The Evening Series: Sunday, September 3, 2917

The Evening Series: Sunday, September 3, 2017

The night is so hot and still that when I farted, I can taste it from the air.   The temperature in the house is around 90 something degrees, and I swear if I die, the ants looking for water in the kitchen will cover my body.  Even now, I’m not sure if it’s sweat from my head, or an actual insect is running freely in my inner ear.  I can feel a tickle, and it’s not the ha-ha kind. 

There’s  fire in the hills.  One of the reasons why I don’t live in a canyon area is due to nature being challenged by weather conditions and man(person)-made conditions where death and destruction are part of the package.  I prefer the world of the concrete or cement buildings.  Made by civilization and proud of it.  Built to last, if not forever, then a few decades.  

The stench of an airless evening.  One gets the impression that you can throw a heavy object up in the air, and it will just stay in place.  I wonder if I fall, will I hit the ground.  What do I know?  I can’t even get myself up from the floor. 

- Tosh Berman

The Evening Series - Monday, August 21, 2017

I recently purchased a window shade, where it will keep the sunlight out, but if you’re outside the window, you can see yours truly as a shadowy figure moving around in my living room.  Day and night.  Privacy has never been an issue with me.  I don’t see the point in it.  Some people I know have shredders so they can cut up their bills and health notices as well as other personal papers before they throw it in the trash.  I, on the other hand, post all my bills, including notes from my doctor as well as sensitive tax notices on my Facebook page.  I figure the best way to hide something is to put it all in plain sight. 

It has been an open secret that every night I have a performance by our window.  Although we do have shades, the image on the curtain looks like images from a Lotte Reiniger film.  A German Filmmaker who was the pioneer of the silhouette animation.  My “shadow play” is never planned out in advance.  It’s everyday life in Tosh’s household, and that seems to bring an audience out in the evening.   The only thing I do in an organizational sense is to leave my trash cans out in front of the garage.  One for regular trash and the other is for recycling waste.  The show during the summer months starts at 9 PM.

Tonight, I’m planning on doing a version of Arthur Schnitzler’s 1895 play “Anatol.”  It’s theater about a bourgeois playboy named Anatol, who is obsessed with the thought of a lover being unfaithful to him.   It’s a common problem around me, and it’s a play that I take to my very heart.   Through the theater, one can project their anxieties in such a state, where it is healthy.  The lighting of the piece needs to be perfect.  I have to set lights within the living room to project the images to the outside world.  I hired a well-known lighting expert for the stage, Hassard Short, who came recommended by a friend of mine, Billy Ladd, who is a chorus dancer on Broadway. 

I spent the day making articulated cut-out figures, one representing me as Anatol, and the rest are all the women characters in the play.  Each cut-out female is based on an actual woman I know.  I have asked these particular 'models' to come over to the house, where they have to remove all their clothing so I can trace their body onto paper to do the cutting that will fit their form.   Being a heterosexual male, I was, of course, attracted to the female forms in front of me.  As part of my body reacted to what was in front of me, one of the models was kind enough to trace on the paper so that it can be part of the cut-out figure of my character.  I expect when I make my appearance as a cut-out, with the help of my model, I will get a standing ovation from the audience.  

When one prepares to put together a show for an audience, it seems that the preparation is more important than the actual performance.   I have had dreams where I'm a viewer instead of one who is participating in the narrative of the dream.  Now, that I'm conscious I make dreams happen.  It's the payoff that keeps on paying.  

- Tosh Berman

The Evening Series: Wednesday, August 16, 2017

The Evening Series: August 16, 2017

I need a pre-amp for my stereo hi-fi, and at the moment, my right channel, or speaker is not working.  It’s OK if the album is in Mono, but most of my vinyl is in Stereo.  So, in my living room, I have to stay close to the left speaker, which is awkward, because our dining table is closer to the right speaker.  That is where I like to sit and stare at the album cover or read the liner notes while listening to music. 

I had a record listening party, and that too was odd because all seven of us had to sit around the left channel speaker.   I had to get chairs from another room, and what was worse, we were listening to Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon,” and I can be wrong, but I feel we’re missing some of the sonic aspects of this specific album, by listening only to the left channel.  We often look at the right speaker, and all of us, shake our heads. 

