Monday, June 29, 2015
Sunday, June 28, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday June 28, 2015
Till very recently I lived in Los Angeles, to be more specific, in the Silver Lake area, and I decided to move. I feel I have been good for the city, but in return Los Angeles has been total shit to me. I held a job for 25 years, and then suddenly, without any prior warning, was let go. Damned for doing the right things and damned for the wrong. I have always tried to do the right thing, but alas, like George Raft flipping one of his gold coins, I have to take the bad with the good. Being human, I couldn't take the bitterness that started from my mouth to the stomach area, I just had to move and start a new life in a new location. Also living in Los Angeles I felt like I wasn't in America, due to Japan and the rest of Asia was across from the large pond and my occasional visits to New York City, felt like I was visiting Europe. It was then that I decided to move to Detroit, Michigan.
I got a job as a receptionist in a little recording studio on Grand Boulevard called Hitsville U.S.A. My job there, is to take care of their treasure trove of signed dated contracts, photographs, posters, and correspondence. The thing is I want to make music and I found myself drawn to the recording studio on the first floor. It is a very small studio, but I have seen the space crammed full of musicians as well as the singer. In the neighborhood, I found a girl group called "The Primettes. They were singing in front of the Fisher Building on Grand Bouvelard. As they were passing the bucket for donations, instead of money, I put in my business card inside the bucket - it read: Tosh Berman, Hitsville U.S.A.
Me and the three girls that make up the Primettes had coffee at Stella International Cafe, located on the ground floor inside the Fisher Building. Since I was the record label guy (of sorts), I paid for their coffee. For some odd reason, I can still remember how they liked their coffee. Florence and Mary like it black, but Diana insisted on fresh cream and one little pack of sugar. Diana stirred her coffee in a very slow and thoughtful manner. I started to hum a melody in my head, and Florence sort of did a counter-melody to it, and Diane started to make up lyrics right there at the coffee shop. I thought up of the title "Tears of Sorrow" which strikes me as a good dynamic and dramatic title. Diane agreed and she started to play with the lyrics against the melody.
"A fresh cream in the tea
In a building of gold,
Can never take you away from me
Tears of Sorrow, Tears of grief
I do follow my heart"
From the coffee shop/Fisher Building, we walked to the Hitsville U.S.A. office & recording studio to see if we could record the song. I found Earl in the studio and asked him to round up the musicians. He got Joe, James (an incredible bass player), Papa Zita &Pistol on drums and Joe on guitar. The beauty of America, is even though I was practically chased out of Los Angeles, but still, I was able to get a job as a receptionist here in Detroit, and there is even possibility of making a hit record. My gut instinct tells me on I'm on a roll here.
After the successful session (my very first as a producer as well as a songwriter) I rushed the tapes to Archer Record Pressing on Davison Street. I had to walk there, because I don't drive nor do I own a car. This I feel is information I should keep secret from other Detroitians. Within hours, we had our seven-inch single, backed by another song I wrote "Pretty Baby" on the flip side. I went to the big boss Barry's office to show and play him the single. Since I was not only an employee at his company, I was also a non-musician composer - in fact, I'm just the receptionist and I don't even have pretty legs if you get my drift.
There is something about Detroit that inspires one's soul - is it their water or air? No, I think it is due that there is so much manufacturing in this city. Cars, and of course music. It is like Cupid took his bow out and the arrow hit bulls eye on the entire landscape of Detroit. I could never tell if I arrived at paradise as it is opening up their arms to me, or is it the end, and I'm just seeing the rays of love leave the town. Nevertheless, I'm here with a seven-inch single in my hand and I'm in Barry's office.
First thing he said to me when I entered into his office was "Who are you?" Which comes to mind, that is a very good question. Who are we all? I told him that I'm the new receptionist, but I made a record with a new girl group and used the Funk Brothers as a back-up band, and that I co-wrote the song as well as produced it - all of course at Hitsville U.S.A. He's impressed of course, so he OK's the release. Barry as he sat behind his big oak desk, looked a lot like Che Guevara. Since I worked here, I have seen him drive a diesel van, and I know he kept his gun in quiet seclusion - in many ways a humble man. He has caused a panic in the air, or at the very least in Detroit. I greatly admire him. I wanted to tell him this, but he's not the type of guy to hear compliments from guys like yours truly. He went downstairs to the studio with me, to meet the gals.
