Sunday Laws by Tosh Berman

 

Sunday Laws by Tosh Berman

This Is Sunday by Tosh Berman

 

This Is Sunday by Tosh Berman

Tosh's Journal : December 8 (Tribute to the Bathtub and Izu Oshima Islan...

My job is to reflect on life, and unfortunately, it doesn’t pay. I have a deep interest in the world around me or how I see that world. To be perfectly honest, the world can easily exist without any input by yours truly. Yet, I have known people who wait to hear from me before they enter such a world. My problem (and it is mine alone) is that I can’t get a regular paycheck for my writings on such an interesting landscape as what is out there. “There” being whatever is not within my world.

My ‘world’ is one where I take long baths and focus my thoughts on the bathroom wall. I notice the cracks in the wall, and I immediately think of them as examples of deep distress that is around me, but quite honestly, not in the bath with me. The tub is a no-zone. My sense of being is how hot the water is, and is there enough shampoo in the bottle? Other than that, the crack on the tiled wall is my total concentration on what that scar means to me.

Due to my poor eyesight, the crack has many dimensions attached to it. I often think of it as an island among the blue sea, since my bathroom tiles are in that color. What is the consistency that makes such an image to be so profound? I imagined Commander Perry as he approached Japan’s little island, Izu Ōshima, in 1854, that is two hours away from Tokyo on a jet boat, but still, such a remote island. It has an active volcano and five restaurants on that island that is full of abandoned cats. What one would think of as a stalled car engine is a wave of the sound of cats’ purring in unison. Feline’s urine can be smelled in the exotic landscape on the island. Houses left abandoned, and the numerous monuments for people who had either died due to plane failure or landslides are scattered in the most remote and public areas on Ōshima. I loved the island because the heavy rains served my mood perfectly. Almost as good as being in my bathtub looking at the island of Izu Ōshima on my blue tile.

The words I write are as useless as the soap bubbles from my shampoo as it mixes in with the bathwater. They, too, become islands in the sea of Tosh’s bathwater. Real depression hits me when I undo the drain and watch the water empty into a pipe that leads to a filthy sewer. Whatever happens, there is always the sewer. No one can lie to that space, because I think the stink and filth is very much part of our DNA.

I dry myself, put some cream on my face (to even out the worry lines on my forehead and mouth area), and then I dress very carefully.  First the underwear, then the socks, a striped t-shirt (since it’s Sunday, I choose a navy blue strip against white) and a sensible pair of walking shoes. I then approach my MacBook Air and try to enter into the adventure.

Sunday, April 7, 2019

Today is Sunday.  The artwork above is "Sol lustitiae" (Sun of Righteousness) a work of art by Albrecht Düer, sometime in the years 1400-1500.  It is a work regarding Sunday. I woke up in my normal manner by finishing off Francis Ponge's "Nioque of the Early-Spring" a book of poems regarding weather in his neck of the woods in France.  Both naturalistic, but with political overtures as well.  An interesting book to read in a hot bath.  I have a problem with my left shoulder where it's stiff and sore.  Never painful, but just feels awkward when I lean against it in bed, or if I move too quickly after stretching the arm.  It feels like arthritis, but how would I know that?  My Japanese friends tell me it's just the sign of old age, and that eventually it will disappear, but will also come back.  And that is the total truth.  

Throughout the day I have to work on the finishing touches on my essay for "Please Kill Me" website.   I'm doing a series of articles/pieces on the role of the music manager.  There are plenty of books on the subject matter, but I'm trying to find obscure figures in that field that needs more proper attention.   It's a fun writing and research project for me.  Beyond that, I'm doing my mom's laundry.  Her washing machine and dryer is downstairs from her duplex apartment and the stairs are hard to manage while carrying laundry.  I assist her by doing the work at home and then bringing it to her the next day.  It's the least I can do for her!   Beyond that, I really enjoy doing the laundry.  Both mine and hers.  My wife and I do separate laundry duties, but often she would take charge of the situation, and do my mom's laundry as well as folding it up and putting it in a large bag.  A skill I lack (out of many) is properly folding the clothes.  That, like my attempts at hairdressing, is doomed to fail. 

Beyond the writing and laundry issues, I find Sundays to be stressful.  I feel I need to relax, and I often think of going to the cinema, but I can't find a movie I want to watch.   I just did a podcast with a filmmaker Jeff Mizushima Here and we discuss the nature of cinema viewing, and how it is different in each medium.  Personally, I love going to the movies, but the cost of the ticket, plus the low quality of a lot of the mainstream films is a real downer for me.  Also, there are theaters  I like to go to, but they are at a distance, especially since I don't drive.  More likely I will go to Skylight Books and let my brain wander among the bookshelves.  