Since we’re on the second floor, and due to the weight of our bodies by the left speaker, we noticed that the floor was squeaking more.  And when we had our dance party the night of the listening party, close to the left speaker, the floor collapsed.  Of the seven, four died.  I was saved due that the left speaker fell and got stuck between the hole, and therefore by holding on the speaker I survived this ordeal.  Sadly we had to cancel the dance party that night.  

For me, it was touch and go.  I had to decide to save my life or spear the speaker being damaged in the fall.  Luck had it, we managed (the speaker and me) to get ourselves stuck between the wooden beam and ceiling.  Due to the kindness of our neighbor downstairs, he brought the speaker successfully down from the wooden beam, and my wife pulled me up from above.   After checking to see if the Hi-Fi was OK, I then checked on our guests.  Like I reported before, four died.  It’s a tragedy.  The scratch on the left speaker will always remind me of that evening. 

After fixing the floor (thanks to the landlord Mr. Kushner) it looked new.  When I look at my left speaker, I’m reminded of the tragedy.   Four people lost their lives by dancing to Gary Glitter’s “Rock n’ Roll Part Two”  In one of the ‘yeah’s” in the chorus they went down like a Led Zeppelin.   My wife was spared, if not by God, then by the natural urge to have a drink and to eat some dip on a chip on the other side of the room.   I often think how fate comes in and enhances the scene.  No, I mean life. 

The Evening Series: Tuesday, August 1, 2017

The Evening Series: Tuesday, August 1, 2017

As the darkness takes over the sky, I notice the music changes as well.  Michael Nyman’s music works in daylight.  His album of 1990 “The Kiss and Other Movements” is very much a morning piece of music.  It has rhythm and a direction which is onward and doesn't look back.  Which is ironic, because Nyman always has a glance toward the past concerning his music.  Chamber music made for minimalist rooms with a large window.  Birds outside seem to respond to this album in a lively manner.  I like to play music loud, and I usually open the windows up in the room so the sound can travel beyond the four walls.  It maybe my imagination or my fantasy coming to life, but it seems birds come over to our window sill to listen to Nyman’s music.  I have to make sure that they don’t fly inside the room because we don’t have screens on our windows.  Once, a bird did fly in, and it took me the whole afternoon to get it out of our home.  The bird that flew in was a California towhee.  They tend to knock on windows because they are reacting to their reflection.  Once inside the house, they are bewildered. I first, used a broom to try to push it to an open window.  But the bird panics, and eventually goes to even a higher location.  So unable to reach the bird, I just open all the windows, and within time, it finally sees its reflection, and once that happens, they leave through the window.

The late afternoon becomes a horror show.  Particularly in the living room, because by 4 to 6 pm the sun directly hits the space, and although the temperature is not high, it’s very uncomfortable to sit in the room.  I tend to play Serge Gainsbourg in the late afternoon, and especially music he recorded in the early 1960s.  The album of that time of day is Gainsbourg’s “Confidential” which is breezy, swings, but has strong melodies.  Electric guitar, stand-up bass, and Gainsbourg’s voice.  What can be better in a hot, bright room?   The living room is large enough in that I can move around the room to avoid the direct sunlight that comes through the windows.  We have wooden shutters, but they’re original (house built in 1937) and quite beaten up through its years blocking the sun.  Some of them are utterly useless, and the sun comes in invited as well as uninvited.  What’s interesting about Los Angeles weather is very much the same every day, so one can directly predict when the sun will hit the room.  I’m usually dancing with the direct sunlight.  More of a waltz as I move five feet here or there to find shade.  “Scenic Railway” one of the outstanding songs from “Confidential” drifts from the speakers as if it is having a sun stroke.   I like to take naps in the afternoon.  The coolest and most shady is under the table.  So I often lay down on the wooden floor, facing the ceiling, and take a nap for fifteen-minutes.