When he saw Diana, he froze. I got the feeling something happened between them, but as I mentioned, Cupid for sure has his arrows pointed towards Detroit. If you got that notion, I second that emotion.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday June 21, 2015
Today is one of my favorite holidays of the year: Father's Day. We would not have father's day if it not was for the work of Sonora Smart Dodd, who in 1910, told her pastors that there should be a day for fathers, just like Mother's Day. They did celebrate Father's Day in her hometown of Spokane Washington, but after a while, due to the fact that she studied art at the Art Institue of Chicago, the events eventually died down without her participation. In 1930, she returned to her home town to promote Father's Day, but this time with the backing manufactures of ties, tobacco pipes, and any customary present to the male figure. With the assistance of the Father's Day Council which was an organization put together by the New York Associated Men's Wear Retailers. Citizens at the time resisted the so-called holiday owing to the commercial overtones. It was in 1966 that President Lyndon B. Johnson issued the first presidential proclamation honoring fathers. Making the third Sunday in June as "Father's Day." By the 1980s, the Father's Council wrote that the holiday "has become a Second Christmas for all the men's gift-oriented industries."
Although I do love Father's Day, my pop is dead. If you look on the bright side, this means that I don't have to spend any money for a present for my father. On the other side of the coin: well, he's dead. He's dead because he was murdered by a drunk driver. The driver got a six month jail sentence, but was eventually turned loose within two months of his jail sentence to go to his own world of pain and pleasure. Since I had no father anymore, except the memory of a father, I decided to purchase a bunch of Father's Days Cards at my local Trifity drug store. What I have done for the past 38 years is sending the drunk driver a Father's Day card once a year. I would write a personal note in it, letting him know what my life is like that year. Mostly personal stuff liked romances I had that went south or some that stayed longer. I also wrote a series of narratives I have in my head - like being with him, and joining his family on father's day. I wrote to him that I have kept track of his family, including his dad, who seemed to disappear some time ago. In one of my Father's Day cards to him, I wrote that "I'm very sad about the disappearance of your father. He must have loved you well, by the example of your current life."
I never heard back from him. Nor was I expecting to hear from him. To be honest, I wrote those notes to him more for myself than him. Don't tell anyone that. I don't want anyone to think I'm an eccentric guy. I know he gets them year - after - year, because I sent them all through certified mail, and he has to sign for them. The funny thing is that he does sign for all of them. One thinks that he would refuse this piece of mail, but it seems he has accepted all of them, which I have to admit, makes me warm all over. I wonder at times if it not was for the death of my dad under his misdirection of using the steering wheel, if we would be this close?
Today, being father's day, I decided instead of sending a father's day card which I have done without fail for so many years now, if I shouldn't just pay him a visit and personally hand him over his card. That may be a shocking surprise for him! He lives in a large family home in Woodland Hills, and like me, he's getting up there in the age category - but I have heard that he is still physically healthy -he did have a cancer scare, and of course, I mentioned in one of my father's day cards, I wish him the best of health, and that surely he can beat the mighty "C." Hell, he beat a jail term for manslaughter, surely he can beat the C.
I never talk about him to anyone else. Sometimes it is too painful of a memory, but I never felt any bad will towards him. His dad was a rancher in those parts -living more on the hills than the flat land. When he disappeared about twenty years ago, I was of course, very concerned, and wrote to him in that year's card. "If there is anything I can do, please don't hesitate to contact me." He never got back to me. That's OK. We both have something in common is that we don't have Dad's that are around us anymore. And to be honest, I'm more thankful that I know what happened to my dad, but he.... He will never know, except his dad is not here or more likely nowhere else.
Today I plan to go to his home and if he's up to it, take him out to lunch. Maybe share a few bottles of brew in remembrance of dads in general. I have tried calling him, but someone else either answers the phone and refuse to bring him to the telephone, or once or maybe twice, I did get him on the phone. But he claimed it wasn't him, where in fact, I know it was him at the other end of the line. I never take offense, because his reaction is totally understandable. So yeah, I'm going to get into my little GTO and head out to his pad, and take him out to lunch. It is best to do these things now, because who knows what will happen in the future. Something can happen to me or more likely to him, so it's good to take advantage of the day - this being Father's Day. Happy father's day everyone.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Sunday, June 14, 2015
The Sunday Series
Sunday June 14, 2015
For the past 25 years, I go to Japan every year. Usually I spend up to a month to two months at a time in Tokyo. The funny thing is I have no visual memory of that country. What I do remember are the sounds of Japan. Mostly due to the fact that I own "Sounds of Japan." It is 34 authentic sound effects recorded in their actual locale. The album was put together by Katsumasa Takasago, who I know very little about.
