Come on, world, inspire me! There are occasions in my life when I have to check the mirror by putting my nose close to it, to see if I’m still breathing. The room I’m in right now was built for consistent inspiration. There is a turntable on one corner with two gigantic speakers, and a window looking over Astro’s Diner on Fletcher and Glendale Boulevard. The bookcase is filled with books that I haven’t looked at in years. Yet, the spines of these books are laid out to inspire my writing sessions. But now, a sense of failure is creeping up on me, like a weed in an outside potted plant - it comes alive when you try to ignore it. The traffic noise outside is an unfluctuating reminder of a life that is spent indoors. What do I know of the world, except whatever is through my window, and what record is on my turntable? Other than that, I’m clueless.
“I’ve got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.” The fear of time passing, and just thinking of time as this abstract body of matter makes me fearful. I feel that “body” looking over my shoulder as I write, and the solitude I crave is not from the people in general, but time itself. I somehow woke up as a teenager, and somehow went to bed that same day as a senior. I don’t even want to think about tomorrow.
Gérard Philipe, the eminent French actor, was 37 when he died from liver cancer. His doctor never informed him that he was that ill, so he worked on, except one can notice fatigue in his facial expressions. He shared that fatigue with another actor in his last film, “Les Liaisons dangerousness” –Boris Vian, who that same year also died, but from a lifetime heart problem. Both had the same look as they were prepared to leave the room, and they couldn’t go fast enough. Time is fundamentally essential, and you have to either trick it or not let it take possession of your life. The sensibility of time is very much being stuck in a narrative, perhaps not of your own choice. Concerning time there is an end, but when? That is the essence of time itself. Otherwise, “life is one long process of getting tired.’
The mental journey from one end of my living room to the other side is a lifetime to me. I go through emotions like one changes pj’s during night sweats. “Extreme joy and extreme sorrow are indistinguishable beyond a certain point.” All I know is that I have to finish my writing and not let time take it away from me. I will take it, not time. “Go as far as you can see; when you get there, you’ll be able to see further.” - Tosh Berman
I only like film stars who are good looking. As Vernon Sullivan once said, “To hell with the ugly.” I don’t pay money to see ugly people showing their real life. I prefer the world of make-believe, where beauty exists over anything ugly. For me, the make-believe is real. I don’t understand how anyone can say that they prefer ugliness when they can have beauty in their lives. I was four-years-old when I saw my first movie in a movie theater. The film was “And God Created Woman,” and it was playing at the local movie theater in Larkspur California. It was a dramatic event for me because my father and mother had to argue with the theater’s manager about letting me in to see the film. At the time, it was “adults only,” but my father clearly wanted to see the movie, and he had me with him that night, and it was a family gathering, so what’s the problem? I remember he refused to leave the line or the box-office, and finally the manager caved in to his demand that I can see the film at his theater.
Being in a movie theater was a new experience, and I remember being struck with the largeness of the movie screen. I have no memory of the film’s plot at the time of the showing, but what I clearly remember is the image of Brigitte Bardot on the giant screen. At the time, living in a rural area of Larkspur, I could identify with the figures in the film. Not so much the men, but Bardot. I identified with her boredom and her naturalness in the way she dressed and expressed herself in the film. I cannot recall if the movie was dubbed or had sub-titles, it didn’t make a difference to me, because due to my youth, I couldn’t understand the story. I only realized the image of Bardot.
Besides my mom, who is an iconic beauty, the other woman in my life is Bardot. Not by my choice, but my father always had an image of her on the wall - usually in his work-space or studio. The pictures I remember being on the wall were Artaud, Cocteau, Nijinsky, and Bardot. I didn’t know any of these people, but I did know their names and faces. I knew one was a dancer, and it seems Cocteau did a bit of everything, and Artaud looked insane. But Bardot, I did know. Also, I remember in the household we had a book of photographs of Brigitte Bardot. It’s odd for the home, because we had books with words, and books on painting or beautiful photography - but never a book on an actress. I don’t remember any text in this book. Just one image after another of Bardot. This was in the late 1950s, so the photos were mostly when she was a teenager to her stardom in “And God Created Woman.”