Around 7:15 P.M., darkness takes over the room.  It’s time for wine.  We have no direct electric lighting in the living room, so light comes from an old lamp in the corner as well as street lighting outside our window. It is a crime light, so it gives out a yellow tint.  My favorite drinking music, and in the evening (mind you) is the NASA Voyager Space Sounds.  These are sounds that come from outer space.  It’s the sound of ionized gas or plasma that is heard outside the Voyager.  The sound is ghostly, even haunting in its intensity.  One can think of it as ambient music, but while listening to it in the darkened room, I find myself being thrown into the sound as if someone throws catnip to a kitten.  I’m drawn to the music as I stick my head out the window to see the stars.

From a distance, walking from house to house to driveway I can see a pair of coyotes strolling down my street.  These two Flâneurs or as I like to call them, boulevardier, and I imagine looking for food.  I don’t have any pets, so I’m not alarmed, but still, I find them sinister.   There is nothing beautiful about them, and their habit of staying in the shadows during the daytime hours, or brazenly walk down an urban street in the nighttime always gave me a sense of dread.  Ever since the drought, coyotes have been getting closer to human’s houses, and of course, the attraction to smaller pets is a magnet for these dogs of the night.  Still, I can’t keep my eyes off them  One of them comes up to my staircase.  I have seen these animals run into people’s yards or entrances, but I have always dreaded the thought that they will come to my property.   I put the music of the Voyager loud, in hopes that the coyotes will realize that humans are living in these homes.  What’s alarming is I hear a sound of a coyote digging outside my front door.  Then the sound of sniffing. After a few minutes of silence, besides the music, of course, I hear a knock on the door.

I  didn’t answer it.  I then heard a yelp.  I stood by and kept an eye on the door. I also went over to the window to close them.  Although we are far above the street level, I had this sudden fear of a coyote jumping from the road to our window pane.  Impossible, but the imagination doesn’t always take logic.  I was slightly tipsy when I went to bed.   As I laid on the bed, and top of the bed sheets and blankets, I kept hearing sounds outside the house.  I got up, and I saw the two coyotes staring at me through the window.

I have read that Freud had a dog that stayed with him during his sessions with patients.  His dog was also aware of time in that the animal would head toward the door when the session was coming to a close.    I now wonder if the two coyotes out there are perhaps waiting for me to leave the house.  Or to guard me in the case of imminent danger?  The truth is I don’t want to think.   I want to live.  I want to think what the night brings to me.  The two coyotes are the answer.

- Tosh Berman

The Evening Series: Monday, July 31, 2017

I’m pretty happy-go-lucky middle aged man till the evening comes rowing on toward the end of the daylight hours.  It is then, while drinking my first glass of wine, that my thoughts turn inward, expressing the dread that is very much not noticeable during the daylight hours.  Each sip I take brings me to a place that is more real than my mornings.  It is if I have been avoiding the surf, and finally, I can get on the wave, and let it ride me to a place that’s home.  Which by any terminology will be called despair. 

I spend most of the daylight hours at the Central Library here in Los Angeles.  I have been working on a novel about a writer who based his life on the presence of Robert Benchley.  Not being him exactly, but a character who approaches the sensibility of a Benchley in his life and writing.  When I show my novel-in-progress to others, they have all commented on Benchley - why and who?   I’m mostly interested in the “what” than the who or why of such commentary.  Benchley represents the humor of the world that is not funny.  I don’t see the joke during the daylight hours, but when in the home or at a bar nearby the library I often focus my thoughts on the world that exists in front of me, and how one can be funny inside that particular landscape.   It’s no joke, you know?

As the tick-tock of the moments go on, and I’m in front of my laptop, which has to be the most unromantic method to writing, I think of the family unit and what it means to a writer describing the moments as they pass.  Impossible to capture the fleeting thoughts as I drink more.  Truman Capote, a well-known lover of the sauce that takes one to other places, wrote that it is impossible to write when drunk.  Like his commentary that Kerouac wasn’t writing, just typing, he is clearly wrong.  As the cloud becomes thick with deep insight into a memory that comes and goes, like a humming refrigerator in the middle of the night that keeps one awake.  The thought comes back to the family and what that means to me, and therefore the world.  I come to a conclusion after looking at this page for an hour that the family could care less about the world. 