The beauty of such recordings is that one doesn't have to leave their home to appreciate another country's culture. In 1965, I don't think that many American tourists went to Japan, yet here we have everyday sounds of a city that looks back to its past, but alas, very much part of the present life as well. 1965 can be 1975 as well as 2015. I try to imagine what it must be like to listen to this album in 1965. You never were in Japan, yet, you're thrown into a soundtrack to a movie that you imagine you have seen, but never actually saw it.
For whatever reason I think of Alain Resnais' film "Hiroshima mon amour," starring Emmanuelle Riva and the Japanese actor Ejii Okada. The film script was written by Marguerite Duras. It deals with memory, but like the powers of recall, it is always one's point-of-view, and therefore there is no truth. So when a tourist approach a 'foreign' country or city, it is from the point-of-the-view of the visitor, who may or may not know nothing about the culture, but at least heard of it.
Listening to this album on a Sunday morning is like traveling through a Japanese city with your eyes closed. One can easily feel or taste the country just by listening to the album. The Snake Charmer in Asakusa who is on this album is more likely dead, but surely his son has taken over his spot in that beautiful part of Tokyo. The snake charmer demonstrates the love making of snakes, which greatly amuse the children that walk by him. There is something sinister about such a profession, especially when late daylight turns into evening. In the darkness, there is another world. Asakusa is the old downtown of Tokyo, and there is quite a difference between day and night there. In fact, all of Tokyo changes of identity - it is not that dissimilar to Bruce Wayne when he puts the bat-mask on. Another personality takes over the city as soon as the neon lighting is turned on.
"Last Year at Marienbad" can easily turn into "Last Year at Tokyo." I want to wonder through the streets of the Ginza to locate the lost love I had there. Once I find her, will she remember me? Perhaps not. The faint texture of being forgotten, left, or abandoned is all part of the Japanese feeling. When I go by a bar and I can hear the hostess sing float beyond the entrance door, I think of her. It is never a city of now, but a city of memories. This album represents memories. Even when the record came out in 1965, it was already a memory.
"Elevator girls at Takashimaya Department Store" would announce each floor in a high -pitched accent with an ultra feminine voice. Announcing the goods on each floor, one is in a sense getting a floor show at a supper club, but alas, it is in an elevator. The perfect choreographed gestures of using their white gloved hands to express what is on each floor and also to announce the upcoming floor number. One is not encouraged to talk to them. It would be like talking to an actor on stage as he or she is performing.
It's odd for me to sit here this Sunday morning in Silver Lake, and listen to this album. Whenever I leave Japan I feel great sadness. I have almost a fear that I won't stay alive till the next visit. I never want to think that this will be my last visit to Tokyo. "Sounds of Japan," is my safety-net. As long as I have this album, Japan will never leave me. It is very strange to listen to this album. Even though it was recorded in 1965 in various parts of Tokyo and Kyoto, I still feel that it could have been recorded today. Nothing has changed. Yet everything has changed. The story of my life.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Perhaps the greatest theme song for a TV show I have ever heard is Edwin Astley's "High Wire" (the theme for "Danger Man/Secret Agent"). Even though I watched 'Secret Agent" (starring Patrick McGoohan) as a child I was only familiar with Johnny River's "Secret Agent Man" - later a hit for DEVO. It was years later, I heard "Hire Wire" I think when I watched the original BritIsh version of "Secret Agent," which is called "Danger Man" in the UK. It's confusing. I know. The British/American TV world had their separate standards, but as a connoisseur of everything wonderful, I normally go to the British for the state-of-the-art version. Today in my six mile walk, I purchased "Secret Agent Meets The Saint." Issued in 1965, this rare piece of vinyl is ground zero for my interest in British Spy TV soundtrack music. Ashley was a talented composer/arranger/conductor and his unique way of using the harpsichord as not as a baroque instrument, but something modern sounding was / is excellent. Side one is the "Secret Agent" side and the other is "The Saint." Both are superb examples of music of that period. "The Saint" has a fantastic piece of flute/voice with piano scales going up and down. It sort of reminds me of a British version of a horror Morricone soundtrack. The thing is Astley likes to swing hard - and basically the whole album is a toe-tapper.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
|Franz Ferdinand Sparks (FFS)|
Sunday, June 7, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday June 7, 2015
The strangest thing happened this Sunday, and it wasn't the small-sized woman who I have never seen before, come upon my back yard to sunbathe nude. No, I have to say that was a bit odd, but nothing like what happened in this early Sunday morning. I woke up hearing a strange noise outside the window. Dawn was breaking, so I had a clear view of what was outside my bedroom window. First of all, my window faces a busy rural street - we get a lot of people hiking back and forth in front of that window. I have heavy shades to cover the brightness that comes in the morning, and as usual, when I hear a noise, I sort of peek out, instead of opening the window fully. What I glanced at was a well-dressed male with a dog on a leash holding a bush open so that another well-dressed individual can depart with their dog on a leash.