Since I wasn’t reading the text yet at a premature age, I did love books. And my favorite book was the book of photographs of Bardot. My attraction to her was her beauty. I knew nothing of her life, and I did know she came somewhere not in the United States. I was most impressed with the images of her walking down a sunny street. I knew wherever the photos were taken; it must have been warm. She is wearing shorts, sunglasses and no shoes. Viewing these images, I could feel the warm weather even though it was cold and gray in Larkspur.
As of this date, she is 85, and I’m 65 this year. Twenty years apart. When I turned 20, she was still 39. I could have dated her! But the truth is our lives are just so distant from each other. It is funny how my life is still very close to the “ideal” of Bardot. Like my father, I have a photograph of her on my work-space, and later in life, I published a short piece of fiction by her one-time boyfriend Serge Gainsbourg, as well as a biography (written by Gilles Verlant) on the great composer and entertainer. Even though I never met her or yet seen her in person, I feel very close to her presence or image. She strikes me as a person who made her world, over some time. There is ugliness, but not by her design. Like a film editor, she accepted certain practices and images, and eliminated or left what she didn’t want on the film editor’s floor. The beauty of reflection is living in a world where ugliness is held back. My memories are as pure as the sunshine somewhere in the South of France.
Come on world, inspire me! There are occasions in my life when I have to check the mirror by putting my nose close to it, to see if I’m still breathing. The room I’m in right now was built for consistent inspiration. There is a turntable on one corner with two gigantic speakers, and a window looking over Astro’s Diner on Fletcher and Glendale Boulevard. The bookcase is filled with books that I haven’t looked at in years, and yet, the spines of these books are laid out to inspire my writing sessions. But now, a sense of failure is creeping up on me, like a weed in an outside potted plant - it comes alive when you try to ignore it. The traffic noise outside is an unfluctuating reminder of a life that is spent in doors. What do I know of the world, except whatever is through my window and what record is on my turntable? Other than that, I’m clueless.
“I’ve got a great ambition to die of exhaustion rather than boredom.” The fear of time passing, and just thinking of time as this abstract body of matter makes me fearful. I feel that “body” looking over my shoulder as I write, and the solitude I crave is not from the people in general, but time itself. I somehow woke up as a teenager, and somehow went to bed that same day as a senior. I don’t even want to think about tomorrow.
Gérard Philipe, the eminent French actor, was 37 when he died from liver cancer. His doctor never informed him that he was that ill, so he worked on, except one can notice fatigue in his facial expressions. He shared that fatigue with another actor in his last film, “Les Liaisons dangerousness” –Boris Vian, who that same year also died, but from a life-time heart problem. Both had the same look like they were prepared to leave the room, and they couldn’t leave fast enough. Time is essentially important, and you have to either trick it, or not let it take possession of your life. The sensibility of time is very much being stuck in a narrative, perhaps not of your own choice. With respect to time there is an end, but when? That is the essence of time itself. Otherwise, “life is one long process of getting tired. ’
The mental journey from one end of my living room to the other side is a lifetime to me. I go through emotions like one changes pj's during night sweats. “Extreme joy and extreme sorrow are indistinguishable beyond a certain point.” All I know is that I have to finish my writing, and not let time take it away from me. I will take it, not time. “Go as far as you can see; when you get there, you’ll be able to see further. ”
I only like film stars who are good looking. As Vernon Sullivan once said “To hell with the ugly.” I don’t pay money to see ugly people showing their real life. I prefer the world of make-believe where beauty exists over anything that is ugly. For me, the make-believe is real. I don’t understand how anyone can say that they prefer ugliness, when clearly they can have beauty in their lives. I was four-years old when I saw my first movie in a movie theater. The film was “And God Created Woman,” and it was playing at the local movie theater in Larkspur California. It was a dramatic event for me, because my father and mother had to argue with the theater’s manager about letting me in to see the film. At the time, it was “adults only, ” but my father clearly wanted to see the film, and he had me with him that night, and it was a family gathering, so what’s the problem? I remember he refused to leave the line or the box-office, and finally the manager caved into his demand that I can see the film at his theater.