Tosh Berman Reads at Beyond Baroque Sunday January 21, 2018 plus Interview at 4:30 PM

Ladies and Gentleman, at last, I will be doing a reading of my works (including a touch of my memoir) at Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center in Venice, California on Sunday, January 21, 2018, at 4:30 PM. I will also be interviewed by Jon Hess. Do come. Here's the full info:

Tosh Berman will do a reading of his works, including an excerpt of his upcoming memoir that will be published by City Lights Books this year. Also, Berman will be interviewed by Jon Hess. Tosh is a writer, poet, and former Artistic Director of Beyond Baroque. His two books are “Sparks-Tastic” (Rare Bird) and a book of poems, “The Plum in Mr. Blum’s Pudding (Penny-Ante Editions). He is also the publisher and editor of his press, TamTam Books, which published the works of Boris Vian, Serge Gainsbourg, Guy Debord, Jacques Mesrine, Ron Mael & Russell Mael (Sparks), Gilles Verlant, and Lun*na Menoh. His most recent project is a series of YouTube programs "Tosh Talks." 

Venue: Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center, 681 Venice Blvd, Venice, CA 90291

Date: Sunday, January 21, 2018

Time: 4:30 PM

Admission: $10 Students/Seniors/Children $6 Members: Free.

The Sunday Series: 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.

The Sunday Series: Sunday March 29, 2015

Sunday March 29, 2015

I loathe Sundays.  The day of rest is a day of thinking about resting.  Sunday is like being slowly buried alive.  Just as my face is being covered, Monday comes along, and you're dealing with the thought of once again, facing another Sunday.  To this very day, I'm still confused if Sunday is the first day of the week, or the last.  The vagueness of it, drives me insane.  I can never understand the mania about Sundays.  All I know is that by chance if I feel restless, it seems to be always on a Sunday.  Fucking Sunday.

The other thing that bothers me is that I travel throughout Los Angeles on the bus, and the bus schedules on Sundays are slow or non-existent.  Many times I find myself in a part of town, and not being able to get out of that area, due to the limited bus services on Sunday.  Once on the bus, no problem, but waiting for a bus that may or may not show up, is torture.  Also, there are few shade trees on streets or especially at a bus stop.  Direct sunlight which causes skin cancer is also part of the equation of life on a Sunday.

Sunday is also the one day of the week, where I think about the other six days of that week. For me, it's the period at the end of the sentence.  Rarely does the week work out OK for me.  So my depression kicks in on a Sunday, realizing that I was pretty much of a failure throughout that week.  When the thick Sunday paper hits my door every Sunday morning, the depression is so thick, I feel like I can't swallow.   The paper rarely has news of that day, but mostly looking back on the week - which is like looking at my weekly journal, which is mostly blank.   Which to be honest is a perfect self-portrait.

I've read that German and Swedish researchers have determined that Sunday is the most depressing day of the week for a lot of people.  It was suggested on one website to write a letter to yourself on a Sunday night, and the second part of the letter, imagine yourself doing something exciting.  Moronic advice which even makes me more depressed.

"The Sunday Night Blues" is the terminology for those who can't face the rest of the week, and realize that Sunday is just a reminder of things to come.  Which is partly true for me, but what I loathe the most about that specific day is that it's set up as a day of relaxation or meditative thoughts.  Those who control the calendar also control the world.  I'm even upset that there is a 24-hour day.  The restriction of days, months and even years I find to be restrictive and totally depressing with respect to the creative spirit.    If I was free of Sundays, I feel I could take each day as it is, and not what I imagined it would be.

I can't imagine anything worse than the Sunday Brunch.   The combination of breakfast and lunch.  More likely an excuse for those who can't get up early for breakfast, which leads to a sense of guilt of missing that meal and having lunch instead.  A world that is not causal made up this late morning/early afternoon meal - and it is usually a social outing, where one has to deal with the like-minded crowd.  It's a disgusting practice.   British author Guy Beringer coined the phrase "brunch" in an article printed in "Hunter's Weekly" in 1895.   Brunch was proposed by him as a stance against the meal after one goes to church.  It should be lighter in mood.  Beringer's theory is that the brunch will "put you in a good temper, it makes you satisfied with yourself and your fellow beings, it sweeps away the worries and cobwebs of the week."  For me, it is totally the opposite.  I can't stand eating with a group of people who honor the work week by having a meal together on a Sunday.