If you can see me now, one would notice a downturn frown on my face.  Happiness is now a distance, and as I look outside the darkness, it seems to me to be a portrait of yours truly.  Handsome yes, but sad as well.   My time spent in hell, which looks very much like heaven, is my prison. I made these four walls with additional space for windows all around me, and I have no one else to blame except yours truly.   I read Benchley to get insight and reflect on a time when social drinking was looked upon as an active series of steps to one’s betterment.  Now, I can see the false footsteps to that ladder to success.  It’s a myth or image supplied by my ego and taste.  I remember reading a quote by a wise older man.  He said:  “Look down at me, and you see a fool; look up at me, and you see a god; look straight at me, and you see yourself.”   Which proves that one should at first, be standing up than sitting down.   And second, never look at someone straight on.  It’s best to study that person perhaps behind their back. 

I will sit here, drink wine, till the bottle is empty.  Then I will go to bed.  I will dream. Everything will be fine and dandy in the morning.  Till the evening comes again (and again). 

The Evening Series: Saturday, July 29, 2017

The Evening Series: Saturday, July 29, 2017

The evening is unnerving.  There is the sense of dread just right before I fall asleep.  It feels like the dream world is knocking on my waking consciousness and waiting to enter.  The entrance is fearful because I don’t feel that there is an exit.  Once I enter the opening of this world, it will close on me, and I will be held a prisoner in this world of not of my making.  I'm aware that there is a bridge between the two worlds, but I also feel like I'm living two lives in one.   The images that come to me at nighttime are ones of extreme textural sensitivity.   I recall in a dream that someone gave me a book, and the volume had regular pages, but also a series of round circular holes that are cut out.  One can read the book, but you also read the following page, due to the hole, which is in the center of the page.  The placement of the text was a way of looking into the future, or logically on the next page. 

Food is never part of my dreams.   I don’t recall ever having a meal or eating food in my dream world.  I wonder about this because the food is so sensual, and one would think that once in the dream world, the pleasures or fears of tasting a meal would for sure be part of the landscape.   Objects like books come in and out of the picture, and again, with vivid detail.  I often wake up from a dream and find myself that the book I have dreamed about doesn’t exist.  One of the reasons why I like to write is to obtain the book that comes with my dream. 

The other odd thing concerning my dreams is that a lot of times it’s a third person perspective.   Sometimes I’m one of the characters in the dream narrative, but it’s not me telling the story.  It’s like watching a film in a movie theater, where I’m just a passive viewer.   In most cases it’s a thriller, where I’m (as a character) is chased or I’m chasing someone. The incident or situation can be in a danger zone, but as a viewer, I never feel panic or being upset by what is unfolding in front of my eyes. 

I dream of people I know, and I don’t know.  The ones I do know seem to be individuals that I don’t think about in my current life.  For instance, last night I had a dream about someone I used to work with, but for the life of me, cannot remember his name.  His presence in the dream is powerful, and what I remember of his personality is very accurate. I never think of him.  He doesn't matter to me now, nor in the past, except it’s someone I had to see due to my occupation at the time, but also the daily schedule of seeing someone you work with in the workplace.  

I have had sexual encounters in my dream.   Very satisfying and not always with a woman I know in my waking life.   The sensuality of the moment is that I’m enjoying myself greatly, and I’m not thinking of anything except the pleasure I’m getting out of the sexual encounter.  When I wake up from such a dream, I never feel depressed or sorry to be back in bed.  Instead, I  look at the ceiling and its shadows due to the lighting of the trees outside my window.  Sexual dreams are the only passage between the two worlds where it's a pleasurable experience. 

On the other hand looking at the digital clock across the way makes me think of time passing.  Or in the future, for instance, what needs to be done for the next day.   I fall asleep, and then I have a series of dreams that are anxiety driven due to schedules being missed or appointments that I have forgotten.  I tend to have embarrassing moments such as being naked in a place or situation, where I clearly shouldn’t be in the nude.  There is a feeling that if I ignore my nakedness, then everyone else in my dream will do the same.  So no one calls me out being in the nude, but I’m entirely conscious that I’m naked and the fear of being discovered in such a state causes anxiety.   What’s interesting to me is that I have no fear of being found naked in the awakened life.  Now, thinking of it, I think it’s more about keeping secrets.  The exposure or having some form of truth coming out that can harm you.  That’s the fear.  I have many secrets. 