That small area has always been troubling to me. I often wake up in the morning and see either discarded food, and empty bottles. Also I have come upon used condoms as well. Yet, I never heard a noise during the night. It is just something that I come across when I wake up to look outside my window. The oddness of seeing someone holding a shrubbery apart so one can exit from it -like the vegetation was a residence of some sort. I closed the curtain, and tried to go back to bed. But I kept hearing sounds from the same direction, and again, I got up to give another look. What I saw were more well-dressed individuals - now females as well, with dogs on leashes - and now three or more are keeping the undergrowth open so more of these people can come out with their dogs.
The dogs were all the same species. Perhaps a pit-bull. The only thing I could make out is that their eyes were bright red, and I didn't see a pupil - but solid red eyes. It was a disturbing sight, so again, I went back to my bed. Occasionally I could hear what sounded like a dog leaping up to my window which was street level. I tried to fall asleep but the sound of the dog hitting the window pane unexpectedly, was disconcerting for me. I was feeling cautious and I didn't want to make any waves, especially living in this neighborhood. I remember I had to call the police regarding noise-making in the middle-of-the-night, and after that someone painted on my garage wall "snitches get stitches." After that I hesitate to call the police. It was much later I found out that it was actually the police that painted that phrase on my home.
I pulled the curtain a bit, and when I did so, a dog came right up to the window snarling and barking something horribly towards me. I quickly pulled back and covered the curtain across the window. I called the police, and once I got a live person, I had a hard time describing what was happening. Should I just mention that there is a pack of wild dogs outside my window, or should I add that these dogs are on a leash with a pack of mad well-dressed people? It obviously sounded crazy, so I told them to forget about it, and I hung up the phone.
To get some air, I went to my backyard, where it is pretty secured from the outside world due to a high fence surrounding the property. As I sat on my patio chair, I got the feeling that there was another presence near me. I looked across from the yard and saw a pretty young girl sunbathing in the nude. She was on one of the lounge chairs and didn't wear a thing on her, except sunglasses. The first thing that struck me was how short she was. At first I thought she was a child with a perfect female figure, but alas I suspected that she may have been in her twenties. I didn't know her. Nor have I ever saw her in the neighborhood. I didn't know what to do, because one I didn't know her and two She is in the nude. Also she was aware of me sitting there, because she was looking towards me, but turned her head when she saw me looking at her. Finally I walked up to her and asked her if everything is OK. She took her sunglasses off and looked straight at me, but didn't say a word. I walked back to my chair and I felt totally helpless. On one end, I found this strange meeting alluring to me. She had a lovely body, and I wanted to stare at her, but felt for obvious reasons, that it would be impolite to do so. I couldn't read the narrative here, if she was expecting me to propose a sexual gesture towards her. I suddenly heard loud knocking on the front door as well as the door-bell ringing off and on. I walked to the door, but didn't want to open it of course. I looked at the keyhole and there were two well-dressed men smiling at me through the keyhole. I felt awkward that they caught me looking through the door keyhole, so I opened it slowly. A foot came in to block it being closed. "May we come in, please?"
Behind them were others with their dogs, so I told them 'Please come in quickly." Once they came in, one of them started to look around the house, and he was slowly going towards the backyard but of course, I didn't want him to go back there to see the girl. I asked them both what do they want? "We're doing a survey of the neighborhood, and you're the only one who didn't fill out a form that was left in your mailbox." I thought about it, and I sort of have a vague memory of seeing such a form, but like all forms I get in the mail, I threw it out. I didn't tell them that of course. I said something of the effect, that I didn't see it. They both looked at me, and then each other with a smile on their faces. One had a small carrying case with him, and he opened up and took a form out. He handed me the form with a pen and asked me to fill it out there in front of them. I asked if I could do this in another time because I have another engagement I must go to. They both looked at me again, and just said, "it will only take a minute. We just need your name, address, phone number and that's it. Please fill out the form sir."
I have to admit that I felt totally intimated by these two men. I thought to myself, "what is the harm in filling out my name, address and number - they have it already." I took their pen and filled out the form. I then handed their pen and form back to them. While I was doing all of this, they basically both just smiled at me. When I hand him over the pen, he immediately dropped it on the ground. He didn't do anything just stood there and smiled at me. By instinct, I got the pen from the floor and again gave it to him. He then dropped the form to the ground. Again, I went on the ground, to pick up the form and I hand it over to him. He then dropped both pen and form on the ground.
