musical, "Late Nite Comic," and he said he realized the show's "time (on Broadway) was short." He discussed, in a very forthright manner, how the last few days of the show turned into a "free-for-all" because the perfomers were not getting the response they expected. He wrote "Late Nite Comic" based on his relationship with his girlfriend at the time, named Janet. Janet never saw the show. Brian says in his book she blocked all communication with him. This was a huge disappointment to him that he lives with to this day.

We then discussed Brian's "Love Online," which is based on his real-life experience about finding love on the internet. He met a woman on AOL who answered his written ad. They had many E-mail exchanges and telephone conversations... and he fell in love with her "through her words." He fell in love with her phrasing, the depth of her conversations, and her life story. And after they finally met, the romantic relationship lasted two and a half years. He was strongly emotionally involved and their connection was deep. Brian insists it is possible to fall in love before meeting because... he "lived it."

Brian has an extensive list of accomplishments. He has a salute to Brian Wilson, which he will be performing at Don't Tell Mama and he has done a Christmas album as well as a Brazilian album. He did a salute to the music of Roger Nichols and Paul Wiilliams. Brian is still writing songs and doing speeches with his mother about his grandfather, Eddie Cantor. He is also working on a musical about his grandfather.
This was an enjoyable interview for me and I thank Brian very much for sharing his insights and pieces of his personal experiences. He is an extremely talented man and he is as heartfelt in person as he is in his writing.

Linda Richman, writer/lecturer

2012-01-02T07:18:00.000-05:00

Here is an encore of an interview I did in April 2009 with my dear friend, Linda Richman.

Here is Linda's Proust Questionnaire:

Your most marked characteristic?
my irreverent sense of humor
The quality you most like in a man?
humor, humor, humor
The quality you most like in a woman?
her ability to nurture
What do you most value in your friends?
Loyalty with a capital 'L'
What is your principle defect?
I don't suffer fools gladly
What is your favorite occupation?
authors and writers
What is your dream of happiness?
knowing who you are and accepting the good, the bad, and the ugly
What would you like to be?
an accomplished pianist
In what country would you like to live?
Italy
What is your favorite color?
white, even though I know it is a hue
What is your favorite bird?
the cardinal
Who are your favorite poets?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning
Who are your favorite composers?
Marvin Hamlisch, Marilyn and Alan Bergman; I'm a Broadway baby!
Who are your favorite painters?
Matisse and Monet
Who are your heroes in real life?
myself
What is it you most dislike?
bigotry
What historical figures do you most despise?
Hitler
What natural gift would you most like to possess?
ballet dancing
How would you like to die?
in my sleep next to Antonio Banderas
What is your present state of mind?
I'm wistful
What is your motto?
I'd rather be kind than right

And this is how Linda describes me:
"Marjorie is complicated, brilliant, creative, clever, and impossible at times!"

Linda Richman is the author of the best-selling book "I'd Rather Laugh," and the inspiration for the "Coffee Talk Lady" on Saturday Night Live... and she is my friend.

The photo of the cover of Linda Richman's book is used in this entry with her permission.

STREET POEMS

2012-01-01T13:19:00.028-05:00

THIS PENTIMENTO

Via Comandante Simone Guli,
In Palermo, a street so old that
High above wives still hang the wash
Out over the black iron balcony gates
Next to green leaves and blue and white
Striped curtains falling out of windows.

Once children stood there with mothers,
Waiting for fathers to return home.
The red flowers now sit high over sad
Graffiti and a tobacco shop which
Serves as some reminder not
To obscure the view.

STANDING STILL

On Højdevangs Allé,
In Copenhagen, the flowers
That line the street
Are so fragrant that two
Women stopped walking.

They stood between two buildings
To look at small blue flowers on
One side while purple and white
Flowers flourished without moving
Behind them, on the other side.

OPTICAL ILLUSION

On Edinburgh Street,
In Winnipeg, parts of the ground were still
Covered in snow under a crisp blue and
White sky that almost crackled with sharp
Definition and clarity.

It was there that I turned a corner
And stopped at a driveway and saw
In the icy cold snow carved footprints
That finally reached an almost
Tropically lighted home.

PICTURE PERFECT

On Tazewell Avenue Southeast,
In Roanoke, some houses sit very high
Above the street under a bleak grey sky.
The trees are suffering and bent and leafless
And the air appears to be chillingly cold.

I wonder who climbs those long steep
Staircases to sit closer to that foreboding
Sky, where clouds cling together trying hard
Not to let thin patches of blue peek through
Because the view might be less mysterious.

BY THE SEA

On Coast Road,
in Larne, two people stand
Between the purple rocky cliffs and the
Pale colorless sea on the other side of
Yellow and purple flowers.

Cars pass by with drivers and passengers
Whose faces I will never see.
There is an open gate with a path that
Leads to an unseen place.

And soon, there is a sign that says,
"Boats," and then the sky turns magically blue.
But, in the distance the clouds are so low that
They touch the water.

SCENES FROM LONG AGO

On Beard Street,
In Kernersville, there are colorful
Wall murals which give glimpses
Into what was, long ago.

I saw ladies in billowing long
Red and white dresses standing
With gentlemen wearing tall hats
All waiting at the railroad station
For family arriving from faraway places.
Soon, they would all step into a horse
Drawn carriage to take a short ride home.

Nobody looked up to see the child
Perched high above who on bleak days
After school would climb to the flat roof
To wait for the trains to pass.

The trains were carrying weary passengers
Traveling to faraway places, and they were
Also going home.

Many years later, she would remember
The sound of the whistle as the trains
Passed and she would speak of the sound
As both sad and mournful,
Perhaps because it always
Strangely reminded
Her of all times past.

THIS HEADY ELIXIR

On Clifton Hill,
In Niagara Falls, there is a soft intoxicating
Smell in the air of sweet and heady nostalgia.
Walkers cross the street to a bright lush green
Park and the water is then behind them as a
Light mist sprays their backs and the
Visuals turn into blurred memories
Set in stone.

All the excitement is about to begin.
There is a turquoise haunted house,
A beckoning moving theater,
The wax museum,
And a souvenir shop:
It's a massive swirling kaleidoscope of
Dreamlike and almost surreal color.

Then, in the center of all this heady elixir
Is a glorious and perfect SkyWheel,
Where I imagine children sit with parents
High up above it all, setting the graphics into
What will years later seem almost
Hallucinogenic.

NARROW STREET

On Villa Silla,
In Scanno, the low and narrow street
Has a quiet outdoor cafe with tables
Covered in yellow tablecloths.

One man dines alone
Next to and under purple
Red and pink flowers.
Gorgeous proud balconies are
Set into buildings with old grey
Chipped and broken stone.

A little store down the path displays
Colorful children's clocks:
Bunnies and elephants and angels
Designed to make the children laugh.

From another high window, freshly washed
Towels hang and down below mothers
Gather to talk and soon walk with their babies.

Flower pots sit on small steps,
Leading up to a home where another woman
Is standing above the street looking down
From a wide open window near a bird feed
And she too is hanging the wash out to dry.

And then nothing moves and all is frozen.
Only the wash; the wash flying in front of that
Large foreboding mountain under a crisp
And clear blue and white sky.

THE GHOSTS OF GAY STREET

On Gay Street,
In New York City, there are quaint
Red and white and orange houses that are
Intoxicating because they are so old and little.

There is a building with turquoise shutters and
There are pinks and red and white flowers in
Lovely window pots and green trees
To the left and to the right.

The facade is frozen, but not the living...
Or the dead.

It is said that number 12 is...
Haunted. Maybe so.

But,
It is the house across the street where I see
A ghost.
She is peeking out from the second floor window
On the left side of an orange brick building.

She has bushy eyebrows and one hair roller
Sits on the top of her head.

Her mouth is open as if she is startled and
She appears to be more frightened than the
Tourists who down below night and day
Haunt the street looking for the
Ghosts of Gay Street.

TO GET TO THIS PLACE

On Aleppo Road,
In New Freeport, there are wonderful
things, rich and wonderful things.

Old houses made of dark crumbling
Wood that remembers what was,
A dry waterless sandy creek
And an old and tired bench
Where an old grandmother sat
And turned, with bent and gnarled
Fingers, the pages of a book
While whispering magical words
That filled a child's imagination.

Keep moving past a graveyard where
Old and broken and long forgotten cars
That yesterday were shiny new cars that
Once took children to faraway colorful fairs.

And past some jumping deer going up a
Steep hill to get back to the forest to hide,
To get back to familiar safe places.

A shiny white gazebo stands alone on
The grand grass where dolls sit
Wearing fancy hats and having sweet tea.

To get to this place you will need to
Go the other way, go that other way,
Go a different way to be taken away.

BECAUSE I COULD

On Saatwinkler Damm,
In Berlin, I stood on the far sidewalk
And watched.

With lush green trees behind me,
No traffic in front of me, only parked cars
I gazed at the canal in the distance.

And the little white boat passed by
With a high carefree rider whose back was
To me, so he didn't see me.

I waited and watched and
Watched and watched for some time
Because I could.

THE LITTLE FLOWER SHOP

On Sternwartstrade,
In Munich, there is a charming little
Flower shop in a tiny little building
With a green and white
Striped awning.

It was tempting to stand and
Gaze at the technicolor flattered
Flowers.

But, I spun around to also see
Red flowers on tall stems
In front of a house covered in
Gorgeous green ivy.

NOBODY HOME

Between Muirfield Road and Culduthel Road,
In Inverness, there is a street with no name.
But, you can get there.

An old stone building is quietly hidden
Surrounded by a low iron gate
In a lush green fragrant forest.
All sad sounds have fallen away
The many footprints are gone
And all that is left is the still.

The now boarded up windows
Allow no lights from inside to
Show the way home
And I think
Nobody is home
In this long ago forgotten home.

HOT WATERCOLORS

At Plaja Jupiter,
On Strada Brindisi, look at the
Wonderful things and colorful things:

Rich green and pink stuff to take home
And even more stuff to chew and eat
So the sense of wonder is remembered.

Blue water on one side of the sandy heat
And huge proud swans wait on the water
On the other side, and never move.

Later, the day perhaps will become
Fragmented but the sense of wonder
Might never become blurred.

WHAT REMAINS

On Merrimack Street,
In Lowell, there's a signpost
That says: Detour.

Maybe he never should have
Taken the other road,
Maybe he should have gone
Back, gone the other way
And stayed on these roads.

The air at the end of these
Roads becomes thick and
Dense and there is fog.

Here, on lonely low bleak cloudy days
There are quiet somber and grey
Places: big old several storied houses
With many front steps and slanted roofs
And lots of windows for eye prints.

The houses on University Avenue
From long ago are comforting with
Stubborn intoxicating attics whispering
Secrets obsessed with what
Was, so returning to this street
Reveals air like a strange pentimento.

Old stores with faded signs, corner
Places that never ever yielded or
Changed and they don't bend, they
Remain strong, proud, and solid.

If he stayed for more than a short
Time he always heard the swing
Music; drizzling so he could remember.
At night, in dreams, when
The way became lost, he
Soon realized he never left.
All that time, all those years
His eyes were just closed.
The boarded up windows gave
Him reasons to cry.

Now, this is the end of the seductive
Road, his forever destination:
A place that always surfaced
When sad dreams and deep
Longing finally fell away...
And he had to return to this place
Like a traveler who finally uses his
Return trip ticket.
Home.

SEEING ALMOST NOTHING

On Repatriation Road,
In Pickering Brook, I drove
For a long time
And saw almost nothing
Except the narrow road
Ahead and trees on both sides
With nothing behind me
And nothing ahead of me.
Then, I saw a tractor on one side
And a low gate on the other and
I knew I was reaching a place.
Some place.

Then, I saw a tiny little house
All alone there behind some flowers.
It had a front porch with old chairs
And some other muted things.
In front of the house was a tree,
Three times taller than the house!
I kept going.
I kept going
Chasing the end of that road.
Until I reached the end of the road.
Literally.
And then I went back home.

THE SWANKY PLACE

On Cherry Street,
In Denver, I suppose nothing
Much has changed.

Maybe some things.
There's a liquor store on one corner
And a Mexican restaurant on the other.
With one breath,
The street is inside of me.

The beckoning street that held
The door through which he left to
Go up to the mountains, see an
Opera, and eat swell food:
The swanky place.

There is comfort in knowing
That not much changes:
In some places, time may indeed
Stand still.

The street is quiet now;
I think nobody is home.
And it does look like it will soon rain.

SET IN STONE

On Pineview Street,
In Rocky Mount, there is an old cemetery:
The place where the dead go.
One grave had nice fresh pink flowers
To whisper that somebody is missed.

Not many graves, but very old stones
Broken and chipped stones set in tired dirt
Seen through windows of houses that
Line that still street.

Some houses set way back
As if to separate the living
From the dead.

And then, I saw a children's swing set,
And the sun trying to peek through
To perhaps lift a sense of deep gloom.

ORDINARY THINGS

On Main Street,
In Northport, there is a
Guy standing in the middle of the street
Wearing an orange helmet
And a lady, riding a bicycle on the sidewalk,
Wearing a pale straw sun hat
And two children walking home from school
Wearing book bags and carrying skateboards.

A beautiful house proudly displays the flag,
There are two churches on both sides
When you reach Church Street
And one has lovely pink flowers in front.
There's a post office, a bank,
The fire department announcing
The "Fireman's Fair"...

In front of pristine houses on a crisp clear
Day ordinary things are happening
Where extraordinary things happened.
Nothing remarkable here at all
To speak of the remarkable man that
Once lived here.

Pass through this town, keep driving
Keep going, don't look over your shoulder
Keep going until you read the end:
The water with the boats and the looming
Hill on the other side
And you know you can't turn back.