- Tosh Berman

The Evening Series: Thursday, July 27, 2017

The Evening Series: Thursday, July 27, 2017

I spend the day looking forward to 7 pm.  Cocktail hour.  I think if I stood in front of the blank computer screen it would make the time go faster.  It doesn’t.   I pretty much schedule my day on a daily basis.  I know exactly when I wake up, which is 7 am, and I know when I will have my first cup of black coffee.  I then start writing, or to be honest, think about writing, and then when I put my first word on the page, it’s lunch time.  I then have lunch which is usually something that puts me to sleep. I go to the couch and read, which means I close my eyes for 40 minutes or so.  When I wake up or should say, when I leave the couch, I come back to the computer to do some more work.  I put the first word on the page, and then think about changing that word.  This goes on until 7 pm when I have my first sip of white wine. 

When I am drinking wine, I don’t want to see or hear from anyone.  One may call me on the phone, but there shall be nothing but silence on the other end.  I reserve this time for me and my thoughts.  Not saying that this is anything different from the daily writing chore I put myself through.  To focus on oneself takes a great deal of concentration.  I think therefore I am. 

I have been working on a short story that is taking a long time to complete.   From the very first day, I hated the story.  Yet, I felt compelled to finish the narrative.  It’s a strange thing to struggle on a piece of writing that one hates, and going through the motion of trying to complete it.  You have no interest in the story, so, therefore, who can appreciate this tale that has no or gives no pleasure whatsoever.  It’s maddening.  The waste of the hours to work on such folly is a terror.  Then again, there are pieces of literature that I have been working on and off for the last 40 years.  It sucked 40 years ago, and it still sucks today.  Why it was just yesterday that I added a sentence to the work that has no beginning and no end. 

As the daylight gets darker, and head towards the night, I think about the day, and how I wasted it with little or no effort on my part.  My existence has no meaning to no one  Yet; my only friend is the minutes that pass me by, without even looking back.  I’m on the Titanic, and as I go down, I notice time is mocking me from a great distance.  If I stay alive, it is only to mark my time here as a form of habit.  I collect time like a little girl who keeps up her Barbie collection in order.  

I have memories of the time that is neither good or bad.  Sentimental feelings went down the bathtub drain, as I sat in the luke warm water complimenting the passage of time.  The subject matter of time, as the foundation for one’s narrative, is a tricky procedure.  How does a writer express the anxiety that comes with moments passing by, and not coming to any conclusion, except that the journey from Point A to Point B is an emotional disaster?   The adventure is the destination to who knows where.  “Ordinary life doesn’t interest me.”  I realize that I have no interest whatsoever in anything to do with entertaining another.  For the reader, I can’t imagine the horror of reading this text.     

- Tosh Berman

The Evening Series : VOL 5 (For Tom Neal)

I do love the pitter-patter of the rain tonight.  When there is a scent of moisture in the air, that is the time when I'm happy.  The dead bodies that lay throughout this house seem to me like it was from another time or even place.  What has been done has been done, and I can't cry over spilled milk.   I open the owner of this home's laptop and start writing in it.  I presume the authorities will read this in due time.  I may either check myself out or just leave the premise. 

Back to the rain.  Ever since I was a boy, I seem to feel great comfort in the storm.   The more it raged, and destroy, the more happiness came to my heart.   Even the leaks over my bed brought a sense of adventure to my life.   When I walk through an urban area, I often see a homeless person in a cardboard shelter, but you know that they are getting soaked.  I know what it's like to be wet and in a bed or sleeping area.   As a kid, I never wanted to fully wake-up, so the rain pitter-patter on my bed till it got soaked.  I just stayed in bed and counted the raindrops hitting my forehead. For some odd reason, I never got sick.   While walking I like looking at the wet streets reflecting the lights -it's like they are dancing on the pavement.   The sound of the rain is a beautiful piece of music.  Like millions of others, I feel like Gene Kelly in "Singing in the Rain."  I just want to dance till not only soaked but dead.   The end of time, the end of everything -it's blissful to be at that point. 