He then told me "that is all, Mr. Berman, thank you for your cooperation." They both left the house, but they also helped themselves out. The odd thing is that they kept the door open, and I was scared to death that one of the dogs would come in. I ran by the door to shut and lock it. The form and the pen as it lay on the carpeted floor were like an ugly stain on the floor. I took the pen and form up from the floor, and went out to the front yard. To my surprise, the young girl was gone. I went back in, and found an old empty frame. I attached the form to the frame, and went up to an empty space on the wall in the front room and hung the frame with the form attached to it. This I feel, will be the closest thing as a self-portrait.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday May 31, 2015
I do not have the foggiest idea why I'm obsessed with Brahms' 4th Symphony. I'm not a huge fan of classical music - especially symphonies. I must have first heard Brahms' 4th Symphony in a movie or perhaps music being reproduced in a shopping area. Nevertheless the melodies tugged my heart in such a fashion that over the years I have purchased every version of this music possible. My two favorite recordings are Arturo Toscanini and the NBC Symphony Orchestra and Otto Klemperer and the Philharmonia Orchestra. Although the same music, the feelings are quite different from each other. The Toscanini version is more forceful, energetic, and perhaps the pace is faster as well. The Klemperer is more thoughtful, and therefore more sexual. Perhaps even obscene.
Symphony No. 4, Op. 98 in E Minor, Op. 96 l. Allegro non Troppo
The lushness of the first movement of the symphony always reminded me of a personal loss, that even now, and after so many years, it is even difficult for me to write about it. So I won't go into the specifics, except that it was a great loss and I will never regain the time or moment when it was mine to grasp. Toscanini frames the feeling not perfectly, but more of a sketch of the moment together as fleeting. He's using oil paints to carry out this picture, when Klemperer would use watercolor. When I hear his opening of the first movement, I feel like I'm slipping on a newly waxed marble floor. I will fall, and it will hurt, but the elegance of the surroundings is what I wish to be surrounded by. I feel that I'm falling in love, but not a living being, but with a spirit. Or perhaps with someone I don't know or never will know. Love letters handed back and forth, and besides me and my lovers fingerprints, will be the fingerprints of the mailman delivering the letter to my mailbox. Toscanini's letter smell of a strong perfume scent such as Estee Lauder Youth-Dew Eau de Parfum, while Klemperer's letter will be the faint fragrance of Mugler Cologne, which has been reported that the scent disappears within fifteen minutes after putting it on. The heavy coating of the arrangements for the NBC Orchestra, is one where it is quite warm, and you want to take your coat off. Yet, Toscanini refuses to have the musicians to remove their clothing - while Klempperer is actually 'insisting' that you do so.
Symphony No. 4, Op. 98 in E Minor, Op. 96 ll. Andante moderato
The faint battle cry of the opening of the second movement is like being on the back of the paper plane, and one is drifting on the air current of a hot and very still summer afternoon. Though Toscanini's conducting, it feels like an angel is flying beside you, but we both know that the paper will evenly be torn from the sky and gravity will force it to crash into the pavement. With Klemperer, one will still crash to the earth, but it more likely into a field of irises. It is a reflective piece of music, that one feels being pushed into the flames by Toscanini, and you will clearly die in Klemperer's hands, but he will poison you first, and then once dead, throw you into the flames. In both versions, it's the french horns that inform you what will take place. But the big difference here is one saying 'Hey buddy," and the other is saying "hey friend." A big difference, but that is the nature of translating one language into another language - and that goes the same when interpreting a piece of music.
"Symphony No. 4, Op. 98 in E Minor, Op. 96 lll. Allegro glocoso"
It's murder. Toscanini is committing an act of murder in front of his orchestra and his audience. It is like he's wearing a cloak with a dagger in his white gloved hand and he's stabbing each musician in the NBC Orchestra. Blood flows as my ears warm up to his intensity. I have sat in the high seats at the Disney Music Hall in Downtown Los Angeles, and felt like I was going to slip out of the seat onto the stage. The stage, the seating and even the music gives me vertigo. Klemperer's version is more of a fore-warning. There is a hesitation as if he is holding the melody in his hands gently. Yet the listener is cautious that he may drop the melody onto the floor. Also, listening to his take on the third movement, I feel like I'm speeding in a car in the darkened woods. Only the headlights from my car are exposing what is out there. The 'there" that I both fear and crave.