GOING THE OTHER WAY

On Larimer Street,
In Denver, I went the wrong way
Because the sun was endlessly bright
And my eyes hurt.

So, I winced and decided to turn
Around and see a different view
And go the other way.
I longed for night, so the darkness
Might blur the vision.

In sunlight, there were too many new
Things and I longed for the
Old buildings; these pieces didn't fit.

This music is too now,
And the haircuts are too today.
These silvery parked bicycles
Have taken short trips.
The billiard club fills me with despair
For times gone by so I go over
And look at all the hanging beads for
Making necklaces, as if they held a key to
Some magical thinking and wearing beads
Could bring back what once was.

I wondered if this pawn shop
Accepts memories,
And keeps them safe
Until later when the memories
Are bought back.

Nobody finds places long gone.
But, taking back memories
Makes me smile.
On this street,
It would be fitting.

PRETTY WALK

On East Guenther Street,
In San Antonio, I felt I should
Be wearing fancy ribbons in my hair
Because the houses are so pretty.

I passed by houses that are
Treasures with artistically sculptured
Facades and stunning lace screened
Verandas where guests might dine
On tea cakes spread out on crisp white
Doilies and later when the sun goes
Down, talk of small things that matter
And rinse their hands in dainty
Finger bowls to keep things fresh.

There's a place to stand to view the
Spot where the breathless
Flowing river passes through
Bringing a sense of sameness.

I got lost on this intoxicating street,
Longed to stay, and knew I could return.
There's a sense of serenity in this old
Comfort as the sunlight falls on this same
Street as it has fallen on this street forever.

THESE DAYS

On the Promenade,
In Blackpool, exquisite wonder
And bright colors create an intense
Kaleidoscope of magical fun.

There's a high tower and
Amusements and prizes and
Horse drawn carriages riding next to
Modern cars.

On the pier, there's a Ferris Wheel with
Rotating gondolas perfectly suited for
Grand and glorious views
Of luminous illuminations.

Luminous illuminations
All right by the sea
By the sea, so all the children
Who come here
Will remember these days.

REMEMBERING AN OLD STREET

On Main Street,
On Martha’s Vineyard, I am
Filled with bittersweet memories.
I remember Main Street...
I was there, so long ago.

I can still smell that ocean air,
So briny and salty and
All those summers come
Flooding back.

The day we ate in the diner
And how the jukebox blared all
The songs we loved.

In spite of all the quaintness
Of that lovely and charming place
I longed with desperation
To be some place else.

I suppose we are what we carry
Inside us and in spite of that
Heady beauty, whenever I was there
I longed to be somewhere else.

I suppose there are places that always
Make us want to go home.

EASY STREET

On Roxbury Drive,
In Beverly Hills, there's an air of
Leafy radiance that settles in and
Lingers until the bewitching hour
When the dusk comes and trances
These special swells into some
Hypnotic splendor.

The dark arrives as usual
And everybody settles in as usual
And there is nothing unusual
In these perfumed rooms.

And then the morning arrives,
The sun rises on this street
Shining a sharp light letting
All those who live on other streets
Know they don't live on easy street.

TIME STANDS STILL

On D79,
In Vichel-Nanteuil, I stopped to
Gaze for quite some time.
At this place, I longed
To stay longer.

I was outside on this road
But, I wanted to be inside:
Inside these quaint old stone
And very magical cottages.

Here, where there is a thick
Air of stillness and serenity
Across from a sparse forest.

These houses stay strong
They don’t give up
They remain stubborn and
They don’t change.

And there is nothing, nothing at all
In this beauty around anywhere
To remind anybody of
A passing of time.

DELICATE BRUSHSTROKES

On Vlissingsestraat
In Eck en Wiel, at the end of the street
There is a signpost with four different
Directions to point the way to quiet
Houses still standing alongside beautiful
Canals that take wanderers to places with
Other beautiful canals.

Go to the little graveyard, where people
Rest under the blue and green.
A place this beautiful might perhaps
Exist only in the imagination, in places
Where the weary and forlorn might go to find
Peace when breathless dreams fall away.

Keep going to arrive at a place to rest
And a place to go once around, go
Around and around and around and never
Leave because all here want to stay longer
Because this is a place so beautiful, so
Perfectly decorated with delicate and perfect
Brushstrokes, that nobody ever leaves.

HOUSES AND HOMES

On Lisick,
In Prague, there is a store with a wonderful wall
Decorated with a picture of a tree at the end of a road.
And sitting under the tree are pictures of dogs, birds, and a tiger:
Pictures to show the way when yellow sunlight hits the wall
And the glareless lines are not blurred.

Across from that store is a vacant lot, filled with
Colorful piles of stuff, there from perhaps forever.

I traveled down that road past a bright yellow house
With flower pots on ledges outside the bottom floor windows,
There to show a different way: the way home.
I traveled down that road past a short brown house
With only one floor and pale shutters and yellow flowers in the
Garden to show the way to a different home: this home.
And I traveled down the road past an orange house
With a tree near the gate to obscure the view of: this house.

All houses and homes on the same street and all standing so
Quiet and still and sharing the same sense of quiet in different
Houses and homes.

If a visitor were to sigh while passing through this street
The sound would shatter this street's tranquility:
Fracture the sense of beauty that lives on this street.

VISITING THE DEAD

On Maiselova,
In Prague, so many people
Come to visit the long gone
And dead at the Jewish
Cemetery near
Staronova Synagogue.

These are the dead from
The ages: they were born,
They lived, they loved,
And what's left here now
Is the dust to dust.
Visitors walk slowly as if a
Mere whisper might wake
These dead.

All the many people tiptoe
Quietly around and around
The wall around the old cemetery.
They walk around to get to the
Other side where there are boats
On the still water and newer things.
And they speak, or speak not,
Of times long ago.

The clock in the high distance
Reminds that time always passes,
It passes and passes and passes
In time with the heartbeats,
And there is always a solid wall to
Separate the living
From the dead.

THE BASKET BUILDING

On County Highway 585,
In Newark, there's a seven story
Building
That looks just like a basket.

I didn't want to be outside the
Building,
I wanted to be inside.

I wanted to be inside that basket.
And when I was inside,
I wanted to join hands with
Everybody else who was inside
And sing a song.

Some places are just like that.
They inspire singing;
I left this
Building,
This road
With a basketful of smiles.

THE FRONT OF THE LIBRARY

On West 10th Street,
In Kansas City, there is a
Library that looks like
Books.

The front looks like
Big books all
Next to each other
All tall and proud.

Catch-22, Oh Pioneers!,
And Fahrenheit 451
To the left, and
Lord of the Rings, Truman,
And To Kill a Mockjngbird
To the right.

Take a walk through
The middle doors,
Right through the middle
And go inside, go all the way in
Walk right inside the books to the
Places the stories can take you.

THE CHRISTMAS STORY HOUSE

On West 11th Street,
In Cleveland, I saw "The
Christmas Story" house.

The street is sort of nice
And leafy now, under a crisp
Blue sky peppered with
Billowy white clouds
Owning the scenes.

There's a sign that shows the way:
To the white picket fence,
That very homey touch,
And the leg lamp in the
Large and inviting bottom window,
Nice white curtains in the second
Floor windows, where you can see
The reflection of the blue sky
And white clouds:
I know I am there.

On this street, in front of this
House, every day is Christmas:
With one pure gasp you can still
Feel the sharp bone chilling cold,
And see the fresh pristine snow
Covering the ground.

And the day is yours,
Forever.

OLD AND NOW

On 2,
In Lucerne, there are old and newer
Things and all sort of things to remind
You of recent things.

A blue trolley, a grand stone hotel, a
Yellow casino across from a gray church
Where young men parked bicycles to go
To pray in the picture postcard.

There's a palace, and who lives there?
Then brand new buildings that are tiered
Like wedding cakes brimming with green
Shrubbery and a short little building with
Posters of Superman.

The bike rider passes the orange truck
And then the park, always a park so the living
Can remember these streets, these days,
And then keep going and move on.

MELANCHOLY

On Second Avenue,
In New York City, I had dined on
Sweet baklava at Gulluoglu
Every week for years
Feeling this way... or that way.

On one cold January melancholy day,
Under threatening skies, I wore my balaclava.

And in the distance, I imagined or imagined not
That I heard Chopin's Nocturne Op. 55 No. 1.

DESERTED HOUSES

On McDonald Road,
In Lovington, on the dusty
Road under the blue sky
There is an old wooden
House that is deserted.
There's nothing left of the roof,
Or the porch, or the doors.

I traveled down that lonesome road
And saw another house, also deserted.
And then another, set far back and
Looking all broken and empty, too.

I suppose at some time people
Played here, and danced here
Maybe they even sang here
In these now empty rooms.

But, they are all gone now
And nothing is left to hear.
Not the songs they sang or
Even the sound of the wind
That once was, once was
Right there and heard
On days long gone.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

On Main Street,
In Chatham, there's a lighthouse
Between the red, white, and blue flag
And a white house with a red roof
All at the end of the street.

There are cars looking to park and
Men pushing baby carriages
And women with shopping bags
And everybody is going one way:
To the ocean, to the blue ocean.

There's a lantern there to light
The way back at night to other
Places: to other places near to here
So that the walkers can go
Back the other way to reach home.
And the way is lighted so the drivers
Who have come from far away from here
Never quite reach the end of the street
At the end of the day.

WHERE THE ROAD STOPS

On Via Regina,
In Griante Como, I knew I
Was very far away from
My own home and
All places familiar,
All things remembered
And then easily forgotten.

This street with this view was
Created by some artist with sentimental
Sentiments and great attention to
Detail from his own mind's eye: the buildings
With arched entrances, the restaurants where
Diners eat outside under white umbrellas or
Under the clear blue sky next to the perfectly
Sweet green round trees near the boats
On the lake coming and going,
Going and coming.

The remote and fancy street looks out
Upon a gorgeous lake with mountains
High above in the distance on the other side
On all sides.

On the other side, there's a soft
Mist above those mountains with a
Tiny village sculpted right into the
Mountain above the view of the lake
Behind the red flowers, red flowers
On this side.

This place, where children grew up
And in later years returned to
The same place with the same view
Of the mountain under the mist
And the tiny village sculpted right
Into the mountain.

This might be a good place to stop
A fine place indeed, to stop.
Because after all, all journeys end
And where do I go from here?
Where can I go from here?

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

NAKED AMNESIAC

2011-12-25T19:04:00.001-05:00

These poems were written by me many years ago and I am displaying them again now at this blog.

DAWN ON SEVENTH AVENUE

There is a moment of quiet stillness
Right before sunrise, before light;
When a clammy breeze passes
Through Manhattan
And nothing moves, nothing stirs.
My pristine gown clings in the humidity
Like translucent second skin.

I awaken, not knowing if it is evening...
Or morning.
See my reflection
In the haze of this smoky cracked mirror:
This is all I have ever been,
And all I will never be.

SPINSTERS AND GHOSTS

It is murky and dim down the street
Where an unforgiving lonely spinster
Lives almost protected under blankets
Of carefully crocheted elixirs.

Here- where the ghosts of ancestors,
Sitting on the moss of invisible oaks,
Offer kind words of encouragement
Adding seconds to midnight
When dreams turn to film noir.

There- where starry-eyed children
With handsome fathers
Would spin until dusk... or dawn
On a forgotten Ferris wheel
Left behind by the carnival
After roadsters skidded home along
Slippery highways.

Now- up on a vacant fifth floor
The weariest is carefully coifed and rouged,
Sitting on the other side of gold brocade.
Bloodless thighs wrapped in an opaque afghan,
She is clinging to a teacup of cold chamomile.

Later, she shares ambrosia with gods.
Then in a final gesture,
She scrapes and scrapes the bottom of her dish
Searching for one last drop.

OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER

I catch a subtle whiff of dried lavender
As the director, a wiry-haired widow,
Lights a cigarette and with a simple single
Gesture flicks the ashes into the palm of her
Fashionably tattooed and manicured left hand.

“There is no need to state your full name;
Just speak of the fear, the constant fear,”
The director coaches.
Behind us, the steady swing and flutter of
Gold diaphanous curtains as a clammy, familiar breeze
Passes through the old chartreuse theater.

We describe strange, tormenting, ritualistic behavior:
Washing, checking, hoarding... mental anguish so
Exquisite the weariest sheds mellifluous tears:
“I’ve shared ambrosia with gods;
At midnight, demons turn my terror to film noir.”

That evening, I dream of solitude
And the transmigration of souls...
One lonely soul wishing to return
Washed in amnesia, hypnotized and untainted.

When I awaken, it is still dark-
Down below, the street is eternally bathed
In disconsolate orange moonlight...
Trapped in an endless maze of mirrors.

THE BOARDER

Long ago...
A child rested on a maroon sofa
In the still musty living room
Of her grandmother’s house.
The house was decorated with gold tassels
And white lace and starched doilies...
And it trapped a scent of burnt potato pancakes.
At night, the ghosts of ancestors sucked the juice
From the peaches of a backyard tree.

A fake fireplace electrically glowed
Orange-yellowish and whispered in
All seasons the child was home.
On a maroon table, sat an
Incandescent pink seashell...
“Hold it to your ear and you can hear
The sounds of the ocean,” ventriloquists urged.

The steady whir and flutter of the slats
Of off-white Venetian blinds lulled her
As chill winds passed through Brooklyn.

At dusk, the front door opened and
A man, wearing gray and gray,
Silently traipsed through the house
To “his room” and he closed “his door.”
He was home, too.

The grandmother called the man
Just “the boarder.”
The child only glanced up as he passed and
He never spoke to her... nor she to him.

On the clearest of days she cannot even recall
His face... yet she stares at him whenever chill
Winds pass through Manhattan.