Also the Sunday brunch was a good excuse for those who are burned-out, due to their work week, to start drinking alcohol in the late morning.  Bloody Marys, Bellinis and Mimosas are the popular drinks tied to the image of Brunch on a Sunday.  In the United States, brunch became part of the social life in the 1930s.   The hotel restaurant also jumped in because a lot of restaurants were closed on Sunday - so there was a service that needed to be offered.  Traditionally it is agreed upon that brunch takes place between 11:00 AM and 3:00 PM. Oddly enough, this is the time-frame where I do most of my writing.

For years, I have refused to have "brunch" due that it cuts into my private time with pen and paper.   The fact that most have to have a social life while working, and then on the weekend they are expected to once again, have a "social life" is a life of misery.   One needs not only to eliminate the 'brunch' but also the concept of a day of imprisonment - known as Sunday.

The Sunday Series: Sunday March 15, 2015

Sunday March 15, 2015

What I find fascinating about nature is that I have no interest in it.  Also I wonder, living in Los Angeles, if I can fully go into 'nature. ' Where I live, I'm surrounded by parks and mountain trails.  Yet, as far as I can gather, these trails were made by humans. So the very nature of either building a road or making a trail is already changing what is once 'wild' nature.   Most people don't even think about what is or what isn't nature, but for me, it's important to make the distinction between 'real' nature and 'man (woman) -made' nature.  Is the reflection we see, is that real or not real?  As I get older I crave to see or feel something that is real.  So far, when I take my walks in the hills of rural Los Angeles, I feel I'm on a movie set, than say a natural landscape that is untouched by human hands.

While reading up on the history of Griffith Park, I was surprised to learn that there was an Indian tribe called "Gabrielinos" (now called the Gabrielino-Tongva tribe) that lived in the area.  It seemed that Corporal Jose' Vicente Feliz was rewarded with a Spanish land grant in 1775.  Colonel Griffith J. Griffith acquired the land in 1882 and eventually gave it as a gift to the city of Los Angeles in 1896.  In 1934, the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) built retaining walls, hiking trails, access roads, maintenance, and restored some of the structure that are in the park.   The CCC camp, after Pearl Harbor was attacked, became a prison of sorts for Issei (Japanese people who immigrated to a new country), who were considered by the FBI to be 'enemy aliens. ' Griffith Park Detention Camp could hold around 70 men.   It seems that the major crime by these people, was the fact that they were part of the Japanese race.   As of today, Sunday, I can find no trace of this world.

The only thing I connect to is an image of Smokey the Bear.   Smokey has been around since 1944, so he was ten years old when I was born in 1954.  Throughout my life I was aware of Smokey, and he is the one consistent figure in my whole life.  So as I enter the park, he is the one that greets me.  It has been reported by the Ad Council, that Smokey is recognized in the U.S. BY 95% of adults, and 77% of children.  I have memories of having a Smokey the Bear lunch box.  The message that became very clear to me, was “only me, can prevent forest fires.” Whenever a fire breaks out in a forest, to this day, I feel responsible for the destruction.

Living near Griffith Park, I feel that it’s my almost private playground.   Although I do share it with a million other people at the very least, I still feel like it’s a reflection of my life.   My wife and I walk up to the Griffith Park Observation to look over the magnificent landscape that is Los Angeles, which as we all know by now, is the greatest city on the West Coast.  It is interesting to note that the Observatory opened up in 1935, around the same time that the CCC was building up the park.  A utopia vision of the mixture of nature and the stars - the perfect partnership.  Being a long-time fan of “Adventures of Superman” TV show, I was happy to discover that they used the Observatory as Jor-El’s laboratory on the planet Krypton.   We went inside of the Observation to see the Foucault pendulum as well as the refracting telescope, Zeiss. The song "Lost in the Stars' came to my mind as we sat there and watch the stars appear on the ceiling.  Someone behind me made a 'moo' sound, and at first, it annoyed me, but I followed him up by doing a rooster.  It was a full audience, and it seemed everyone looked at us in the darkness or one or two voices saying "shut-up."   We did, and speaking for myself, I just pretended it didn't happen in the first place.

When we walked out of the Observatory, I noticed a statue or a bust of a face.  I walked up to it, and I admired the way the sculpture captured the hairstyle of the person's face.  The next time I get a haircut, I want to bring this bust with me to show to the barber what type of haircut I want.  It's very difficult at times, to communicate with a hair-cutter in exactly what you want.  For instance, if I tell them that I want my haircut to be a combination of Elvis 1956 mixed with touches of Bowie's Ziggy haircut of 1972, I would mostly get a blank stare.   But here, bringing this statue, I think would solve that problem.  A photograph would be helpful, but bringing an object that is 3-dimensional I think is better.  That way, the hair-cutter can see the object from all sides and angles.  Then again, maybe I'm putting too much thought on to all of this.