"Symphony No. 4, Op. 98 in E Minor, Op. 96 lV. Allegro energico e passionata"
Forlorn. It is unlikely to succeed or be fulfilled. I have often felt like I was thrown in front of a speeding automobile. I try to grasp her gloved hand, to keep my balance, but alas, I'm left with tire-marks on my face and my clutched hand containing the loose glove. As I glanced back, I can see the members of the NBC Orchestra mocking me as I try to breathe on the smooth pavement. Each member of the orchestra come by my broken body, and smashes me in the face with their chosen instrument. As I lay on my hospital bed, I listened to Klemperer's version of the last movement, and what I find is a purity that soothed my broken body and spirit. It is like if someone spread out a bed of feathers on the wooden floor, where I can't touch the foundation with my feet. I feel embraced by the arms of Otto Klemperer, and I can sense the fear by his touch. History will treat both Klemperer and Toscanini in a different manner. Yet they, and me, in other words, we, will always have Brahms' 4th Symphony.
- Tosh Berman
Sunday, May 24, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday May 24, 2015
Books. I have a lot of books. Every book I have is a great book. But due to space and finances, I need to surrender some of my books to the outside world. I set this Sunday to make final choices. Which books to keep and to give-up. The truth is I don't want to give up any of my books. If I could, I would keep my books intact as a collection. So when I die, it will be either sold or put up in a museum as the "Tosh Collection." I'm one of the few that believe that looking at someone's bookshelf, you are truly seeking a self -portrait of that individual. Clothing is another option, but in reality, it is the book that you read, that makes you what you are.
The first book I became aware of is more likely one of the Oz books by L. Frank Baum. The need to go somewhere else, or anywhere else from home, is a pleasant way to see the world, as imagined by another person. I set my work space, or writing- room, as a window or a port to travel. What I fear now, is to get rid of a book, that may be a passage to the other world. Once gone, I'll be stuck here, sitting in front of this Macbook Pages application.
I have quite a few of P.G. Wodehouse titles, and through those books, I'm exposed to a world that is much better than mine. I have often tried to visualize having Jeeves at my service. My needs are taken care of in such a fine manner, that I don't even have to ring the bell that is placed on my work table. He knows when to arrive, and I can sit here and just 'desire' something.
Tearing this collection apart is like death. A young man wouldn't have to do this, but as one gets older, they have to inventory their goods - and decide what must go and what must stay. I then had the thought of photographing every book I own - just the cover. That way, if I'm on a trip outside my house, I can in a sense carry my collection with me. Logically I can't re-read the books, so do I keep them?
I would say third of my collection are used or second-hand books. For each used book, I think who owned it, and why they had to let it go. The most common, especially if they're vintage paperbacks, were owned by a student. Most, if not all, are underlined in specific sections - more likely used for a classroom. Then there are books that are clearly owned by an older individual. One wonders if death came upon them, and the family sold the books to the second-hand shop. And since I own books that the original publication goes back to the twenties - all those must have been touched by the once-living. I feel that way about vinyl albums and 45rpm singles as well. There is not only history in the grooves and paper, but also surrounding the object.
When I go to a used bookstore and they have new stock, I can tell it came from a specific collection. Especially when you notice new titles in the poetry section. Readers tend to stay with a certain school of poetry. I was intrigued some years back, when I came upon a lot of French Surrealist poetry on the shelves. I became curious to know who the original owner of these titles. The bookshop owner didn't want to give out a name, but told me he was a TV producer, who created "Father Knows Best." I didn't need to know more. I was satisfied that a reader of Surrealist poetry, was also the mastermind of an all-American inane family living in the suburb of everyday 1950s America.
As I'm about to give up my book collection, I have to decide to either open up my own library - or to toss it out to the world. I have come to the conclusion, that when I die, I will give my house to the town of Silver Lake, where my belongs and books will stay intact. There will be a $5 admission to keep the property and home in a good shape. The "Tosh Berman Library" will be used for scholars as well as the 'everyday' curious to see what my life was like, which is basically the reflection of the books that I own.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Sunday, May 17, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday May 17, 2015
I walk, therefore I am. The eros of the trees and concrete call out to me. Since I don't communicate that well with my fellow human beings, I tend to do all my serious conversations with objects - both living (plants) and dead (concrete/buildings). Architecture never comes to life to me, till I see a figure passing a window inside their home or apartment. I wonder what life is like behind that window or window shade. What kind of eros takes place in the rooms within that specific space?