NAP TIME

At dusk, a dream through stained glass:
In a hazy deciduous forest, I am almost naked-
Pristine gown clinging like translucent second skin,
Chartreuse satin slippers, cheeks pale porcelain rose,
And humidity turning my hair burnt sienna.
The scent of dried lavender drifts through trees-
“Alone in nature, by nature,” ventriloquists murmur.
Bejeweled spiders, resting on carefully crocheted cobwebs,
Melancholy widows, eyes green tourmaline,
A soldier seduced by indifference...
Haunted beauty washed forever in soft pink light.

A fading fragrant French cologne-
Earlier a sweet intoxicating elixir- melting and melted.
An elusive black-throated warbler,
Pausing on a great oak, bears witness:
An icon is shedding mellifluous silver tears,
Reflecting my grandfather, wrapped in his tallit
Stirring, turning, saying, “You look very familiar to me.”

A clammy breeze passes through Manhattan.
I awaken this time, awakened last time,
Acquiescent and still, not knowing
If it is evening... or morning.

TWO DAYS

One hot sunny Sunday, in July, at Long Beach:
An amnesiac sat on the boardwalk watching
A strolling lady who was carrying a pearl-handled parasol.
A handsome soldier passed holding a love letter that was
Written on a faded lace white doily and a lonely spinster
Stared at vague images in the sand...
Lines soon to be scattered by an insouciant breeze.

An innocent, guileless, sienna-haired child
Paddled to shore in a teacup.

This is what happened on a hazy sunless Sunday,
In mid-August, at Westhampton.
A spiritual man, who once posed as an amnesiac,
Conducted past life regression sessions
In an old chartreuse theater and
A tattooed director, with wild cinematic aspirations,
Filmed the event in shades of mysterious gray.

Later, I rested on sands
And watched one lost kittiwake fly
In circles overhead while an organ played
Music from an invisible carousel.

I listened to the ocean and
Imagined mermaids swimming painlessly
In peaceful and seductive warm waters.

A sienna-haired child
Stepped out of a floating teacup,
And walked with sea legs
Along colorless sands.

Sometimes before twilight,
I think of those two days.

SWEATING MADNESS

Speak to me in hushed tones
And tell me who stole the peaches
From the old backyard tree
The night I danced the fandango
In front of a closed automat.
As the humidity of that evening
Turned my hair a burnt sienna
An elastic lady teased, “Tsk tsk,”
Because the chartreuse slippers I wore
Were not even my own.

Siamese twins took turns
Stroking the belly of an insect
That rested on the sterling silver tray
I held in my outstretched left hand.
A fading fragrant French cologne-
Earlier a sweet elixir-
Melted under the neon lights
At the very moment
The tattooed film director
Held a lit match to her cigarette
And started a small fire.

And the charlatan I once loved
Did a few fancy smart steps and knew,
As usual, I would forget.

MURMURS IN THE DARKNESS

She is not the first tenant who weeps
Into that stained pillow at night.

She limps to the window
And peeks out to face the pale moon
Jumping from one side to the other
While the heat of the evening
Becomes even more oppressive.

So! That bright star is not a star, after all!
“It is Jupiter,” she murmurs.
The strange sound of a fog horn,
In the clear night, seems to place
Her in one moment and then another.

She tries to remember what
Passed from there to here,
From one time to this time...
But she is lost now like a
Prisoner in this nightmare,
This fantasy...

This fantasy or nightmare
In a thick veil of darkness.

THE WAY I LIVE

My memories have always been vague-
Arriving at dawn on Seventh Avenue
Or at the beach on a sunny hot Sunday,
Visible as peculiar visions in colorless sands.

In an old chartreuse theater, a wiry-haired
Director captured a slight shadowy piece
In muted shades of gray and gray.
But, I danced the wild fandango
In front of a closed automat
To try to forget.

Then one day I remembered
Everything, just like that...
Just as smooth as slipping into
Second skin.

But whether I remember
Or choose to forget,

The forgotten has always determined
The way in which I have lived.

KIDDIE RIDES

I awakened and longed with desperation
To return to Brooklyn.
I wanted to ride until dawn on a creaky
Ferris wheel left behind by a carnival and
To visit the still standing luminous
Chartreuse home of my grandmother.
Memories behind stained glass windows
Beckoned like some naked amnesiac
Who struggles to reach home.

In the air, I could still smell the fullbodied scent
Of burnt potato pancakes that wafted through that
House and I often glimpsed the ghosts of ancestors
Lurking and sucking juice from the backyard peach tree.
I longed with desperation to return to old Brooklyn.

At 5 P.M. I slipped into my car
And drove south through Manhattan.
The pink sun soon sizzled on the Hudson River
And set, to my right, in bright blazing Technicolor.
In the distance, one kittiwake
Seemed to have found the way.

I headed for the elixir of the spinning
Teacups: the kiddie rides at intoxicating
Coney Island... in the most haunted and
Haunting of places: Brooklyn.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

Downtown Photos

2011-09-13T18:00:00.002-04:00

The Freedom Tower, awesome and thrilling

And, I took these photos from the window of a friend's apartment

Ellis Island, at sunset

The Statue of Liberty, washed in pink watercolors

Little boats on the Hudson River, at sunset

WHAT WAY TO GO TODAY

2011-09-09T01:15:00.002-04:00

Here's my poem that won Rick Dale's Beat Poetry Contest on December 3, 2009.

WHAT WAY TO GO TODAY

Almost dusk:
Last summer on one Wednesday, in July,
I sat on a bench, a grey wooden tired
Bench on a boardwalk out at old Long Beach.
In the sky a lonely and lost grey kittiwake tipped
As the hot pink sun set in blazing technicolor over
Hot pinkish sand and the fading blue ocean water.

That morning:
I had thought about seeing great art...
Vermeer, or Courbet, or maybe Monet.
But, I drove to the beach instead to think
To think about everything creative that had been
Created before I got here, and when I was here,
And what will be created when I leave this place.
When one day I leave my place and all places in my
Consciousness that is now in this time and was
At a past time and will be in some next time;
Maybe all time exists at the same time.
The great minds of theoretical physicists search
For the "Theory of Everything" as they sit
In their cluttered rooms, their great thinking rooms.
In universities, they ponder the mathematical equations
And Schrodinger's cat and all those mysteries.

In the evening:
It is during the quiet and still and sad night when
I miss most the people I never met:
Edie Beale, and the Rat Pack, and even Rod Serling
Who made me want to time travel: to go back to simpler places
Like Nedick's, or the Belmore, or Bickford's, and Willoughby.
Then the longing, a longing when distant sounds and faraway
Foghorns drive thoughts to reflect on a life visible through some
Smoky cracked mirror, a haunted and haunting steamy mirror.
As I am sort of old now and getting older
There is a vague and odd feeling that I,
Like the kittiwake, somehow must have lost the way.

© Marjorie Levine 2009

On the way... to the library

2011-09-02T22:38:00.007-04:00

I "sighted" Kim Kardashian having lunch with Jonathan Cheban at Cafeteria.

And then I arrived at the architecturally glorious Jefferson Market Library.

The Sidewalk In Front of 80 St. Marks Place

2011-08-21T21:38:00.000-04:00

Group 1 includes:

Joan Blondell, Ruby Keeler, Gloria Swanson, and Lillian Roth

Group 2 includes:

Joan Crawford, Dom DeLuise, Hildegarde, and Myrna Loy

Group 3 includes:

Kitty Carlisle and Allan Jones

Dark Shadows Festival

2011-08-20T23:00:00.000-04:00

It was today, in Brooklyn, at the Marriott Hotel.

Kathryn Leigh Scott

Marie Wallace

Jerry Lacy

David Selby

A Visit to Hoboken

2011-07-12T23:14:00.003-04:00

Hoboken Historical Museum

2011-07-09T23:17:00.003-04:00

Today, I went to the Hoboken Historical Museum. It is in a lovely area of Hoboken and I very much enjoyed the day. (In an edit, some photos from a July 12th visit were added on July 13th.)

Mulholland Dr.

2011-06-17T22:10:00.000-04:00

This is my general interpretation of David Lynch's enigmatic and mysterious film, "Mulholland Dr." I am the great film critic, SN51431.

"Betty" (Naomi Watts) is a winner of a jitterbug contest who comes to Hollywood filled with dreams. She hopes to become an actress and play a coveted role in a film called, "The Sylvia North Story." Betty desperately wants that part. Laura Harring plays the physical manifestation, in an elaborate hallucination, of the part Betty wants. The hallucination is named "Rita." Rita has amnesia (after she is in a car accident as a character in a film) and she does not know her identity. She will not know who she is until she is cast in "The Sylvia North Story." Rita wanders off to the apartment where Betty is staying. Betty tries to make the part her own by having her hallucination, Rita, wear a blonde wig and think she could be named "Diane Selwyn." Diane Selwyn is Betty's name in the second part of the film. And Betty falls deeply in love with the physical manifestation of part, played by Laura Harring. This is all revealed in a flashback after Betty falls asleep at the beginning of the film.

"Betty" auditions for the role and she is terrific. But, another actress, Camilla Rhodes played by Melissa George, gets the part in "The Sylvia North Story." That piece of fate sends Betty into a downward psychotic spiral. We see Diane unravel in part 2 as she continues to see her hallucination and the real Camilla, Melissa George, as Laura Harring. Laura Harring is playing Melissa George, who is Camilla, in a pentimento. We are seeing the film from Diane's perspective and she always sees the role from that script as Laura Harring. Diane plays small roles in Camilla Rhodes's films, but she never achieves great fame and success.

Diane kills herself at the end because she has completely unraveled and she can no longer separate truth from fantasy. She wasn't able to wake-up and face reality. And her dreams are gone. She has no more hope.

Fate came knocking at the door...
It was indeed fate that came knocking on Diane's door and Rita saw Diane's fate when they visited the Sierra Bonita apartments.

The two old people were there when "Betty" was filled with hopes and dreams and they were there in her head when she realized she would never achieve her dreams... and so she ended it all.

The box was fate, the "monster" behind Winkie's was the keeper of fate, and we saw the keys to Diane's fate.

And at the end... we are reminded by the "blue haired lady" that fate is best rendered "Silencio."

a show at The Art Students League

2011-05-17T23:07:00.006-04:00

Tonight, I attended a show at The Arts Students League of New York.

Jerry Torre was displaying two of his amazing sculptures: TECHMUSH LIMESTONE and RUINS DORATA.

TECHMUSH LIMESTONE

RUINS DORATA

Lunch with Lila and Susie

2011-04-27T19:52:00.007-04:00

Lila Afiouni is an artist from Sydney, Australia, and she came from San Francisco to New York City with her friend, Susie, who lives in San Francisco. I know Lila from a Beat online forum, and we met today and went for lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. We discussed many interesting topics and I had a great time!

Please check out the art of Lila Afiouni.

Anna Berger, actor

2011-03-24T14:56:00.002-04:00

from 2009:

I got in touch with Anna Berger after I saw "Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Goldberg," an Aviva Kempner documentary film which is about the legendary Gertrude Berg. Anna appears in the film discussing Philip Loeb, who played Jake Goldberg in "The Goldbergs." I was very emotionally moved and touched by Anna's recollections of Philip Loeb... and the way in which she expressed how he was fired and blacklisted. He eventually was so despondent over so many things in his life, he committed suicide in 1955 at the Hotel Taft in NYC.

Today, I had lunch with Anna Berger at Artie's, a wonderful delicatessen on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I was thrilled to have Anna discuss with me her impressive and long career on stage, television, and in film.

Anna was born on the Lower East Side, right across the street from Katz's delicatessen. Every tenement neighborhood had a settlement house. This is where everyone gathered for socialization, and there were art classes, dancing classes, and singing classes. The classes were without charge and this is where Anna found the stage. Anna, since the age of six, was in all the settlement plays for the audience of all those living in the neighborhood. Years later, the settlement house offered Anna a scholarship to any drama school of her choice. She chose Erwin Piscator's Dramatic Workshop of the New School. Anna declares: "These were the three most happy years of my life."

Anna appeared in the Dramatic Workshop's stage productions with the other students: Bea Arthur, Elaine Stritch, Harry Belafonte, Louis Guss, Walter Matthau, Gene Saks, Ben Gazzara, Michael Gazzo, Judith Malina (who founded the Living Theater), Marlon Brando, and Joseph Sargent. Joseph Sargent is currently one of the leading directors in Hollywood. He directed the original "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three" in which Anna played the mother of two children who, along with other passengers on that train car were all held hostage.

After she graduated from the Dramatic Workshop, Anna and some of the other actors formed their own theater group called "The Interplayers." This group included Michael Gazzo, Anne Meara, Jack Palance, Gene Saks, Joe Sargent, and Bea Arthur. One day Cheryl Crawford, Elia Kazan, and Bobby Lewis came to recruit working actors for the beginning of an idea of a place where actors could work on the challenges and problems of their craft. They called it The Actor's Studio.

Anna's first TV show was called "The Goldbergs," and Anna appears in a scene from an episode of that show in the documentary "Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Goldberg." In the documentary, Anna speaks strongly about the injustice of blacklisting and of the now infamous question during McCarthyism: "Are you now or have you ever been?" Many actors, writers, and directors who were blacklisted could no longer get jobs. Many fled to Europe and to Mexico and Anna's "dear, dear friend Philip Loeb" committed suicide.

In 1954, Anna appeared on Philco Television Playhouse in a play called "And Crown Thy Good." Many great actresses read for the part of "the Mother"... including Molly Picon and Jennie Goldstein. Gertrude Berg was considered. The great actor Nehemiah Persoff co-starred in the production. The play was directed by Delbert Mann. It was about a group of Jewish settlers who traveled out west to start a Jewish community. That same year, Anna appeared again on Philco Television Playhouse in a Paddy Chayefsky play called "The Mother." She played "the bookkeeper." Maureen Stapleton played "the daughter."

