January 23, 2021, by Tosh Berman

 

January 23, 2021

When I worked at Book Soup, Jeanne Moreau was in the store, looking at books and wandering around the store. As I watched her from a distance, as I was behind the bookstore counter, it reminded me of her walking around Paris in the Louis Malle film Ascenseur pour l’échafaud (Elevator to the Gallows). She occasionally picked up a book to look at its cover, open it, read silently, and then placed it exactly where she found it. It took me a few minutes, but then I notice that a cameraman was shooting her while she walked around the store. One needs permission to shoot in the store, and it was my duty as an employee to either stop the shooting or tell the manager. On the other hand, it is Jeanne Moreau in one's store, and who am I to tell her to stop filming. 

I didn't approach her or the cameraman, but I walked toward her like I was looking for a customer's book. You see, I can also act or perform in front of a camera, which I may have in this situation, but in my head. Jeanne may have been thinking of the same scene in the Malle film, and I'm her partner, following her in the streets of Paris. It's odd dancing in private, in front of customers buying and looking at books. None recognize her, and clearly, they didn't know what I was thinking or doing. At this moment, I wanted to put on the soundtrack to "Elevator to the Gallows" by Miles Davis. If I did that, would she catch on that she's discovered filming in the store? Or someone there recognizes her? 

She eventually went out of the store and looked at our display window. The cameraman shot her through the window, and Jeanne paid attention to the books, but then her eyes showed boredom and moved on down the street. The cameraman left the store as well, following Jeanne on the road. I stayed in the store and was behind the counter again. 

The Sunday Series: Sunday September 27, 2015

The Sunday Series:

Sunday September 27, 2015

Well, I was born with everything and I will end up with nothing.   I can physically feel the drain of my finances disappearing, as if it was a personal check written in invisible ink.   The farce that is life, is slowly draining away as well.   I have a fear of looking in the mirror and finding my image gone.    There is a slow leak in my bathtub, and each drop represents my power getting less and less.  I was trying to fix it, but you can't fix something that is fate being written out for you.  I can now understand why friends and even slight acquaintances refuse to see or meet me for a drink.   Why be further reminded of failure?  It is right at this very moment, that I realize what life can be on this planet without me.

The buzz-buzz of the bumble bee, or what is left of the species, will be outside my window, competing with the hum of the early morning traffic.   The sound of people moving from one location to another, not for the sense of adventure, but out of duty.   I close my window, and I can see the one bee hitting against it, over and over again.   The determination to stay on the "program" no matter what, is kind of moving to me, but alas, it's sick.  If there is any happiness for me, it is to be removed from the physical space, and lets myself journey as a spirit.  Even that, I can feel the loneliness of the stores that close their doors as I attempt to enter.   There is no exit. So therefore there should be no entrance for me as well.  

There is something funny about my sadness.   People laugh at it, and that gets me to laugh as well.  I'm so over depression.  It's like the paper you used to wipe up the rain water that came through the house.   Instead of throwing it away, you just let it stay there till it's hardened and mildew takes over.  You can't bother changing the space, so just let nature take care of its own.  

I really want to write a poem.   It's Sunday, and it's either a day that starts off the week, or a reminder that the previous week was one of failure.   I don't go to church, nor do I not drink on Sunday, but instead, I try to dump my head into the thought that is Sunday.  I can't get my head around it.  Why is there a day of the week, where one mediates on their failures?  I have started a manuscript folder that is empty.  Every Sunday I look at the blank white piece of fake computer paper, and wonder "where is the poem?"   So I keep a record of all the empty pages, to remind me that I do try to work, but alas, the brain won't let me forget the darkness that's in my soul.  

At times, I feel the need to disappear into my writing.   If I can somehow take my body and get inside the manuscript, I would be, if not, a better place, but at home.   The brutality of the world is the need for physical comforts, and to be forced away from one's writings, is like the taste of something nasty and not right.  I want to feel right, and therefore I must find the portal to the written world. 