In a few days, there will be a new sheriff in the main house.  They're going to clean up Dodge and other towns.   Sadly, I won't be around much anymore.   Neither a lot of people.  No pun intended on the folks who lived in this home.   One thing I have notice is that it just takes only one incident to change everything.  You can plan.  Or you don't plan.  Still, just by having the stars set in a specific position can change one's presence, and I guess future as well.   One lesson I have learned is always to lock your door at night.  Even the most friendliest neighborhoods can have a tragedy take place.  It's always shocking.  I'm glad it's me that brought the news and not someone else.  

Well, I should mozy on.  It's getting late.  Don't want to bore the fans out there.  My hair is still wet from the rain.  Before I leave, I'll go to the bathroom and comb my hair into a sweet pompadour and then go into the night. 

- Tosh Berman

The Evening Series No. 4

The Evening Series Volume 4

Tonight, I feel like someone turned the oxygen off.  Stuffiness has its decaying scent. Not mildew exactly, but the scent of life not happening.  Which pretty much describes my life.  The job I have already, pretty much pays the bills, but nothing left over for fun and relaxation.  So in place of relaxation and fun, I began to work on a journal.   At first, I decided to get a blank notebook - but one with attractive grade of paper, but also much needed lines.  My handwriting is kind of bad, so I need something to keep my lettering straight and to the point. And since I don’t have a lot of money, I purchased an expensive blank (but lined) journal.  In my mind, since I made a financial commitment on the tools of the trade (expensive pen as well) then that means I will produce great literature.  So far, the page has been blank. 

If time is money, I’ll be super broke by now.  I have noticed that I look at the clock on the wall, more than the empty blank page in front of me.  At times, I feel like a narration that is just waiting to be cracked open.   Then again, I do look at that clock often.  The big hand moves faster than the little hand.  And my hand grasps the pen and it’s not moving at all.   I put on Michel Legrand’s “Ballade de Polly Maggoo” on the turntable, because it’s getting closer to midnight, and I haven’t the foggiest idea why I have the notebook opened in front of me.  It’s not drawing me closer to the pen or paper.   If I stare at the two items on my table, it looks like they are pulling away from me.  

My memory is very great, and part of the problem is I can’t feel or tell which memory is more important than the other.   I start thinking maybe I should write something about my life, but then again, don’t you need to have a life to write about it?   Clearly I did things, but living that life is one thing, and then writing it down is a totally different matter.   I’m pretty sure I was happy when I went through the motions of my life, but writing, I feel a sense of disappointment, that perhaps, I could have done more.  And we are taught early that more is the best. But looking back, it seems not that much has happened.

The notebook’s blankness is now taunting me.  I used to own a series of leather bound miniature notebooks to take with me so I can jot down an idea or image if I’m out of the house.  But, not surprisingly, the blank notebook pretty much stayed in my back pocket of my jeans, and often while walking in Echo Park Lake, I would pretend to write something down on the blank page, because I would see people all around me, writing with great intensity.  The only thought in my head at that moment, is that I wish that I had some sort of passion - something to burn me up.  Depression, pure joy, even a boredom with many textures and levels - but all I felt was nothing.  So pretending just made me feel ‘OK’ at that moment, and occasionally I would stroke my chin, like I’m in deep thought.  But the truth is, I was totally acting.  I’m such a fake, and then I try to analyze that, so I can write on that subject - but all I come up with is a blank.  Void.  Empty.  Natta.  

It is at that moment, that I put the notebook aside, and open my laptop. I go on Facebook, to see what Kim is doing.  She writes on film, especially Noir, and is very much an expert on the cinematic arts.  She also can’t sleep at night, and tend to post on Facebook around 2 am, and since it is the twitching hour, I want to see what she’s up to.  Gene Wilder.  She’s posting images of Gene Wilder.  He died.  She likes Gene Wilder.  She likes him a lot.  I never seen a Gene Wilder film.  I have heard of him, and I saw images of him on the internet and in various coming attractions throughout my life, but I never actually seen a film by, or him in it.  The reason why I haven’t seen his films, is because I can’t stand comedies.  I can’t laugh at the movies.  Why?  I don’t know.  I went on a date once to see a Laurel and Hardy series of short films, and my date was laughing like an insane person, but I just kept quiet and ate our pop corn.  In fact, I pretty much ate the entire bag, because she was laughing, and I had nothing better to do then munch on the food, and I wasn’t even hungry. 