Anna played the sister to John Garfield's "Joe," in the Clifford Odets play "Golden Boy." One of the highlights of Anna's career was going on tour with Mae West in a show called "Diamond Lil."

In 1954, Anna appeared on Broadway in "The Fowering Peach," another play by Clifford Odets. Menasha Skulnik played "Noah." In 1956, Anna appeared in "A Very Special Baby," at the Playhouse Theater on Broadway. This was a Robert Alan Aurthur play which was directed by Martin Ritt. The cast included Luther Adler, Sylvia Sydney, and Jack Klugman.

In 1954, Philco Television Playhouse had presented the Paddy Chayefsky play "Middle of the Night." It starred E.G. Marshall and Eva Marie Saint and Anna had a role in that TV play. In 1959, the play was made into a movie and the part of "Betty" was played by Kim Novak. The film starred Fredric March, Albert Dekker, and Lee Grant. Anna played "Caroline" in the film. I asked Anna about her recollections of Kim Novak.

She told me that Kim Novak was very frightened of working with "New York actors." She was impressed with their work and perceived New York actors on a higher level than "Hollywood stars." Kim Novak felt very insecure and asked Anna to share dressing rooms and they became friends. The friendship lasted many years. Every year, Anna and her husband, Bob, received very personal and beautifully hand-painted Christmas cards from the great artist Kim Novak.

Anna again appeared in a Paddy Chayefsky play. The play was called "Gideon," and it opened on Broadway at the Plymouth Theater in November 1961. The play featured the actors Fredric March and Douglas Campbell. Paddy Chayefsky called Anna his "good luck charm." Anna Berger and Paddy Chayefsky remained friends for all the years that followed.

Bob joined us at Artie's and he told me how Anna developed quite a following when she appeared on the soap operas "Ryan's Hope, " "General Hospital," "One Life to Live" and others. Anna says the most loyal fans are the soap opera fans.

In 1998, Anna appeared in the episode "Moving Out" of "Everybody Loves Raymond." "Robert," played by Brad Garett, moves out of his parents' home and into the garage apartment of "Rita." Anna played "Rita." Robert moved to escape his mother's overprotective behavior, but finds carbon copies of his parents in his new home. This episode was loved by the fans of the show.

On television, one of the most memorable roles for Anna was the role of "Cookie" in "The Sopranos." When Paulie Walnuts brought his mother to the retirement community of Green Grove, Cookie remembered that she never liked his mother in the old neighborhood. Cookie therefore did not want Paulie's mother to be part of her social group in the dining room. "There's no room at the table; we're a set group," Cookie informed Paulie. Anna felt that Cookie could have been "whacked" for being so mean to his mother, but Paulie had Cookie's son's arm broken... as a warning. In another episode, it was Cookie who innocently told Paulie that Minnie hid her money under the mattress... and this resulted in Paulie killing Minnie and robbing her. What a character!

Well, the lunch ended and so did the interview. I have to admit that as I am writing this entry I realize that Anna Berger shared with me today only a small part of her long and impressive career. She could fill hours and days talking about her memories. Anna now has a one woman show in which she talks about her life, which was so filled with rich experiences. "Absolutely Anna" raised thousand of dollars for an art colony made up of young actors and artists.

Anna, Bob, and I exited Artie's and slowly walked north on Broadway in a light rain. We passed the location of the now closed William's Bar-B-Que, which used to be on Broadway at 86th Street. I was filled with intense nostalgia... and I was simply overwhelmed by Anna's remarkable life.

Since I was a child, I wanted to be able to time travel. The concept always seemed filled with so many endlessly wonderful possibilities. After meeting Anna, I wished I could go back to September 24, 1951... to the Fulton Theater, which was on West 46th Street right off Broadway. Anna Berger appeared there on that opening night as "Mrs. Kramer" in the play "Twilight Walk," and Nancy Kelly and Walter Matthau were also in the outstanding cast. That evening must have been magical!

Anna Berger's online biography at filmreference.com

Anna Berger in films and television:
Anna Berger, on IMDb

Anna Berger on Broadway:
The Rose Tattoo
Unlikely Heroes
Gideon
Twilight Walk

Anna Berger was interviewed by Peter Rinaldi, and the interviews can be seen on YouTube in seven parts:
YouTube, Pt. 1
YouTube, Pt. 2
YouTube, Pt. 3
YouTube, Pt. 4
YouTube, Pt. 5
YouTube, Pt. 6
TouTube, finale

THE SIXTH ANNUAL HOWL

2011-02-11T23:30:00.000-05:00

Tonight, I attended THE SIXTH ANNUAL HOWL event at Columbia University.

Howl

The lights in the little trees on the campus led the way to Philosophy Hall.

This is David Amram right before "Take The A Train" and "Pull My Daisy."

This is Joyce Johnson reading from "Visions of Cody."

This is Ann Douglas describing how when she passes different places at Columbia University, she is reminded that those were the buildings that Jack saw. And, when she awakens in the morning and looks out at the Hudson River she imagines that those were the same boats that Jack may have also seen.

This is Ann Douglas reading a part of "Howl."

David Amram ended the evening with "This Song's For You, Jack."

It was an exciting and thrilling evening.

WHERE THE ROAD STOPS

2011-01-07T23:44:00.001-05:00

On Via Regina,

In Griante Como, I knew I

Was very far away from

My own home and

All places familiar,

All things remembered

And then easily forgotten.

This street with this view was

Created by some artist with sentimental

Sentiments and great attention to

Detail from his own mind's eye: the buildings

With arched entrances, the restaurants where

Diners eat outside under white umbrellas or

Under the clear blue sky next to the perfectly

Sweet green round trees near the boats

On the lake coming and going,

Going and coming.

The remote and fancy street looks out

Upon a gorgeous lake with mountains

High above in the distance on the other side

On all sides.

On the other side, there's a soft

Mist above those mountains with a

Tiny village sculpted right into the

Mountain above the view of the lake

Behind the red flowers, red flowers

On this side.

This place, where children grew up

And in later years returned to

The same place with the same view

Of the mountain under the mist

And the tiny village sculpted right

Into the mountain.

This might be a good place to stop

A fine place indeed, to stop.

Because after all, all journeys end

And where do I go from here?

Where can I go from here?

THE LIGHTHOUSE

2011-01-07T23:43:00.000-05:00

On Main Street,
In Chatham, there's a lighthouse
Between the red, white, and blue flag
And a white house with a red roof
All at the end of the street.

There are cars looking to park and
Men pushing baby carriages
And women with shopping bags
And everybody is going one way:
To the ocean, to the blue ocean.

There's a lantern there to light
The way back at night to other
Places: to other places near to here
So that the walkers can go
Back the other way to reach home.
And the way is lighted so the drivers
Who have come from far away from here
Never quite reach the end of the street
At the end of the day.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

DESERTED HOUSES

2011-01-07T23:42:00.000-05:00

On McDonald Road,
In Lovington, on the dusty
Road under the blue sky
There is an old wooden
House that is deserted.
There's nothing left of the roof,
Or the porch, or the doors.

I traveled down that lonesome road
And saw another house, also deserted.
And then another, set far back and
Looking all broken and empty, too.

I suppose at some time people
Played here, and danced here
Maybe they even sang here
In these now empty rooms.

But, they are all gone now
And nothing is left to hear.
Not the songs they sang or
Even the sound of the wind
That once was, once was
Right there and heard
On days long gone.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

MELANCHOLY

2011-01-07T23:41:00.000-05:00

On Second Avenue,
In New York City, I had dined on
Sweet baklava at Gulluoglu
Every week for years
Feeling this way... or that way.

On one cold January melancholy day,
Under threatening skies, I wore my balaclava.

And in the distance, I imagined or imagined not
That I heard Chopin's Nocturne Op. 55 No. 1.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

OLD AND NOW

2011-01-07T23:40:00.000-05:00

On 2,
In Lucerne, there are old and newer
Things and all sort of things to remind
You of recent things.

A blue trolley, a grand stone hotel, a
Yellow casino across from a gray church
Where young men parked bicycles to go
To pray in the picture postcard.

There's a palace, and who lives there?
Then brand new buildings that are tiered
Like wedding cakes brimming with green
Shrubbery and a short little building with
Posters of Superman.

The bike rider passes the orange truck
And then the park, always a park so the living
Can remember these streets, these days,
And then keep going and move on.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

THE CHRISTMAS STORY HOUSE

2011-01-07T23:39:00.000-05:00

On West 11th Street,
In Cleveland, I saw "The
Christmas Story" house.

The street is sort of nice
And leafy now, under a crisp
Blue sky peppered with
Billowy white clouds
Owning the scenes.

There's a sign that shows the way:
To the white picket fence,
That very homey touch,
And the leg lamp in the
Large and inviting bottom window,
Nice white curtains in the second
Floor windows, where you can see
The reflection of the blue sky
And white clouds:
I know I am there.

On this street, in front of this
House, every day is Christmas:
With one pure gasp you can still
Feel the sharp bone chilling cold,
And see the fresh pristine snow
Covering the ground.

And the day is yours,
Forever.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

THE FRONT OF THE LIBRARY

2011-01-07T23:38:00.001-05:00

On West 10th Street,
In Kansas City, there is a
Library that looks like
Books.

The front looks like
Big books all
Next to each other
All tall and proud.

Catch-22, Oh Pioneers!,
And Fahrenheit 451
To the left, and
Lord of the Rings, Truman,
And To Kill a Mockingbird
To the right.

Take a walk through
The middle doors,
Right through the middle
And go inside, go all the way in
Walk right inside the books to the
Places the stories can take you.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

THE BASKET BUILDING

2011-01-07T23:37:00.000-05:00

On County Highway 585,
In Newark, there's a seven story
Building
That looks just like a basket.

I didn't want to be outside the
Building,
I wanted to be inside.

I wanted to be inside that basket.
And when I was inside,
I wanted to join hands with
Everybody else who was inside
And sing a song.

Some places are just like that.
They inspire singing;
I left this
Building,
This road
With a basketful of smiles.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

VISITING THE DEAD

2011-01-07T23:36:00.000-05:00

On Maiselova,
In Prague, so many people
Come to visit the long gone
And dead at the Jewish
Cemetery near
Staronova Synagogue.

These are the dead from
The ages: they were born,
They lived, they loved,
And what's left here now
Is the dust to dust.
Visitors walk slowly as if a
Mere whisper might wake
These dead.

All the many people tiptoe
Quietly around and around
The wall around the old cemetery.
They walk around to get to the
Other side where there are boats
On the still water and newer things.
And they speak, or speak not,
Of times long ago.

The clock in the high distance
Reminds that time always passes,
It passes and passes and passes
In time with the heartbeats,
And there is always a solid wall to
Separate the living
From the dead.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

HOUSES AND HOMES

2011-01-07T23:35:00.000-05:00

On Lisick,
In Prague, there is a store with a wonderful wall
Decorated with a picture of a tree at the end of a road.
And sitting under the tree are pictures of dogs, birds, and a tiger:
Pictures to show the way when yellow sunlight hits the wall
And the glareless lines are not blurred.

Across from that store is a vacant lot, filled with
Colorful piles of stuff, there from perhaps forever.

I traveled down that road past a bright yellow house
With flower pots on ledges outside the bottom floor windows,
There to show a different way: the way home.
I traveled down that road past a short brown house
With only one floor and pale shutters and yellow flowers in the
Garden to show the way to a different home: this home.
And I traveled down the road past an orange house
With a tree near the gate to obscure the view of: this house.

All houses and homes on the same street and all standing so
Quiet and still and sharing the same sense of quiet in different
Houses and homes.

If a visitor were to sigh while passing through this street
The sound would shatter this street's tranquility:
Fracture the sense of beauty that lives on this street.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

DELICATE BRUSHSTROKES

2011-01-07T23:34:00.000-05:00

On Vlissingsestraat
In Eck en Wiel, at the end of the street
There is a signpost with four different
Directions to point the way to quiet
Houses still standing alongside beautiful
Canals that take wanderers to places with
Other beautiful canals.

Go to the little graveyard, where people
Rest under the blue and green.
A place this beautiful might perhaps
Exist only in the imagination, in places
Where the weary and forlorn might go to find
Peace when breathless dreams fall away.

Keep going to arrive at a place to rest
And a place to go once around, go
Around and around and around and never
Leave because all here want to stay longer
Because this is a place so beautiful, so
Perfectly decorated with delicate and perfect
Brushstrokes, that nobody ever leaves.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

TIME STANDS STILL

2011-01-07T23:33:00.000-05:00

On D79,
In Vicel-Nanteuil, I stopped to
Gaze for quite some time.
At this place, I longed
To stay longer.

I was outside on this road
But, I wanted to be inside:
Inside these quaint old stone
And very magical cottages.

Here, where there is a thick
Air of stillness and serenity
Across from a sparse forest.

These houses stay strong
They don’t give up
They remain stubborn and
They don’t change.

And there is nothing, nothing at all
In this beauty around anywhere
To remind anybody of
A passing of time.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

EASY STREET

2010-12-18T23:58:00.009-05:00

On Roxbury Drive,
In Beverly Hills, there's an air of
Leafy radiance that settles in and
Lingers until the bewitching hour
When the dusk comes and trances
These special swells into some
Hypnotic splendor.

The dark arrives as usual
And everybody settles in as usual
And there is nothing unusual
In these perfumed rooms.

And then the morning arrives,
The sun rises on this street
Shining a sharp light letting
All those who live on other streets
Know they don't live on easy street.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

REMEMBERING AN OLD STREET

2010-12-18T19:51:00.007-05:00

On Main Street,
On Martha's Vineyard, I am
Filled with bittersweet memories.
I remember Main Street...
I was there, so long ago.

I can still smell that ocean air,
So briny and salty and
All those summers come
Flooding back.

