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: 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

April 12, 2017 (Tosh's Diary)

April 12, 2017 (Tosh's Diary)


It's Wednesday, and I'm waiting for the mail.  My day is, waiting.  I wake up due to the sun coming up, and I move around the house to avoid the intense and direct sunlight.  It is not until around 7 PM where I feel I can stay still and place my body on the seat facing Waverly Drive.

Once the sun goes down, I feel more alive. Perhaps due to its cocktail hour at that time.   The first sip of white wine drains all my anxiety away.   I feel guilty about spending money on vinyl records, but it's one of the great pleasures in my life where I can sit in front of the turntable, with headphones on, and play an old record, that clearly has a lot of history on it.  The album may have been at the very least in one household, but perhaps two.

 I remember in the 80s I sold my records to get credit to buy new albums.  It was the only way for me to afford in getting a new record.  At that time, it was Aron's Records on Melrose, but I often regret in letting go records that mean a lot to me.  It's mostly an impulse on my part that when I want something new, I just trade in what I feel I can trade in at that moment.  I'm happy to get the new record, but it always comes with a profound sense of regret.

The wine drinking now is very much like the sun moving in a 12-hour day, it's just a reminder that time is moving on.   I sense a significant loss of wasted time, but that comes down to the nature of doing work, and on a schedule.  As I wander around the house to avoid the sunlight, I plan to sit myself down to write.  Within 12 hours I very much want to write something special or original. Or if anything else, something that will bring importance to whoever reads the text.   On the other hand, the truth is, I just want to make a presence within those hours to prove that I can be productive.   Alas, I often fail.

As mentioned, I feel close to Stephen Bannon.  We did arrange a meeting early this year, but we never met up.  Although I don't have proof, I suspect he deliberately ignored me.   I can feel his presence hooking me, and pulling towards his direction.  But then he rejected me, not by words, but by expressing no communication or clearly expressing the fact that I have no meaning in his life.  It's ironic that he's getting the same treatment from President Trump and his family.   They use you for your ideas, and once finished, they throw you back into the ocean.   He and I are like bloated whales, that are stranded on a beach.   I was thinking of approaching him again, now that he has been rejected, but decided that would be cruel on my part.   I sit here and get angry, but what good is it to add misery to his already miserable existence?  This is what I think about, when drinking a glass of Charles Shaw white, and listening to an old Move album on my hi-fi.

The Sunday Series: Sunday November 1, 2015

The Sunday Series

Sunday November 1, 2015

Sunday.  Dumb-day.  No-day.   All-day just thinking how boring Sunday is.  The relaxation of a whole population is perhaps the most negative aspect on what many consider to be the first day of the week.  To greet the new week in such a fashion, is like running full-force against a brick wall.   The only saving grace for me, is that the Downtown Library is open from 1 PM to 5 PM. At least in those four hours, there is a sense of bliss compared to the agony of the other 20 hours that exist on a Sunday.  I’m always shocked when I see the importance of “nothing” on our culture.   The blankness of the day, and I guess the fact that we don’t even get mail delivered on Sunday is a blessing to some.  A day without getting a bill.  Then again, I do see postal trucks around town delivering more likely Amazon “Advantage” purchases.   To be a consumer on a day off is like the work itself.

So boring, even dogs take a day off, and force their owners to walk them around the house.   I wonder if it’s the dog or the owner that makes the decisions in the household.  I suspect that a dog has a seductive power over the human, and therefore a master/slave relationship is at work.  From my window I see a pretty girl walking by with her dog, and I think “lucky pup.” As for me, I’m drinking the last bottle of Trader Joe’s “Charles Shaw” in the house, and wondering what happened to my finances.  Where did my world go.  “Do you remember Walter?” I don’t think he does, or his senile brain is thinking of memories that are made-up, and sadly, I’m not part of the big picture in his life. 

It is a day after Halloween.  I dressed up in a costume on one will ever figure out who it is.  Me.  The truth is, I have always worn a halloween costume, but no one has paid that much attention to it.  When I close my eyes, I have always taken on the role as the murderer.   It is the only profession where I felt suitable to be in.   In my private notebook, I have kept a list of people who I wanted to do away with.    In alphabetical order by last name.  Men and women, but oddly enough, more men are listed in my list of people of the soon-to-be-past.   I don’t know why I’m so gender-orientated.  I have heard from others, that they think of me as a homosexual.   I do admire Ronnie Kray, but who wouldn’t, with his good taste in glass eye-wear.  

As I sit here, getting slowly more drunk, I think of the opportunities I turned down, either due to fear of change, or the fear of not getting back from where I came from.  My whole world is really here, sitting by the round dining table, marking time, by doing nothing except drinking, if the worst, at the very least, the cheapest wine on the market.   One man’s high is another man’s hell.   I want to wish you a very happy Sunday, for those who take the day as a reflection or mediation.   As for me, I like to be medicated before I even put my foot down on the cold bedroom floor before leaving the bed.  

- Tosh Berman