What I do know is that I'm part of the equation. I'm there as a visitor or a passenger of a certain time and moment. I tend to over think these things as I walk pass various windows, showing life as it happens. I remember many years ago, walking around Amsterdam and being surprised by the huge open windows of one's daily life in their homes. It seemed that the typical Dutch person doesn't believe in having a curtain. So you can see the entire first floor where you can see the kitchen, the living room, and the dinning area. Often I saw the wife cooking, while the husband/male is in the living room watching TV or reading a newspaper. There is nothing to hide, but then why be so exposed to the outside world in such a manner?
There is an area in Amsterdam that is their red light district. It's the oldest street in Amsterdam and it is called The Warmoesstraat (Warmoes street). Walking down this street is like a girl market, where all the whores are placed in windows. Since I'm a shy fellow, I have a hard time making direct eye-contact with the woman placed in the open windows - but they for sure try to make eye-contact with the walker. Or, as you stroll by, they knock on the window to get your full attention.
Here in Los Angeles, everything is covered up. When I walk around my neighborhood, the windows are usually covered by a curtain or shade. I never look through the shade or window of course, but it is odd that in Amsterdam you can see a whole life taking place in front of you - and here, at my home, it's covered up by the owners or renters of that structure. The irony is that I do most of my writings by two large windows, so anyone who walks by can see me typing a way.
Everyday people walk by here, walking their dog - but on Sunday, there are a lot more people passing me by. Some I know being in the neighborhood, but some are a total mystery to me. A lot of pretty girls come by here, with their dogs. Even the dogs are beautiful. A good looking dog usually has a good looking human attached to the other end of the leash.
It's odd to look at people as they walk-by, and they don't look through my window. If I was in their place and position, of course I would want to look in and see what that guy at the window is up to.
My daydream is to be able to sit on a street bench, maybe a bus stop, and just have a glass of wine while watching a family through big windows doing what they normally do on a regular basis. There is something very Jacques Tati about it all - where the citizen or consumer is doing their duties, which to me, seem like a theater piece. I would like to take a Sunday, while the family is at home, and watch them from mid-morning till nighttime.
Not long ago I went to MOCA to see Andy Warhol's 8 hour film "Empire," which is one long shot of the Empire State Building in Manhattan. The shocking thing that happens is when the screen goes dark when night approaches, and then all of sudden, the lights go on. It is probably one of the greatest moments of being in a movie theater for me. The whole audience (the eight of us in the theater) gasp at the same time. I would feel that way, watching a household as it approaches darkness, and then suddenly someone turns a light on in the living room or kitchen.
As I get older, I feel life is getting more intense. I sense colors as like I never had before. Walking through Amsterdam is one experience, but I also feel the difference between Los Angeles and Amsterdam is a location of eros. There is the obvious erotic pull of Amsterdam, but Los Angeles is more secretive, and perhaps more of an eros minded culture and structure. I like Amsterdam a lot, but I love Los Angeles.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
A week without Sunday is a week without oppression. A day of rest and perhaps prayer, but in fact it's a day to reflect on the horror of the coming week. My anxiety is one where I refuse to look at a calendar. The thought that Sunday is coming upon us is something that paralyzes me, like a deer caught in a car's headlight. The first time I realize that there was a Sunday, was when I was a child, and the family first got together on every Sunday. It seemed the minutes became hours, and then forever. I soon realized that this was going to be the schedule in our family, and every Sunday it seems that the minutes spent, were exactly like the one last week and, so forth. Sunday, oh hell.
When I became school-age, that went up to my teenage years, I suffered greatly under the tyranny of a Sunday. Friday late afternoon and evening were a sense of relief that I made it through the school week. Saturday I let myself go and be fancy free - but then came Sunday, and my mood became the color black.
Now that I got a full-time job, I find myself OK in the work-week. Like my school years, I turn off the pain of the day, and try to think of either the color blue or black. Two colors where I can put myself in a zone or place that doesn't exist. Once there, I can make the reality of the moment (i.e. work day) disappear as well. But Sunday I can't do the focus thing at all. It is like I'm exhausted from the actual work as well as the mental space that I put myself in. To be honest, even though I'm very tired on Friday, I feel a sense of relief that I don't have to work the next day. But comes Saturday night, and I just spend my time reflecting on the coming Sunday, and how that will affect me.
My favorite Sunday record album is Robert Wyatt's "Rock Bottom." It's a sad sounding record. But of course, there is humor within the grooves as well. Wyatt to me, is the most reflective and saddest singer in the world. Not a sound of regret, but the pause of life standing still. When he reflects, I feel that the world come to him in slow motion. For me, I can put my left toe in his bathwater, but I don't get the full effect of Wyatt's world. It's not the music or him, but the fact that I'm totally involved with only one person - me.