The day we ate in the diner
And how the jukebox blared all
The songs we loved.

In spite of all the quaintness
Of that lovely and charming place
I longed with desperation
To be some place else.

I suppose we are what we carry
Inside us and in spite of that
Heady beauty, whenever I was there
I longed to be somewhere else.

I suppose there are places that always
Make us want to go home.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

THESE DAYS

2010-12-18T16:24:00.005-05:00

On the Promenade,
In Blackpool, exquisite wonder
And bright colors create an intense
Kaleidoscope of magical fun.

There's a high tower and
Amusements and prizes and
Horse drawn carriages riding next to
Modern cars.

On the pier, there's a Ferris Wheel with
Rotating gondolas perfectly suited for
Grand and glorious views
Of luminous illuminations.

Luminous illuminations
All right by the sea
By the sea, so all the children
Who come here
Will remember these days.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

PRETTY WALK

2010-12-17T17:06:00.006-05:00

On East Guenther Street,
In San Antonio, I felt I should
Be wearing fancy ribbons in my hair
Because the houses are so pretty.

I passed by houses that are
Treasures with artistically sculptured
Facades and stunning lace screened
Verandas where guests might dine
On tea cakes spread out on crisp white
Doilies and later when the sun goes
Down, talk of small things that matter
And rinse their hands in dainty
Finger bowls to keep things fresh.

There's a place to stand to view the
Spot where the breathless
Flowing river passes through
Bringing a sense of sameness.

I got lost on this intoxicating street,
Longed to stay, and knew I could return.
There's a sense of serenity in this old
Comfort as the sunlight falls on this same
Street as it has fallen on this street forever.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

GOING THE OTHER WAY

2010-12-15T18:06:00.007-05:00

On Larimer Street,
In Denver, I went the wrong way
Because the sun was endlessly bright
And my eyes hurt.

So, I winced and decided to turn
Around and see a different view
And go the other way.
I longed for night, so the darkness
Might blur the vision.

In sunlight, there were too many new
Things and I longed for the
Old buildings; these pieces didn't fit.

This music is too now,
And the haircuts are too today.
These silvery parked bicycles
Have taken short trips.
The billiard club fills me with despair
For times gone by so I go over
And look at all the hanging beads for
Making necklaces, as if they held a key to
Some magical thinking and wearing beads
Could bring back what once was.

I wondered if this pawn shop
Accepts memories,
And keeps them safe
Until later when the memories
Are bought back.

Nobody finds places long gone.
But, taking back memories
Makes me smile.
On this street,
It would be fitting.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

ORDINARY THINGS

2010-12-14T14:38:00.012-05:00

On Main Street,
In Northport, there is a
Guy standing in the middle of the street
Wearing an orange helmet
And a lady, riding a bicycle on the sidewalk,
Wearing a pale straw sun hat
And two children walking home from school
Wearing book bags and carrying skateboards.

A beautiful house proudly displays the flag,
There are two churches on both sides
When you reach Church Street
And one has lovely pink flowers in front.
There's a post office, a bank,
The fire department announcing
The "Fireman's Fair"...

In front of pristine houses on a crisp clear
Day ordinary things are happening
Where extraordinary things happened.
Nothing remarkable here at all
To speak of the remarkable man that
Once lived here.

Pass through this town, keep driving
Keep going, don't look over your shoulder
Keep going until you read the end:
The water with the boats and the looming
Hill on the other side
And you know you can't turn back.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

SET IN STONE

2010-12-14T12:04:00.010-05:00

On Pineview Street,
In Rocky Mount, there is an old cemetery:
The place where the dead go.
One grave had nice fresh pink flowers
To whisper that somebody is missed.

Not many graves, but very old stones
Broken and chipped stones set in tired dirt
Seen through windows of houses that
Line that still street.

Some houses set way back
As if to separate the living
From the dead.

And then, I saw a children's swing set,
And the sun trying to peek through
To perhaps lift a sense of deep gloom.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

THE SWANKY PLACE

2010-12-14T11:50:00.004-05:00

On Cherry Street,
In Denver, I suppose nothing
Much has changed.

Maybe some things.
There's a liquor store on one corner
And a Mexican restaurant on the other.
With one breath,
The street is inside of me.

The beckoning street that held
The door through which he left to
Go up to the mountains, see an
Opera, and eat swell food:
The swanky place.

There is comfort in knowing
That not much changes:
In some places, time may indeed
Stand still.

The street is quiet now;
I think nobody is home.
And it does look like it will soon rain.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

SEEING ALMOST NOTHING

2010-12-14T02:12:00.013-05:00

On Repatriation Road,
In Pickering Brook, I drove
For a long time
And saw almost nothing
Except the narrow road
Ahead and trees on both sides
With nothing behind me
And nothing ahead of me.
Then, I saw a tractor on one side
And a low gate on the other and
I knew I was reaching a place.
Some place.

Then, I saw a tiny little house
All alone there behind some flowers.
It had a front porch with old chairs
And some other muted things.
In front of the house was a tree,
Three times taller than the house!
I kept going.
I kept going
Chasing the end of that road.
Until I reached the end of the road.
Literally.
And then I went back home.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

WHAT REMAINS

2010-12-11T21:32:00.026-05:00

On Merrimack Street,
In Lowell, there's a signpost
That says: Detour.

Maybe he never should have
Taken the other road,
Maybe he should have gone
Back, gone the other way
And stayed on these roads.

The air at the end of these
Roads becomes thick and
Dense and there is fog.

Here, on lonely low bleak cloudy days
There are quiet somber and grey
Places: big old several storied houses
With many front steps and slanted roofs
And lots of windows for eye prints.

The houses on University Avenue
From long ago are comforting with
Stubborn intoxicating attics whispering
Secrets obsessed with what
Was, so returning to this street
Reveals air like a strange pentimento.

Old stores with faded signs, corner
Places that never ever yielded or
Changed and they don't bend, they
Remain strong, proud, and solid.

If he stayed for more than a short
Time he always heard the swing
Music; drizzling so he could remember.
At night, in dreams, when
The way became lost, he
Soon realized he never left.
All that time, all those years
His eyes were just closed.
The boarded up windows gave
Him reasons to cry.

Now, this is the end of the seductive
Road, his forever destination:
A place that always surfaced
When sad dreams and deep
Longing finally fell away...
And he had to return to this place
Like a traveler who finally uses his
Return trip ticket.
Home.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

HOT WATERCOLORS

2010-12-10T23:52:00.005-05:00

At Plaja Jupiter,
On Strada Brindisi, look at the
Wonderful things and colorful things:

Rich green and pink stuff to take home
And even more stuff to chew and eat
So the sense of wonder is remembered.

Blue water on one side of the sandy heat
And huge proud swans wait on the water
On the other side, and never move.

Later, the day perhaps will become
Fragmented but the sense of wonder
Might never become blurred.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

NOBODY HOME

2010-12-10T17:33:00.009-05:00

Between Muirfield Road and Culduthel Road,
In Inverness, there is a street with no name.
But, you can get there.

An old stone building is quietly hidden
Surrounded by a low iron gate
In a lush green fragrant forest.
All sad sounds have fallen away
The many footprints are gone
And all that is left is the still.

The now boarded up windows
Allow no lights from inside to
Show the way home
And I think
Nobody is home
In this long ago forgotten home.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

THE LITTLE FLOWER SHOP

2010-12-08T01:23:00.013-05:00

On Sternwartstrade,
In Munich, there is a charming little
Flower shop in a tiny little building
With a green and white
Striped awning.

It was tempting to stand and
Gaze at the technicolor flattered
Flowers.

But, I spun around to also see
Red flowers on tall stems
In front of a house covered in
Gorgeous green ivy.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

BECAUSE I COULD

2010-12-07T15:47:00.007-05:00

On Saatwinkler Damm,
In Berlin, I stood on the far sidewalk
And watched.

With lush green trees behind me,
No traffic in front of me, only parked cars
I gazed at the canal in in the distance.

And the little white boat passed by
With a high carefree rider whose back was
To me, so he didn't see me.

I waited and watched and
Watched and watched for some time
Because I could.

TO GET TO THIS PLACE

2010-12-05T20:15:00.009-05:00

On Aleppo Road,
In New Freeport, there are wonderful

things, rich and wonderful things.

Old houses made of dark crumbling

Wood that remembers what was,

A dry waterless sandy creek

And an old and tired bench

Where an old grandmother sat

And turned, with bent and gnarled

Fingers, the pages of a book

While whispering magical words

That filled a child's imagination.

Keep moving past a graveyard where

Old and broken and long forgotten cars

That yesterday were shiny new cars that

Once took children to faraway colorful fairs.

And past some jumping deer going up a

Steep hill to get back to the forest to hide,

To get back to familiar safe places.

A shiny white gazebo stands alone on

The grand grass where dolls sit

Wearing fancy hats and having sweet tea.

To get to this place you will need to

Go the other way, go that other way,

Go a different way to be taken away.

THE GHOSTS OF GAY STREET

2010-12-05T01:12:00.006-05:00

On Gay Street,

In New York City, there are quaint

Red and white and orange houses that are

Intoxicating because they are so old and little.

There is a building with turquoise shutters and

There are pinks and red and white flowers in

Lovely window pots and green trees

To the left and to the right.

The facade is frozen, but not the living...

Or the dead.

It is said that number 12 is...

Haunted. Maybe so.

But,

It is the house across the street where I see

A ghost.

She is peeking out from the second floor window

On the left side of an orange brick building.

She has bushy eyebrows and one hair roller

Sits on the top of her head.

Her mouth is open as if she is startled and

She appears to be more frightened than the

Tourists who down below night and day

Haunt the street looking for the

Ghosts of Gay Street.

NARROW STREET

2010-12-03T13:00:00.008-05:00

On Villa Silla,
In Scanno, the low and narrow street
Has a quiet outdoor cafe with tables
Covered in yellow tablecloths.

One man dines alone
Next to and under purple
Red and pink flowers.
Gorgeous proud balconies are
Set into buildings with old grey
Chipped and broken stone.

A little store down the path displays
Colorful children's clocks:
Bunnies and elephants and angels
Designed to make the children laugh.

From another high window, freshly washed
Towels hang and down below mothers
Gather to talk and soon walk with their babies.

Flower pots sit on small steps,
Leading up to a home where another woman
Is standing above the street looking down
From a wide open window near a bird feed
And she too is hanging the wash out to dry.

And then nothing moves and all is frozen.
Only the wash; the wash flying in front of that
Large foreboding mountain under a crisp
And clear blue and white sky.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

THIS HEADY ELIXIR

2010-12-03T00:22:00.016-05:00

On Clifton Hill,
In Niagara Falls, there is a soft intoxicating
Smell in the air of sweet and heady nostalgia.
Walkers cross the street to a bright lush green
Park and the water is then behind them as a
Light mist sprays their backs and the
Visuals turn into blurred memories
Set in stone.

All the excitement is about to begin.
There is a turquoise haunted house,
A beckoning moving theater,
The wax museum,
And a souvenir shop:
It's a massive swirling kaleidoscope of
Dreamlike and almost surreal color.

Then, in the center of all this heady elixir
Is a glorious and perfect SkyWheel,
Where I imagine children sit with parents
High up above it all, setting the graphics into
What will years later seem almost
Hallucinogenic.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

SCENES FROM LONG AGO

2010-12-02T14:55:00.020-05:00

On Beard Street,
In Kernersville, there are colorful
Wall murals which give glimpses
Into what was, long ago.

I saw ladies in billowing long
Red and white dresses standing
With gentlemen wearing tall hats
All waiting at the railroad station
For family arriving from faraway places.
Soon, they would all step into a horse
Drawn carriage to take a short ride home.

Nobody looked up to see the child
Perched high above who on bleak days
After school would climb to the flat roof
To wait for the trains to pass.

The trains were carrying weary passengers
Traveling to faraway places, and they were
Also going home.

Many years later, she would remember
The sound of the whistle as the trains
Passed and she would speak of the sound
As both sad and mournful,
Perhaps because it always
Strangely reminded
Her of all times past.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

for Frances Slade

BY THE SEA

2010-12-02T10:15:00.016-05:00

On Coast Road,
in Larne, two people stand
Between the purple rocky cliffs and the
Pale colorless sea on the other side of
Yellow and purple flowers.

Cars pass by with drivers and passengers
Whose faces I will never see.
There is an open gate with a path that
Leads to an unseen place.

And soon, there is a sign that says,
"Boats," and then the sky turns magically blue.
But, in the distance the clouds are so low that
They touch the water.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

PICTURE PERFECT

2010-11-29T18:47:00.008-05:00

On Tazewell Avenue Southeast,
In Roanoke, some houses sit very high
Above the street under a bleak grey sky.
The trees are suffering and bent and leafless
And the air appears to be chillingly cold.

I wonder who climbs those long steep
Staircases to sit closer to that foreboding
Sky, where clouds cling together trying hard
Not to let thin patches of blue peek through
Because the view might be less mysterious.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

OPTICAL ILLUSION

2010-11-25T19:56:00.011-05:00

On Edinburgh Street,
In Winnipeg, parts of the ground were still
Covered in snow under a crisp blue and
White sky that almost crackled with sharp
Definition and clarity.

It was there that I turned a corner
And stopped at a driveway and saw
In the icy cold snow carved footprints
That finally reached an almost
Tropically lighted home.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

STANDING STILL

2010-11-25T01:42:00.014-05:00

On Højdevangs Allé,
In Copenhagen, the flowers
That line the street
Are so fragrant that two
Women stopped walking.

They stood between two buildings
To look at small blue flowers on
One side while purple and white
Flowers flourished without moving
Behind them, on the other side.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

THIS PENTIMENTO

2010-11-23T13:49:00.009-05:00

Via Comandante Simone Guli,
In Palermo, a street so old that
High above wives still hang the wash
Out over the black iron balcony gates
Next to green leaves and blue and white
Striped curtains falling out of windows.