While walking around Los Feliz area of Los Angeles, I went to one of my favorite bookstores "Skylight Books" to purchase a collection of short stories by Emmanuel Bove called "Henri Duchemin and his Shadows."  As I sat at the Brü Coffee Bar, I didn't mean to read a whole story, but I started at the first sentence, and couldn't stop reading till the very end.   All the main characters are male, and too sure of their placement in their world.  Of course, this got me thinking about my problems and how I feel about myself.  Bove, according to the introduction, had a life-time of serious financial mishaps, and I try to imagine myself in his shoes.  In fact, when I look at the ground, and I see my shoes, I think of Bove.  

There is no doubt that I'm heading towards a major fall or breakdown of some sort.  The thing is at this point and time, I need to face up to it, and just either roll with the punch, or if I'm fast enough, must avoid the full hit.   It's odd to read a book and enjoy someone else's suffering. It doesn't make me forget my misery, but somehow enhances the experience as if it was a multi-layered milkshake.  Each bite or drink leads one to another sensation.   The world is not a happy one for me, but nevertheless, it is a landscape that has many textures.  My job is to jump into what is offered to me - both the good and the bad (and to be honest, it doesn't look too good here) and presented in such a fashion, that can hopefully enlighten one.   Or a reader or two.  Or not. 

March 30, 2014

March 30, 2014

The most influential man in my life is without a doubt Warren Beatty.  What I admire about him the most is his seductive powers over women, or just the need for sexual adventures at all cost.  People poo-poo on him because I think he represents the real desire in a man’s make-up.   We often have to deny it, or claim total innocence, but in truth, as Woody Allen once said, “if there is reincarnation, I’d like to come back as Warren Beatty’s fingertips. ”

To be able to step into a room and you’re Warren Beatty must be a fantastic feeling.  I have two personal memories of Beatty.  My earliest memory of him was when I was with my dad and mom and we were invited, or taken to Jack Nicholson’s house right around the time of the release of “Chinatown.” We drove up to the entrance of a long driveway, and waited for a limo to pick us up and take us up to the party.  Once we were inside the car, we noticed a teenager on a mini-bike riding along us, and occasionally kicking the side of the limo as it was driving up the long driveway.  May dad asked who was that, and the driver just hissed out “It’s Brando’s kid, Christian.” Once I walked in the entrance I was taken back by the interior which wasn’t that exciting to me, but what was amazing was seeing Warren Beatty and Julie Christie sitting on the floor, among others.  Even the appearance of Groucho Marx couldn’t make me keep my eyes off Beatty.   He was beautiful, but only on the surface, which made him even more attractive.

His charm is very studied, like he went to a class to study to be Warren Beatty.  He didn’t have the inherent charm say, one of the great French stars at that time, Jean-Claude Brialy, who just oozed a certain type of personality that was totally suitable for his work with Godard, Malle, and Serge Gainsbourg.  But Brialy was too soft as a seductive person for me, I needed a Beatty who was full of strength and a certain amount of daring.  Being shy, I needed someone to follow who didn’t have one ounce of shyness or awkwardness in front of others, especially women.

When I tried to be seductive, I come off as John Astin, who was one of the main stars in “The Addams Family.” Totally comical and just the wrong approach!   I want seduction to be as easy as the song by Astrud Gilberto “The Girl from Ipanema.” The horrible truth is that my life more like an etching by Francisco Goya with maybe captions by Paul Verlaine.  The disgust that I feel for myself whenever I am in front of an attractive woman is truly a horror show.

The second and last time I came upon Warren Beatty was many years later.  I was employed in a bookstore and he came in by himself to shop, and I remember even though he was quite old, he still had an appearance of a little boy of sorts.  A little boy with an erection!  Nevertheless when he came into the store, there was an event taking place, and it was full of middle-aged women attending this specific event.  When he came in, it was like if God walked into the room.  The women literally swoon, and surrounded him like bees being attached to the honey.  He was very courteous to the ladies, and it struck me that if I was in his place, I would look like a total idiot.   Time marches on, but I am still the same as I was before, and so is Warren Beatty.