As we walked down the hill taking us to Los Feliz boulevard, we ran upon a pack of coyotes that were eating something that was once alive.  I wasn't sure if the victim was human or beast, but we just walked down the street and paid no attention to the carnage in front of us.  Griffith Park means many things to people, but for me, it is a reflection that is life, but life as being projected by yours truly on a very warm Sunday afternoon.  

THE SUNDAY SERIES: Sunday No. 1

Sunday No. 1

Quiet Sunday is a loud Sunday for me.  The quietness around the house just opens up the inner sounds of my body, and my thoughts appear to me as a forceful speaker.  I want to shut it off, but I can’t. So today I decided not to have my bottle of wine.  I drink a bottle every night.  Either with my wife or by myself.  I get buzzed, but I never get drunk.  Or is being buzzed being drunk?  The difference is if you were in front of me, you wouldn’t think I was drunk.  I never get too boisterous, or opinionated and really, a bottle of wine for me is a way to pass time.  Time is the enemy that takes so prisoners. 

Sunday is the first day of the week.  I’m often reflective on that day, where I think what happened the previous week, while thinking about the upcoming week.  I keep a calendar for the purpose of not forgetting to pay off bills, or if I have luncheon or dinner appointments.  My life is very quiet, and therefore my thoughts are ringing out proud and loud, as I try to make sense of my existence.   Around 7 PM, is when I open the bottle of wine.  The first sip to the last is an adventure that I travel within.  

The things I like to do when drinking wine is to read, watch TV, or having a meal.  The hard part I think of not drinking wine, is the eating part.  Food is good, but wine makes the food desirable.  I usually drink two glasses of wine with a typical meal.  I also like to have a glass of wine before the meal.  It’s the initial glass that I drink slowly, while I write or listen to music on my laptop.  It’s a meditative moment where I’m focused on the drinking as well as the writing or music on hand.  Drinking wine doesn’t make the conversation better, or makes the music more enticing - but it adds a certain texture to those two distinctive practices. 

If I have the option, I rather drink wine alone.  Which is odd, because wine traditionally is a drink that one shares with another.  The thing is I have so many things to think about, that’s all in my head, I rarely have a need to verbally express myself to another person.  Wine in a way is that other person that’s in my head.  I don’t need wine to be social, in fact, I can amuse or be interesting to someone else without the effects of alcohol as a partner-in-crime.   Wine doesn’t impress me, or anyone else, it is a friend that puts his or hers arm around your shoulders, as you think or notice the passing of time.   As of right now, I’m writing without my bottle of wine, which is uniquely weird!  I don’t feel I need to have it for me to write.  The thoughts come out OK, but I do like wine as an object that is located in front of me.  When I do drink wine with respect to writing, I always prefer white.  White wine (all categories) allows me to think without the thoughts getting muddy.  Red wine usually puts me to sleep or often I feel like I’m moving in slow motion.  Red is for sure good for noticing time and what it’s doing that moment.  I become extra-aware of the moments passing - where with white wine, it is more about speed, and getting lost in whatever is on-hand at the moment you are drinking. 

My favorite day of the week to drink wine is of course, Sunday.  Traditionally it’s 24 hours of reflection.  Many go out to walk around the reservoir, or maybe see an afternoon movie, but I prefer to sit in front of my stereo speakers with a bottle of wine opened in front of me, and just let the intoxication take me to another space or place.  I like playing vinyl albums, because you have to leave your seat, and flip the record on its other side.   If you just think about time, it is usually 20 minutes per side, so I know for at least that amount of time, I can just focus on what I’m hearing and listening to.  The music is often just a soundtrack to my thoughts as if it was a ship passing between two giant icebergs in the far Atlantic. 

It is very odd not to feel the effects of my favorite drink at this time of night.   The truth is I never feel fully sober.  Mostly due to the toxins of the world that I breathe in and out on a daily basis.  My perception when I walk outside is sometimes overwhelming, due to the noise of the traffic and the volume of the crowd in various shopping centers and malls.  I also have a hard time dealing with people directly, especially on the telephone.  The only place where I feel totally comfortable is within my head with the buzz of a bottle of wine.  

I’m very curious to find out what will happen if I don’t drink my bottle of wine tonight.  Will minutes ring loudly in my ears as time passes?   What I do know is - schedule is addictive.  I think it even goes beyond addiction to drugs, drink, or any other vice one can think of.   Writing is very much an addiction as well.  The calendar is addictive. There is nothing more comforting than looking at your calendar and seeing your life being mapped out by the hour.  Drinking at night is also a sense of comfort.  It is a process through which to remark on the passing of that day, and that the schedule will go on at the present and into the future.  In other words, addiction is living.  And right now, I’m living to the fullest.