Once children stood there with mothers,
Waiting for fathers to return home.
The red flowers now sit high over sad
Graffiti and a tobacco shop which
Serves as some reminder not
To obscure the view.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

NAKED AMNESIAC

2010-11-22T23:00:00.002-05:00

DAWN ON SEVENTH AVENUE

There is a moment of quiet stillness
Right before sunrise, before light;
When a clammy breeze passes
Through Manhattan
And nothing moves, nothing stirs.
My pristine gown clings in the humidity
Like translucent second skin.

I awaken, not knowing if it is evening...
Or morning.
See my reflection
In the haze of this smoky cracked mirror:
This is all I have ever been,
And all I will never be.

SPINSTERS AND GHOSTS

It is murky and dim down the street
Where an unforgiving lonely spinster
Lives almost protected under blankets
Of carefully crocheted elixirs.

Here- where the ghosts of ancestors,
Sitting on the moss of invisible oaks,
Offer kind words of encouragement
Adding seconds to midnight
When dreams turn to film noir.

There- where starry-eyed children
With handsome fathers
Would spin until dusk... or dawn
On a forgotten Ferris wheel
Left behind by the carnival
After roadsters skidded home along
Slippery highways.

Now- up on a vacant fifth floor
The weariest is carefully coifed and rouged,
Sitting on the other side of gold brocade.
Bloodless thighs wrapped in an opaque afghan,
She is clinging to a teacup of cold chamomile.

Later, she shares ambrosia with gods.
Then in a final gesture,
She scrapes and scrapes the bottom of her dish
Searching for one last drop.

OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER

I catch a subtle whiff of dried lavender
As the director, a wiry-haired widow,
Lights a cigarette and with a simple single
Gesture flicks the ashes into the palm of her
Fashionably tattooed and manicured left hand.

“There is no need to state your full name;
Just speak of the fear, the constant fear,”
The director coaches.
Behind us, the steady swing and flutter of
Gold diaphanous curtains as a clammy, familiar breeze
Passes through the old chartreuse theater.

We describe strange, tormenting, ritualistic behavior:
Washing, checking, hoarding... mental anguish so
Exquisite the weariest sheds mellifluous tears:
“I’ve shared ambrosia with gods;
At midnight, demons turn my terror to film noir.”

That evening, I dream of solitude
And the transmigration of souls...
One lonely soul wishing to return
Washed in amnesia, hypnotized and untainted.

When I awaken, it is still dark-
Down below, the street is eternally bathed
In disconsolate orange moonlight...
Trapped in an endless maze of mirrors.

THE BOARDER

Long ago...
A child rested on a maroon sofa
In the still musty living room
Of her grandmother’s house.
The house was decorated with gold tassels
And white lace and starched doilies...
And it trapped a scent of burnt potato pancakes.
At night, the ghosts of ancestors sucked the juice
From the peaches of a backyard tree.

A fake fireplace electrically glowed
Orange-yellowish and whispered in
All seasons the child was home.
On a maroon table, sat an
Incandescent pink seashell...
“Hold it to your ear and you can hear
The sounds of the ocean,” ventriloquists urged.

The steady whir and flutter of the slats
Of off-white Venetian blinds lulled her
As chill winds passed through Brooklyn.

At dusk, the front door opened and
A man, wearing gray and gray,
Silently traipsed through the house
To “his room” and he closed “his door.”
He was home, too.

The grandmother called the man
Just “the boarder.”
The child only glanced up as he passed and
He never spoke to her... nor she to him.

On the clearest of days she cannot even recall
His face... yet she stares at him whenever chill
Winds pass through Manhattan.

NAP TIME

At dusk, a dream through stained glass:
In a hazy deciduous forest, I am almost naked-
Pristine gown clinging like translucent second skin,
Chartreuse satin slippers, cheeks pale porcelain rose,
And humidity turning my hair burnt sienna.
The scent of dried lavender drifts through trees-
“Alone in nature, by nature,” ventriloquists murmur.
Bejeweled spiders, resting on carefully crocheted cobwebs,
Melancholy widows, eyes green tourmaline,
A soldier seduced by indifference...
Haunted beauty washed forever in soft pink light.

A fading fragrant French cologne-
Earlier a sweet intoxicating elixir- melting and melted.
An elusive black-throated warbler,
Pausing on a great oak, bears witness:
An icon is shedding mellifluous silver tears,
Reflecting my grandfather, wrapped in his tallit
Stirring, turning, saying, “You look very familiar to me.”

A clammy breeze passes through Manhattan.
I awaken this time, awakened last time,
Acquiescent and still, not knowing
If it is evening... or morning.

TWO DAYS

One hot sunny Sunday, in July, at Long Beach:
An amnesiac sat on the boardwalk watching
A strolling lady who was carrying a pearl-handled parasol.
A handsome soldier passed holding a love letter that was
Written on a faded lace white doily and a lonely spinster
Stared at vague images in the sand...
Lines soon to be scattered by an insouciant breeze.

An innocent, guileless, sienna-haired child
Paddled to shore in a teacup.

This is what happened on a hazy sunless Sunday,
In mid-August, at Westhampton.
A spiritual man, who once posed as an amnesiac,
Conducted past life regression sessions
In an old chartreuse theater and
A tattooed director, with wild cinematic aspirations,
Filmed the event in shades of mysterious gray.

Later, I rested on sands
And watched one lost kittiwake fly
In circles overhead while an organ played
Music from an invisible carousel.

I listened to the ocean and
Imagined mermaids swimming painlessly
In peaceful and seductive warm waters.

A sienna-haired child
Stepped out of a floating teacup,
And walked with sea legs
Along colorless sands.

Sometimes before twilight,
I think of those two days.

SWEATING MADNESS

Speak to me in hushed tones
And tell me who stole the peaches
From the old backyard tree
The night I danced the fandango
In front of a closed automat.
As the humidity of that evening
Turned my hair a burnt sienna
An elastic lady teased, “Tsk tsk,”
Because the chartreuse slippers I wore
Were not even my own.

Siamese twins took turns
Stroking the belly of an insect
That rested on the sterling silver tray
I held in my outstretched left hand.
A fading fragrant French cologne-
Earlier a sweet elixir-
Melted under the neon lights
At the very moment
The tattooed film director
Held a lit match to her cigarette
And started a small fire.

And the charlatan I once loved
Did a few fancy smart steps and knew,
As usual, I would forget.

MURMURS IN THE DARKNESS

She is not the first tenant who weeps
Into that stained pillow at night.

She limps to the window
And peeks out to face the pale moon
Jumping from one side to the other
While the heat of the evening
Becomes even more oppressive.

So! That bright star is not a star, after all!
“It is Jupiter,” she murmurs.
The strange sound of a fog horn,
In the clear night, seems to place
Her in one moment and then another.

She tries to remember what
Passed from there to here,
From one time to this time...
But she is lost now like a
Prisoner in this nightmare,
This fantasy...

This fantasy or nightmare
In a thick veil of darkness.

THE WAY I LIVE

My memories have always been vague-
Arriving at dawn on Seventh Avenue
Or at the beach on a sunny hot Sunday,
Visible as peculiar visions in colorless sands.

In an old chartreuse theater, a wiry-haired
Director captured a slight shadowy piece
In muted shades of gray and gray.
But, I danced the wild fandango
In front of a closed automat
To try to forget.

Then one day I remembered
Everything, just like that...
Just as smooth as slipping into
Second skin.

But whether I remember
Or choose to forget,

The forgotten has always determined
The way in which I have lived.

KIDDIE RIDES

I awakened and longed with desperation
To return to Brooklyn.
I wanted to ride until dawn on a creaky
Ferris wheel left behind by a carnival and
To visit the still standing luminous
Chartreuse home of my grandmother.
Memories behind stained glass windows
Beckoned like some naked amnesiac
Who struggles to reach home.

In the air, I could still smell the fullbodied scent
Of burnt potato pancakes that wafted through that
House and I often glimpsed the ghosts of ancestors
Lurking and sucking juice from the backyard peach tree.
I longed with desperation to return to old Brooklyn.

At 5 P.M. I slipped into my car
And drove south through Manhattan.
The pink sun soon sizzled on the Hudson River
And set, to my right, in bright blazing Technicolor.
In the distance, one kittiwake
Seemed to have found the way.

I headed for the elixir of the spinning
Teacups: the kiddie rides at intoxicating
Coney Island... in the most haunted and
Haunting of places: Brooklyn.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

from The New York Sun

2010-11-22T10:31:00.002-05:00

Letter to the Editor, July 20, 2004

Letters to the Editor
July 20, 2004

After I read "Education By Smoke and Mirrors," I sadly concluded that a discussion of the problems in the New York City schools has "jumped the shark" [Andrew Wolf, Opinion, July 9, 2004].

In Region 9's "Third Grade Summer Success Academy," the teachers were given a manual that has been adapted from the Teachers College Reading and Writing Project 2004.

The Balanced Literacy Program consists of a 95-minute Reading Workshop and a 55-minute Writing Workshop.

The components of the program include a read-aloud, independent reading, conferences, shared reading, guided reading, writing minilessons, independent writing, and word work.

The 2 1/2-hour block is so micromanaged that it includes prepared dialogue for the instruction of the children. When teachers help students choose a "just-right" nonfiction book, they are told what to say in order to model thinking:

"Hmm. Here's a book titled 'My Farm.' I've already read a lot about farms, and I don't want to learn more about farms right now. This is not a just-right book for me. It's not interesting."

Then, "Hmm. Here's a book called spiders. I've always been interested in spiders. Let me try reading a page. (Teacher reads page 10 fluently.) I'm used to reading a book with more words on a page and even some harder words. I think I won't learn enough. This is not a just-right book for me. It's too easy."

The teacher goes through a scripted process and then randomly distributes one nonfiction book to each student. She says, "Take a look at the book I just gave you. Decide if it is a just-right book for you by deciding if it's interesting, and checking a page to see that it's not too easy or too hard - a book you can make sense of while you're reading. Then turn and tell your partner what you were thinking.

At first glance, the lessons in the summer curriculum may be impressive and seem effectively crafted for successful results.

But, experienced traditional teachers would consider this learning model to be a major farce, where education has moved into the surreal world of "The Stepford Wives."

As more time passes, the articles on education seem to have deteriorated into redundant pieces "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." I shake my head in disbelief and I am glad I am retired.

MARJORIE J. LEVINE
Manhattan

Letter to the Editor, October 10, 2006

Letters to the Editor
October 10, 2006

‘The Spin Doctors'

Andrew Wolf states [Op-ed, "The Spin Doctors," September 29-October 1, 2006], "This prevalent teaching methodology is the common thread that directs our national march to mediocrity."

At almost the end of my thirty-four year long teaching career, I was directed to change the seating arrangement in my classroom from rows to groups, develop an atmosphere of "productive noise," and construct mini-lessons. The new "balanced literacy" model was filled with layered components and the classroom was mandated to be have visual and heady appeal.

A student shortly pleaded to "go back to the old way of learning," which was a more no-frills and basic textbook approach. I discussed this with my supervisor, and I was told it was my fault my students didn't like the new style. I had not properly motivated the students or successfully implemented the model. The whole system has become like scenes in "Alice Through the Looking Glass."

MARJORIE LEVINE
New York, N.Y.

Two Schools, a teaching career

2010-11-21T12:44:00.000-05:00

These were the two schools where I spent most of my teaching career. The first school literally was on the other side of the tracks... in "Hell's Kitchen." The other school was on the Lower East Side, "on the D." The parents loved me... they said "Miss Levine is the only teacher that can handle a class."
I was quite innovative. I kept the students seated in rows and I taught with a piece of chalk at the board. And I kept a quiet classroom where you could hear a pin drop. The students had basal readers and textbooks and notebooks filled with material. And I actually gave spelling tests on Fridays.

A Manhattan Ghost Town, a "sunken corridor"

2010-11-21T10:23:00.005-05:00

When I was a teacher at the pink school in the above photo, the low area in the photo was just simply called "the train tracks." I used to tell people that there were days the teachers and students had to walk over dead bodies to get into the school. I was often misunderstood. My listeners believed that I was telling them in some obtuse way that corpses blocked the entrance to the school. That was not the case. The bodies were found as they lay forgotten along these railroad tracks. They were often discovered by some "hobo" or other "drifter" as they wandered along these winding paths rummaging with long sticks through the piles of debris that were strewn along the way.

These days the "sunken corridor" exists in stark contrast to the much discussed more southern "highline." These tracks are between 10th and 11th Avenues and are visible on both 44th and 45th Street through the cracks of the silver fences. I looked north and I looked south through those openings, and I took photos of this amazing sight last year. I was even able to catch a shot of a train down below as it traveled south and whizzed by under the overpass on which I was standing. But, the photo could not be developed for some bizarre technical reasons. They are totally blank.
I returned the next day and took more photos, but unfortunately no train passed through. After waiting for quite some time for another locomotive photo op, I was told by a young teacher exiting the school that no trains even use those tracks any longer. I was confused, but I relished my eery moment and I left with a great sense of glee: my wonderful shot of that "phantom train" will now exist only in my memory as it sped quickly south on a rainy Thursday afternoon. It carried invisible passengers to some unknown downtown destination in... "The Twilight Zone."
Please enjoy these photos of the "sunken corridor" which still sits on a vista that now resembles a forgotten and neglected and worn out Manhattan ghost town.

These tracks pass from a "sunken corridor" to the famous "highline" as they stretch south through Manhattan.

That day, I visited the Allen Sheppard Gallery on West 25th Street and viewed the amazing photos of this highline by James Bleeker. And here is my photo of the highline that I took on West 25th Street as I left the gallery.