I actually wanted to go out to the movies with Kim, but I was afraid to ask her. Not in fear of not accepting my date, but her saying yes.  I feel it would have been my responsibility to actually select a film, that I think she may enjoy watching.   And since comedy is out of the question, what kind of film do you take a woman, or beyond that, a person to?   She has a quirky taste, so I imagine it could have been the recent “Batman VS. Superman” film, or even “Suicide Squad.” But is that really a good date movie, and especially with someone like her who has sophisticated taste in films?   I didn’t ask her.  Or ask her out.  Which solved that problem quickly.  

The page is still empty.  Yet, somehow I feel like I lived a life.  But not an actual life, but one that’s in my head. When people read my works in general, they notice that my writing is about nothing.  Yet in that void, one can taste the most devious fruits, that seem to be too good.   In reality, they have been rotting on my kitchen table. They are used more for visual appearance, than something tasty to eat.  So, in that sense, my writing will nourish your head, but leave your body nothing.  I throw the notebook aside, and I get off the chair.  I approach the window looking at the night.  It’s dark.  My eternal canvas.

- Tosh Berman

The Evening Series: Volume 3

The Evening Series : Volume 3

When the sun goes down, and the stars come out, it is at that moment I put on Elvis’ “Worldwide 50 Gold Award Hits: Volume 1” on the turntable.  The recordings are in Mono, and what I have here are the original Mono mixes.  The sounds bounce out of the speakers with a certain amount of intensity.   I met Elvis once when I was a child.  He and his buddies used to play touch football in our neighborhood park every Saturday when he was in town.  “Town” being Los Angeles.  To be specific I’m talking about Beverly Glen Park on Beverly Glen Blvd .  He would show up late afternoon, and they would play till the darkness came.  They left at dusk in a series of expensive looking cars, and it was like seeing ghosts during the daylight hours. 

The last time I saw Elvis was not long ago.   I was at the Four Oaks cafe having a beer, late at night, you know around 11ish.  That’s late for me. I have to get up early for work, especially on the weekends.  He came in by himself, and there was no one else in the cafe.  He took the counter seat across from me.  He told the waitress behind the counter that he wanted to have a coke in a bottle.  She served him the coke by getting it out of the fridge and sliding it across the countertop - and he caught the bottle before it was about to fall off the end of the counter.  He said to her “Thanks Mam.” He looked at me, and I looked at him.  She looked at her dish towel while drying a dish or two.

As I was finishing off my beer, he called out to me ‘hey do you want another?” I just smiled at him and said “sure.” He then got the waitress’s attention, and said “give Tosh another beer.” I was surprised that he knew my name, even though we have met briefly in the park, it was some time ago.   “Tosh, do you mind if I sit with you?” I said “sure, come around.” I then asked afterwards saying that, “or do you want me to come over there.” He smiled, and made a gesture to get up, but then sat down again.  As I got up, he then got up, and I sat down.  We did this for a few more seconds, and we began to laugh hysterically.   He then said, “tell you what, I’ll meet you half-way.” I said “OK.” “I’ll count up to five, and we will both get out of our seats at the same time.” I counted one, he counted two, I counted three, he counted four, I counted…. Five!  And we both got out of our seats by five, and we sat in the middle of the counter bar. “Wow that was something.” Elvis had a funny way of phrasing the most obvious thing, at the right time and place. 

There was a juke box in the corner of the cafe. I asked him if he minded if I played a song. He said “sure go ahead.” I went over and found a song by The Cramps called “Human Fly.” I put the quarter in, and the needle hit the vinyl, and I began to shake. I started to dance for about a few seconds, and then Elvis got up and started dancing with me.  We danced really close without touching each other.  He took out his comb, which was like a switchblade. He opened it and began to comb his hair while dancing.  He then handed me the comb and I put it through my hair as well. I can sense the hair cream on his comb, and it felt good to put it in my hair.  After the song was over, we went back to our seats. 