With nothing better else to do, I decided to go out for a walk. There is the philosophy that walking can clear the head and put things in a perspective. For me, it magnifies my feelings that become overwhelming at times. Nevertheless, I go out this Sunday to feel what the world can offer me. I find myself at the Echo Park Lake, walking around the giant pond, and at the same time watching the various bird families that sun themselves on the side of the lake. I wish I could let myself go, and lay there and sun myself as well.
There is something about a body of water that makes time stand still. It is here that what I desire is a world without time. Death must be interesting in a way, where time doesn't creep up on you. Nothing is the thing. I can deal with "nothing."
Sunday, May 3, 2015
The Sunday Series:
Sunday May 3, 2015
Due to a medical condition, I need to walk as much as possible. Usually one has a route where they go from "here" to "there." I decided not to follow that sort of logic, and I kept my mind free of distance or direction. I just walked down my stairs and turned in the direction of the wind. I almost get a vertigo feeling looking down the long street. It's hot, and I try to stay as much as possible in the shade. I have sensitive skin, and I do have a fear of aging. There is one part of my body that really bugs me, and that is the inner elbow area, where I have this ugly aging wrinkling skin. No one notices it except me, and it is the one thing I think about when I'm wearing a short-sleeve shirt or t-shirt.
To focus, I look at the pavement while walking. To be honest with you, I prefer concrete to nature. I'm fascinated with the way the street-walk is paved in squares, like a puzzle. The shadows that reflect on the pavement are also beautiful to me. I wonder what it would be like if someone painted the shadows on the sidewalk, so they are there all year-round. That type of perfection appeals to my aesthetic.
I come upon a fountain in the front yard of a house on Franklin Avenue. Due to the fact that there is a draught in Southern California, it is rare to see these fountains with running water. So what is left is just the statue itself. The bottom level is three baby angels (I presume that is what they are), holding up another level with two other angels grasping a stone, where on a good day, water would be coming out. There is something fantastic about watching water flowing from a fountain. Small or large, it doesn't make a difference, but just to see water flowing is like life going on. Without the flow, one feels close to a state of death.
About two blocks from this fountain, I see another statue on a lawn, except that this lawn and statue, with the house, is huge. In every sense, I try to imagine living in this house. No doubt, I would hate to cut the lawn, but if you live here, more likely you can afford a gardener or an army of gardeners to cut the lawn for you. The house itself is not beautiful, but just big. It seems obscene to be that huge, yet I can imagine myself living there alone, so I can wander through each room without a care in the world. If I died there alone, it would probably take days for someone to find my body. Oddly enough, that gives me a sense of comfort.
The statue on the lawn, besides the house, captures my attention. Again, there is an angel motif, and she (it seems to be that gender) is help supporting the bigger version of the angel, or is it just a woman? Does this statue have any real meaning? Or is it just something decorative on the biggest front yard I have ever seen in person. I projected the image that I'm sitting in the balcony, reading "Against Nature" and glancing at the statue from its behind. Being an 'ass' man, I fully appreciate the back side of a good statue.
As I walk on Franklin, heading west, I see a small home that has a pair of lions looking over the entrance to the house. Compared to the fountain and statue, this lion is chipped and in need of a paint job - but part of its charm is in the state it is in. The expression on the lion's face is not one of danger or 'beware, ' but a sense of peace or understanding. The more I look at it, the more I find the bust of this lion beautiful.
Further down the road, I located another home with a lawn, but this one has nothing but weeds. Yet the house seems to be in order. A mansion in terms, but there seems to be something more homey compared to the palace I just saw back a little ways. I imagine the person who lives here has done so for many years. Perhaps a recluse who is so close to civilization, that he or she can just breathe through it, by opening their windows. My guess these windows haven't been open for many years. Or perhaps there are children in there - maybe a brother and sister, and they don't know the outside world at all.
Two or three doors down, there is a home that seems Mayan-style, and I can imagine sessions of torture and pain being done in that location. In theory the design of this home wouldn't fit in the neighborhood, but alas, it does. It seems perfectly natural to be here on Franklin. When I walk by, I can feel the difference in temperature. There is a chill in the air, and once I pass it, the weather gets warmer. I walk back to it again, and yes, for sure a chill hangs in that area like a woman wearing a heavy dark dress in the winter of Los Angeles.
As I glance at the entrance and its staircase, I feel that it's possible that one entered here, knowing that they will never leave. The beauty of the place is seductive, but then so is death. Once you embrace the body of your killer, then you know, or at least, hope there is a better life somewhere else. As for me, I just walk on.