Francis Cape, The Other End of the Line

2010-11-20T17:10:00.006-05:00

At the High Line: outside the trailer

At the High Line: inside the trailer

Helen Weaver, writer

2010-11-17T09:43:00.000-05:00

an encore, from April 2010:

Shortly after I read the heartfelt and bittersweet memoir, "The Awakener," I contacted Helen Weaver. I was enthralled with her memories of her love affair with Jack Kerouac. We began to communicate in E-mails... and today, I am happy to call Helen my friend.
Helen met Jack Kerouac in November 1956, when at 7:00 on a Sunday morning he arrived with Allen Ginsberg at her apartment in 307 West 11th Street. This is a photo of that building that I took after I read the book. Helen was delighted with the photo, and she told me her window can be seen on the left, right behind the blue balloon.

Noho Gallery

2010-11-16T23:02:00.004-05:00

Marilyn Henrion, Soft City

Noho Gallery

Gallery Henoch

2010-11-10T01:59:00.007-05:00

Gallery Henoch

Max Ferguson, "My Father at Katz's"

Max Ferguson, "Central Park Nocturne"

Max Ferguson, "Late in the Day"

Angeleno Heights

2010-11-09T21:13:00.008-05:00

East Kensington Road

Carroll Avenue

from Wikipedia:

The Jewish Museum

2010-11-09T18:13:00.006-05:00

The Jewish Museum: Houdini: Art and Magic.

from the NY Times

Museum Visits

2010-11-03T19:30:00.005-04:00

Museum of the City of New York: SAMURAI IN NEW YORK: THE FIRST JAPANESE DELEGATION, 1860.

Museum of the City of New York: NOTORIOUS AND NOTABLE: 20TH CENTURY WOMEN OF STYLE.

Time Warner Center: “Dalí: Vision of a Genius,” “Persistence of Memory” and “Woman Aflame.”

Museum Visit, MOMA

2010-11-02T20:38:00.009-04:00

MOMA, Abstract Expressionist New York.

Walking Off the Big Apple.

ABSTRACT: THE ART WORLD review of “Abstract Expressionist New York,” at the Museum of Modern Art.

Jackson Pollack, "Lavender Mist"

Melancholy

2010-10-20T13:24:00.005-04:00

I had dined on sweet baklava at Gulluoglu

Every week for years

Feeling this way... or that way.

On one cold January melancholy day,

Under threatening skies, I wore my balaclava.

And in the distance, I imagined or imagined not

That I heard Chopin's Nocturne Op. 55 No. 1.

Walking on Las Olas Boulevard

2010-10-16T07:16:00.000-04:00

In 1990, Jackie Mason weighed in

2010-10-16T03:11:00.000-04:00

... what comedy career?

Time Traveling in NYC

2010-10-15T15:35:00.003-04:00

Anthology Film Archives

The Lonely Little Red Building

2010-10-12T15:18:00.008-04:00

These are photos that I took of the building located on West 63rd Street.

33 West 63rd Street

And here is the little house on East 60th Street, across from Bloomingdale's, where a resident was also a "holdout." The large modern building was built around her home when she refused to leave.

Open House New York

2010-10-09T16:50:00.007-04:00

I visited the residence of the architects Fairfax and Sammons, located at 183-185 West 4th St near 7th Ave South. These are two carriage houses that are fused together.

Open House New York

Nathan Wasserberger, painter

2010-10-08T18:51:00.001-04:00

an encore, from 2009:

I was going to interview Nathan Wasserberger for this blog on Wednesday, April 15th, 2009. He called a few days before that date to cancel the interview and told me that he wanted to postpone for a month our project because he had some unfinished business. He said he wanted to remain in touch and work it out.

It is now October 2009, and I am very disappointed that this much anticipated interview did not happen as planned. Nathan Wasserberger has not contacted me to pursue an interview and while we did speak today on the phone, it appears an interview will not happen.

With good intentions, I post these paintings done by Mr. Wasserberger. You can learn a bit more about Nathan Wasserberger here. Nathan told me "literature lasts forever." And so does the impeccable and magnificent beauty of his work. Many of Nathan Wasserberger's color plates of his paintings are in the permanent archives of American Art in the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC.

"Sandra," 1957

"Old Man," 1964

"Girl in White Robe," 1982

Nathan Wasserberger is aware that his paintings appear at this blog.

Eva Deutsch Costabel, painter/author

2010-10-08T07:54:00.001-04:00

an encore, from 2009:

I first met Eva Deutsch Costabel on the evening of Wednesday, April 27th, at a 10th police precinct community meeting. I was there to speak about bicycles and pedestrian safety. As I spoke, Eva cheered me on, and after the meeting she approached me and said she wanted to "team up" with me to call the issue to the attention of Mayor Bloomberg. I gave Eva my contact information and she called me the next morning. We spoke and discussed a plan regarding how to have the matter effectively addressed... and during that conversation she invited me to visit her on a Saturday afternoon. I had no idea I would become a community activist with such a talented and accomplished woman who has been the subject of so many interviews.

Eva Deutsch Costabel was born in Yugoslavia and she grew up in an upper middle class Viennese family. Her mother was a liberated woman who owned a children's store and her father was in the chemical business. In 1941, the Nazis invaded Yugoslavia. Eva's father was arrested and he was accused of sabotage and he was killed at Treblinka in Poland. Later, the Nazis came and Eva and her mother and sister had half an hour to leave their home. Eva told me that when the Nazis were in her home she accidentally knocked over a vase and a Nazi wanted to shoot her. She had to beg for her life because the Nazi told her that "broken glass brings bad luck." Eva felt like a helpless victim and this was the first experience that motivated her to later become an activist. Eva and her mother and sister were sent to an Italian concentration camp in Croatia. Eva told me that none of the Jews in that camp were killed because "Italians don't kill Jews." During WW II, Eva did drawings of peasants. After the camp was closed, she joined the partisan army and after the war her family lived in one room in Rome. Eventually, they came to the United States in 1949.

In America, Eva got a job painting roses on make-up compacts.... for one penny a rose. And she learned English. She worked on window displays and became a package designer, which was her career for thirty-four years. And years later, she taught graphics at FIT and at the Parsons School of Design.

Eva has written many children's books and they are in libraries in schools because they are historically accurate as Eva is an impeccable researcher. Her books include "New England Village," published by Scribner in 1981, "The Pennsylvania Dutch Farmers and Craftsman," published by MacMillan in 1983, "The Jews of New Amsterdam," published by MacMillan in 1986, and "The Early People of Florida," published by MacMillan in 1993. Eva has visited all of the places she has written about. She did the cover art, the stories, and all of the inside illustrations for her books.

Eva is an ardent supporter of Israel and she is involved in many projects. She balances her literary career with her paintings and projects and she has written a memoir. This article appeared in "Chelsea Now".

I took Eva's photo, but she kept asking to take mine... telling me she is an excellent photographer. Well, it came time to say "good-bye" and Eva kissed me and said "Shalom." Yes, "hello" Eva and thank-you for sharing part of your Saturday afternoon with me. You are an inspiration.

The above painting, "Self Portrait after Klimt," by Eva Deutsch Costabel appears at this blog with her written permission.

Old Photos

2010-09-29T19:59:00.002-04:00

These four photos below were taken when I was about 30 years old.

And this was taken at my 60th birthday celebration at NYC's The Water Club.

The New York Film Festival

2010-09-26T16:27:00.010-04:00

I went today to The New York Film Festival at Lincoln Center's Alice Tully Hall to see, "Translating Edwin Honig: A Poet's Alzheimer's," a short documentary film by Alan Berliner. It is an excellent, remarkable, and very touching and moving film.

"Remember how to forget. No more."

Edwin Honig: eight poems

A View from the Street

2010-09-26T15:27:00.002-04:00

This is a view of the street, looking south, in front of Lincoln Center. My pool is on the top floor of the building on the left. The views all the way up there of the Hudson River are amazing and the sunsets are glorious.

Me and Alice Quinn

2010-09-23T16:31:00.004-04:00

In the early 1990s, I submitted many poems for consideration to THE NEW YORKER magazine. They were all rejected. This was a form rejection from Alice Quinn, who until 2007 was the poetry editor of THE NEW YORKER.

I was persistent, and the rejections began to have a personal touch. This was a rejection that was different from the generic form rejection. It was in 1991, and was for my poem, "April's Dance." I wanted to believe that the poem reached the next level and "the decision" then involved several opinions. It filled me with hope because I thought it indicated a few editors wanted to accept and publish my poem.

My notes indicate this rejection was for "Sweating Madness," which originally had the title "Shvitzin' Meshugas." The original poem had a joke about fallopian tubes, but after subsequent changes to that poem the reference was removed. Alice Quinn called my poem, "charming!" Then she added, "Always feel free to try us with your work." This rejection actually said my poem had "evident merit." I was deliriously happy and excited.

This rejection came in 1994 and was for the poem, "Nap Time." Alice Quinn said, "I appreciate seeing your work."

It did not matter that my poems were not accepted. Ms. Quinn validated the merit of my work. And for her grace and kindness, I will always be thankful. Many of the poems that were submitted to THE NEW YORKER appear in the memoir, "marjorie-pentimenti."

Beyond COLOR: Color in American Photography 1950-1970

2010-09-19T15:05:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I went to the Bruce Silverstein Gallery to view:
Beyond COLOR: Color in American Photography 1950-1970.

Eliot Porter (1901 - 1990)

Marie Cosindas

Pete Turner (b. 1934)

Ruth Orkin (1921 - 1985)

Ernst Hass (1921 - 1986)

Harry Callahan (1912 - 1999)

Inge Morath (1923 - 2002)

A literary tour, Chelsea/Greenwich Village/Morningside Heights

2010-09-19T06:40:00.005-04:00

This is from a blog entry of April 2010.

This is 454 West 20th Street, where Jack Kerouac, in 1951, wrote "On The Road."

I stood in front of the door through which he must have passed so many times.

And this is the southwest corner of West 20th Street where: "Dean, ragged in a motheaten overcoat he bought specially for the freezing temperatures of the East, walked off alone..."

"and the last I saw of him he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue, eyes on the street ahead, and bent to it again."

In her heartfelt memoir, "The Awakener," Helen Weaver writes about her love affair with Jack Kerouac. She met him in November 1956, when at 7:00 on a Sunday morning he arrived with Allen Ginsberg at her apartment in 307 West 11th Street. This is a photo of that building that I took today.

After Helen Weaver viewed the above photo, she told me at her website in her own blog (in a reply to one of my comments) that her "window was on the lefthand side above the picture frame." I had actually taken several photos, so here is one that I believe gives a view of her window... which I think is either right behind the blue bag dangling from that tree or the window to the right of that blue bag. You can see the windows more clearly if you click on the photo to enlarge it.

This is a view of the White Horse Tavern from the front of 307 West 11th Street.

This is now 325 West 13th Street, which is the location where Helen lived when she met Lenny Bruce. I do not know when this building was built... and it looks fairly new. The building where Helen lived may have been torn down for the construction of this newer apartment house.

This is 346 West 15th Street and it is where Allen Ginsberg lived from 1951 to 1952. It is where Jack Kerouac was introduced to Gregory Corso.

And this is a view of the block.

This is 149 West 21st Street and it was where Lucien Carr lived from 1950 to 1951. He and Jack Kerouac were friends and Jack visited him often. Bill Cannastra also lived in a nearby building that is now a parking lot.

And this is a view of the block.

added on January 21, 2010:
This is the front door of 421 West 118th Street, where Jack Kerouac lived with Edie Parker in the early 1940s.

This is 421 West 118th Street.

This is West 118th Street, looking toward Morningside Drive.

Walking Sideways on a Spiral Staircase

2010-09-19T01:04:00.000-04:00

After I retired, I wrote pieces on education that were published as "Letters" in THE NEW YORK SUN. I was looking through the clippings the other day, and although the collection is too extensive to repost here, I am going to cull a few blurbs from selected articles I wrote and retype them for this blog.

from: "When Students Run the Show," 1/2-4/04 I can recall a beginning teacher who crafted creative, fine lessons. But classroom management was difficult for her and she could have used some administrative guidance and support in the handling of her class. One day, a second grader in her class slammed a closet door into her back and then ran away and laughed. She brought him to the principal and later it was she who received a disciplinary letter! In the principal's office, the child had been interviewed about the teacher's performance and his misbehavior was blamed on the teacher's weak behavior modification program.

from: "The Stepford Teachers," 7/20/04 ... a discussion of the problems in the New York City schools has "jumped the shark." The 2 1/2 hour (reading) block is so micromanaged that it includes prepared dialogue for the instruction of the children. When teachers help students choose a "just right" nonfiction book, they are told what to say in order to model thinking.... But, experienced traditional teachers would consider this learning model to be a major farce, where education has moved into the surreal world of "The Stepford Wives." As more time passes, the articles on education seem to have deteriorated into redundant pieces "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

from: "Going Back to Basics," 8/11/04 (re: phonics replaced by phonemic awareness) I am not surprised that classrooms filled with fascinating leveled libraries (with books grouped by genre) are not motivating students. If you never learned to play chess and some benefactor filled your home with the most expensive and beautiful sets, would you not first have to learn, step by step, how to to play the game?

from: "The Turning Tide," 8/24/04 During my 34 years as a NYC teacher, I have seen some pretty ludicrous letters written by principals for teachers' files. One teacher was written up for "teaching with two handbags on (her) arm." She also was reprimanded for replying "I'll try" when directed to handle a class. The principal stated that her response did not meet the accountability for a New York City scool (sic) teacher!" And the latest tactic is to accuse teachers who "yell" of corporal punishment.

from: "The Spin Doctors," 10/06 At almost the end of my 34 year long teaching career, I was directed to change the seating arrangement in my classroom from rows to groups and (to) develop an atmosphere of "productive noise" and (to) construct mini-lessons. The new "balanced literacy" model was filled with layered components and the classroom was mandated to have visual and heady appeal. A student shortly pleaded to "go back to the old way of learning" which was a more no-frills and basic textbook approach. I discussed this with my supervisor and I was told it was my fault the students didn't like the new style. I had not properly motivated the students or successfully implemented the model.