I bought him another Coke.  I immediately thought of the Frank O’Hara poem about drinking Coke.  Elvis knew the poem and he said that he loved it.  He started to recite it to me:

“Having a Coke with You

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne

or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona

partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian

partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt

partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches

partly because of the secrecy…”

I told him to stop there.     

We sat there for a while without saying a word to each other.  I still had his comb in my hand, and I gave it to him.  He took it, and put it through his hair, just once.  He drank down his coke in one gulp, sort of burped, and he then smiled at me.  He got up, and rubbed my two shoulders, and said “I’ll be seeing you.” And I said, something like “Yeah.” He walked out of the cafe, and went straight into the darkness outside. He disappeared.  I finished my beer, and I got up, and I too went into the darkness.  Who knows what we will find in total darkness?  

- Tosh Berman, July 23, 2016 (7:30 PM to 8:30 PM)  (Poem by Frank O’Hara)

The Evening Series : Volume Two

Evening Series: Volume 2

One night I was in the desert, on my way to Las Vegas, when all of a sudden my car died. I didn’t want to get out of my car, because I felt that it would be like walking on Mars without a spacesuit. The car’s battery was dead, or it was playing dead - either way, I sat in my car and pretend this wasn’t happening. My headlights were out of course, so the only reflection of light that came, was a passing car speeding across the two lane highway. There was no way I could flag a car down, because I didn’t exist, due to the speed of the passing car. When I finally got out of the car from the passenger side, I saw nothing but blackness on blackness. Blackness itself was endless and after a while I started to see shapes or something of a 3D effect. I really couldn’t see the hand in front of my face.

When my car died I think it was around 11:00 PM. But I’m not sure, because when I drive on a straight highway I lose all sense of time, due to the road itself as well as the blackness that is out there. One thing I noticed when I stepped out of the car was the sound of tumbleweeds tumbling across the landscape. I didn’t feel there was anything alive out there, yet, I felt logically there must be something breathing on the blank vista in front of me. The air was non-existent. I could breathe easily, but I felt there was no wind or even a breeze. Yet over time, I could feel that there was movement in front of me, when I faced away from the highway.

There were very few cars going by. Due to keep my mind on something I counted up to six cars, but got bored, because there was a lot of time (or that seems to be the case) between cars. I tried to think of a melody, but oddly enough nothing came to mind. I became hyper-aware of the sounds of the desert. Everything was low-volume, but now I noticed that there were consistent sounds.

When I looked up in the sky, there was nothing but stars, and then more stars. There were no clouds and since I was only wearing a white American Apparel t-shirt, Levi 501’s and black tennis shoes, the temperature was quite comfortable. I started to think if I die right now, it will be OK. But I was worried to see the sunrise, because I felt I was trapped here, and I may die under the exposure of the sun. All of sudden, I had thoughts of Dr. John McTeague and his one-time best friend, Marcus Schouler, from the film “Greed, ” fighting to the death under the hot sun and in the desert. I have only read about "Greed," and seen its film stills, but if you asked me at a party if I have seen it, I for sure would tell you I not only seen it, but saw the original five and a half hour version.

As I stood there, leaning on my car, it was the first time I really thought about dying. I had Arrowhead water in a plastic bottle, so I felt I could make it last throughout the night, still, I had a hunch my life would either be totally changed or by morning I’ll be dead.

I started to imagine vultures eating my meat, and I wondered if they peck you while you’re still alive or you have to be dead. I have read that a vulture can’t really eat a healthy animal or human. They usually wait till another animal or larger scavenger attacks the body. After they are finished with the meal, then they go in and take what they need. Also, it seems that they projectile vomit, not as a weapon against another beast, but to unload their stomach so they can fly off easier.

I don’t know how long I stood there and just thought about this. All I know is I looked into the darkness hoping to see myself, or a reflection. But the landscape does not acknowledge you. The viewer is really in the mercy of the landscape. I was thinking of going back inside my car to find a pencil and piece of paper and perhaps write my final words, but all of sudden, I just didn’t care anymore. I finally accepted that I exist in darkness, and therefore I wanted the night to swallow me before the daylight. I have nothing more to say.

-Tosh Berman (8:30 PM - 9:30 PM)