And I was a teacher whose classes during instruction and learning were so quiet, visitors to the room "could hear a pin drop!" Parents requested placement with me because I was known as one of the teachers who could handle a sixth grade class, and the work I gave was very much admired. I stopped writing on education one bleak day when I finally thought: "Stick a fork in me, I am done!"

"Ours to Fight For"

2010-09-19T01:00:00.001-04:00

from the Museum of Jewish Heritage:
Ours to Fight For: American Jews In the Second World War
November 11, 2003 - December 31, 2006
"The inaugural exhibition for the Robert M. Morgenthau wing, Ours To Fight For: American Jews in the Second World War was named the grand-prize winner of the Excellence in Exhibition Competition at the American Association of Museums Annual Meeting in New Orleans. Citing the exhibition's use of the first-person narrative, the judges felt this approach engaged museum visitors and allowed them to make connections with the experiences of soldiers 60 years ago and troops serving today. The exhibition companion volume, Ours To Fight For: American Jewish Voices from the Second World War, chronicles the experience of American Jewish men and women who came together with other Americans to heed their nation's call to arms."
A photo of my father, dressed in his army uniform, was part of the wall filled with photos of Jewish soldiers who fought for their country during WWII. The display looked out to the Statue of Liberty. It was a very moving exhibit.
www.ourstofightfor.org/index.jsp
OURSTOFIGHTFOR

In 1990, Jackie Mason weighed in

2010-09-19T00:56:00.000-04:00

... what comedy career?

A Rich and Rewarding Life

2010-09-05T14:25:00.002-04:00

Here are some class photos of my long career as a proud teacher.

Jon Hamm, in Parade magazine: “I got into acting because my teachers kept nudging me into it,” says Hamm, who taught school himself for a few years after graduating from the University of Missouri with an English degree. “The power a teacher has to influence someone is so great. I can’t think of a profession I have more respect for.”
from: Parade magazine

I was a teacher in NYC for almost 35 years. I have close to 35 class pictures to help reflect on my long career. I had read in the UFT paper, "The New York Teacher," about the long career of Regina Sayres, who is now 100 years old. She was a teacher at PS 41M in 1968 during the time of that long teachers' strike. I was a teacher at PS 41M during that time when Ms. Sayres was there, and at a place when she was perhaps ending her career... mine was just beginning.
I looked through all the class photos in my collection, and I selected many for inclusion in this blog. They represent the four schools in which I taught... and the memories come flooding back. (please click on each photo to enlarge)

The year was 1973, and I was teaching grade 6 in a public school in the theater district of Manhattan. I entered my class in an essay contest sponsored by Bella Abzug and one of my students won. She went to Washington, DC to read her essay. I found this photo: Charity goes to Washington. And I also found the (now very wrinkled and faded) letter I received informing us that she won. That was over 35 years ago. It seems like so long ago. I guess it was.

This was my fourth grade class at PS 33 in 1986. The next year, when they were in the fifth grade, these students were chosen by Eugene M. Lang for his "I Have a Dream" college scholarship program. Over twenty years later... I am wondering: "Where are they now?"

And most bittersweet:

The year was 1974. I was teaching at a small school on West 45th Street. I had a wonderful 6th grade class. The students were bright, creative, and they had a real sense of humor. The school was on the same block as the Actor's Studio, the Manhattan Plaza had just been completed, and on nice days I could walk home. I loved going to work.
One day, a student named Christopher came to school a little bit late. I asked him the reason for his tardiness, and he told me that the night before he had attended an opening of a movie in which his father had a role. I asked him the name of the film, and he replied, "Godfather 2." "Oh," I said. I asked, "What part did your father have in the movie?" He replied, "Frankie Five Angels." I did know that Christopher's father was the playwright who had written "Hatful of Rain." But, I did not know that he was in the film, "Godfather II." So! Christopher's father was "Frankie Pentangeli;" interesting... Godfather II, was released and it opened at a Loew's theater on Broadway. It received phenomenal reviews and I couldn't wait to see it.
Soon thereafter were parent-teacher conferences. I am lucky Christopher was an excellent student. I do not think I would have had a comfort level sitting across from that father and giving a bad report. Mr. Gazzo had written a note to me during that school year asking permission for his son to be excused early on an October day and I saved the note. It was not just a signed note, it was an autograph.
A few months later, the Gazzo family moved to Los Angeles. Christopher kept in touch with all of us through letters he sent to the school addressed to me. In one letter, Christopher asked me if I was still singing because I was awful. I was a teacher who sang while she taught? He said he was going to a school 20 times better but he would rather be going to our school because he missed all of us.
I think about all of the students I had in so many classes over the years. Eddie, who died of a drug overdose. David, who fell off the roof of his building one hot summer day when he was up there with his brothers playing ball. Debbie, who was crossing 9th Avenue and was hit by a car. Brenda, whose mother we saved.
Larry David was asked why he still works. He clearly does not need to work. He said his mother had told him many years ago that we all need to always wake up in the morning and have a place to go. I had a place to go.

Didn't Mr. E's secretary leave out the 's' in comprehension in #4? He should have proofread that letter!

Some More Photos

2010-09-01T10:32:00.003-04:00

Ilene Kristen (Roxy) is on "One Life to Live" today. So, here is a photo of me with Ilene taken at the Drama Bookshop in 2008.

This is me with Brian Gari, who is Eddie Cantor's grandson. I interviewed him last year. You can read the interview here.

And this is me with Alan Colmes, at the Comic Strip's holiday party of 2008!

I read and worked those rooms like Perez Hilton at a Vanity Fair Oscar party! LMAO Why should I miss some great opportunities for good photo ops? OK, fangirl out!

You've Got to Have Friends

2010-08-31T19:19:00.002-04:00

This was taken a few years ago on Las Olas Boulevard in Florida. Renee looks marvelous, doesn't she? I love the leopard jacket I was wearing.

Eataly opens

2010-08-31T19:00:00.009-04:00

And I was there!

Beekman Place

2010-08-31T17:27:00.003-04:00

SlushPile Hell: Pathetic Madness

2010-07-27T16:53:00.001-04:00

OK... take a look at this: SlushPile Hell. Yikes and yow!

There is nothing posted at that "amusing" website to indicate that the query lines included in SPH are written by the anonymous blogger for the purpose of satire. So, my opinion is based on the belief that the sarcastic blog is written by an actual literary agent who has posted truthful and unedited snippets from authentic queries s/he has received and has then written sarcastic comments designed to ridicule those query lines.

Based on no posted statement that the blog is totally an imaginative creative endeavor for the purpose of comedy... my opinion is that the blog, SlushPile Hell, is unethical. And it serves to diminish the professional integrity of the blogger. I think it represents a total breakdown of professional standards.

Most agencies care about their public image and how this type of activity may reflect on a standard of excellence many agencies have firmly in place. I do not think the President of an agency would support an employee's personal agenda on the internet (during the work day?) which could reflect badly on the company.

And there is a larger picture. If the SPH blogger did not receive permission from the writers to post those query snippets, aren't the pieces of the sent queries that are being ridiculed at that blog under an umbrella of privacy protection within the agency? It may not be within that agent’s legal right to even post those snippets that s/he receives (as an employee of the agency) to a personal blog. I would think that the lines posted are part of privileged communications. They are not his/her personal property. All sorts of issues should cause concern. I do not think it matters that the snippets are posted with no names attached. I would be worried about litigation if the targets in that site are remotely identifiable by any other indicators. The flip side of that is really funny. It could be copyright infringement or plagiarism (using quotes without giving credit to the authors of the material being used)! Yes, writers should be able to handle harsh criticism of their work, but there is something very wrong when the ridicule is coming from a person to whom the material was sent for the possible purpose of representing that work.

How do you think those query senders would feel if they saw parts of their queries insulted for the amusement of an internet audience? You don't think they would be hurt or humiliated or mortified? They are filled with hope and they may want to send the same query to many agents. How would their chances for representation be damaged if another agent read the blog and then recognized a line ridiculed at the blog in a query s/he received? There seems to be no question that it damages the query sender's chances of getting another agent. He has been designated a joke.

This internet snark has all gone too far and I wanted to address the particular matter. There are no limits, no boundaries, and everybody crosses a line in attempts to bring on the funny. Everybody is a wannabe comic. The internet is a real cesspool where anybody can put on a mask and anonymously go for the jugular. Here's a strong head's up: "Tell us who hates us!" from the NY Daily News, July 22, 2010.

After writing this... I should worry, I suppose. I sense a real fear out there among writers. They become lemmings in comments. Very few writers will be vocal and say it just isn't right. I wonder why.

Can we all say: BLACKLIST. Put me on the top of that blacklist. I would be honored because I choose my issues carefully. I wrote "Going for the Jugular." If there is a 'blacklist," I am already on it. LMAO. I bet the same people who participate in any active blacklisting would be the first to support the Hollywood Ten. LMAO redux.

The anonymous blogger states,"If you don’t find it amusing, go back to reading I Can Haz Cheezburger." No thank-you. I prefer the wit of S. J. Perelman, H. L. Mencken, and James Thurber.

This photo is from about 1989. Look at the way my classroom was decorated. I posted the old themed "feelings are important" cut-outs! You can see them on the left. Twitter, and Facebook, and texting, and ears attached 24/7 to cellphones, or iPods, and all that other nonsense makes me feel like life has "jumped the shark." Oh, how I long for Willoughby. I feel like I am living in a morph of what human interactions should be.

Here's an afterthought: The agent today announced a contest on Twitter. She wrote: "Submit your entry for THE WORST TITLE FOR A CHILDREN'S BOOK. Hashtag #badkiddybooks." I should have entered the title, "Playground Bullying for Dummies." I might have won.

afterthoughts, added 9/3/10:

E-mail query submissions to literary agents may be protected under the ELECTRONIC COMMUNICATIONS PRIVACY ACT of 1986. Literary agencies with websites in place that allow electronic query submissions through E-mails might need to have a privacy policy link at the website which clearly defines their policy regarding any content of the E-mail submission that may be shared with a third party... (the "third party" perhaps being an internet audience for whatever the agenda.)

Fair use does not cover material received as an employee under stated submission guidelines and then turned around and used on the internet for a totally different PURPOSE, which is (arguably) criticism.

The writer has to agree to that purpose and a release for that agenda has to appear on the website and agreed to before a submission is sent. You can’t send material to a BUSINESS for one purpose (hopeful acceptance for representation) and then have it used by an employee for his PERSONAL agenda (criticism). Queries are sent for possible representation, not for criticism (which at SPH is ridicule). So if that is how they will be used, agencies need to post that as a DISCLOSURE under the submission guidelines.

Also, queries are NOT personal letters or journals that are being published. They are electronic correspondence received by an EMPLOYEE within the submission guidelines posted at the agency’s website. If the agency is going to use those E-mails and share them with a third party on the internet for another agenda… they have to state that at the agency website I would think.

Regarding: “…. that quotations from unpublished personal letters and journals might constitute fair use.”

Again, they are NOT personal letters or journals, they are electronic submissions for representation. They are sent to an employee (the agent) who is receiving those E-mails within the guidelines for submission set by his employer. They are not sent to his personal E-mail address. Then, it could possibly be arguable. They are sent to: SUBMISSIONS (at) AGENCY NAME (dot) com. The agent may not have any right to the fair use of any part of those E-mails because they are the PROPERTY of his employer once they are received. Has his employer consented to their “fair” use?

And the publication of them, without a disclaimer or written policy in place at the agency websites, may be a breach and may be litigious. If the agency, after receiving electronic queries intends to publish parts of those queries on the internet for the purpose of criticism (which if looked at objectively would be called sarcastic ridicule), they have to post that intent in their privacy policy at the website. The sender probably checked no release and agreed. THAT is why some agencies now have RELEASES in place. Does the agency of SPH have a release in place that states those queries can by used for that specific agenda of criticism? If the writer does not agree, it is DUPLICITOUS.

Many agencies have a clause FOR THEIR PROTECTION which you have to agree to before you electronically submit anything at all. Does SPH’s agency have any release in place that allows agents to use query snippets on the internet for a personal agenda? Is there a release in place that states pieces of the queries may be used on the internet for the purpose of “criticism?” Without the sender clicking on a release or signing a release and consenting…. the entire legality of SPH can be challenged and a precedent set for similar activity.

My name is not brevity…

Oh well, it took me thousands of words to actually say what could have been said in one sentence: This is not a LEGAL issue anyway, it is one of professional ETHICS…. And, in my opinion a president of a reputable agency would fire an agent that he employed who created that site if he discovered that queries were being used as fodder for a personal agenda. It sort of makes a mockery of the whole process.

On July 4th, 2010

2010-07-18T19:32:00.012-04:00

On July 4th, I went to my pool to view the fireworks. The indoor pool is on the 44th floor of a Manhattan building and the views are incredible. It is surrounded by an outdoor patio. We watched the glorious sun set in an orange sky over the Hudson River. And when the fireworks began, we were so high up the flashes of color were eye level.

I try a "cut-up"

2010-07-17T22:19:00.010-04:00

I went yesterday to the New Museum to see Brion Gysin: Dream Machine. And today, I tried a cut-up. Well, maybe it turned out to be just a collage.

These are some photos I took at the museum.

Central Park, The Conservatory Garden

2010-06-21T18:09:00.008-04:00

I went today to Central Park with my TTN Peer Group. Here are some photos that I took during the garden walk.

more coming soon!