Being in a movie theater was a totally new experience, and I remember being struck with the largeness of the movie screen. I have no memory of the film’s plot at the time of the showing, but what I clearly remember is the image of Brigitte Bardot on the giant screen. At the time, living in a rural area of Larkspur, I could identify with the figures in the film. Not so much the men, but Bardot. I identified with her boredom and her naturalness in the way she dressed and expressed herself in the film. I cannot recall if the film was dubbed or had sub-titles, it didn’t make a difference to me, because due to my youth, I couldn’t understand the story. I only understood the image of Bardot.
Besides my mom, who is an iconic beauty, the other woman in my life is Bardot. Not by my choice, but my father always had an image of her on the wall - usually in his work-space or studio. The images I remember being on the wall were Artaud, Cocteau, Nijinsky, and Bardot. I didn’t know any of these people, but I did know their names and faces. I knew one was a dancer, and it seems Cocteau did a bit of everything, and Artaud looked insane. But Bardot I did know. Also I remember in the household we had a book of photographs of Brigitte Bardot. It’s odd for the household, because we had books with words, and books on painting or fine photography - but never a book on an actress. I don’t remember any text in this book. Just one image after another of Bardot. This was in the late 1950s, so the images were mostly when she was a teenager to her stardom in “And God Created Woman.”
Since I wasn’t reading text yet at the premature age, I did love books. And my favorite book was the book of photographs of Bardot. My attraction to her was her beauty. I knew nothing of her life, and I did know she came somewhere not in the United States. I was mostly impressed with the images of her walking down a sunny street. I knew wherever the photos were taken, it must have been warm. She is wearing shorts, sunglasses and no shoes. Viewing these images, I could feel the warm weather even though it was cold and gray in Larkspur.
As of this date, she is 80 and I’m 60 this year. Twenty years apart. When I turned 20, she was still 39. I could have dated her! But the truth is our lives are just so distant from each other. Yet, it is funny how my life is still very close to the “ideal” of Bardot. Like my father, I have a photograph of her on my work space, and later in life I published a short piece of fiction by her one-time boyfriend Serge Gainsbourg, as well as a biography (written by Gilles Verlant) on the great composer and entertainer. Even though I never met her or even seen her in person, I feel very close to her presence or image. She strikes me as a person who made her own world, over a period of time. There is ugliness, but not by her design. Like a film editor she accepted certain practices and images, and eliminated or left what she didn’t want on the film editor’s floor. The beauty of reflection is living in a world where ugliness is held back, and my memories are as pure as the sunshine somewhere in the South of France.
I can’t even imagine what it was like to be in a movie theater in 1903 and to see “The Great Train Robbery, ” starring Broncho Billy Anderson. The film was written, produced, and directed by Edwin S. Porter, and Broncho Billy played at least three roles in this ten minute film. The film is renowned for its composite editing, camera movement and on location shooting. Also perhaps the first to use cross cutting, where two scenes are taking place but at the same time. “Broncho Billy was the first cowboy movie star, and to think that was only 111 years ago!
Cinema has consistently been a big part of my life. Ever since my dad took me to see Roger Vadim’s “And God Created Woman.” I think I was around three years old at the time, and my dad wanted to see this film badly, and it was playing at a small movie house (still there I believe) in Larkspur California. It was an odd experience for me because me going to the movie turned out to be a huge argument between my dad and the manager at the theater. He just wanted to refuse me entrance, due that I was a child, but my father insisted that he had every right to take his son (even though at 3) to see this Bardot experience. After making a fuss, and not compromising his stand, I was let in. What happened afterwards led me to a life-long love for Brigitte Bardot. In the nutshell, it also led me to Boris Vian, because Vadim was a friend of that genius and social light of Saint-Germain des Prés.
Bardot’s sexuality on the big screen and Broncho Billy aiming his gun towards the audience in “The Great Train Robbery” had the same effect on me. I was nicely devastated over the experience and to this day it has been a major influence or even fuel for my writings and thoughts. As a young adult, I became a huge fan of Russ Meyer’s work as well. To some he’s the ultimate sex film exploration filmmaker, but I have other thoughts about him than his reputation. What I really admire him for is his ability to take one to another world, and that landscape is Meyer-world. It has its own logic, rules, and aesthetic. I think it's similar to something like “Star Wars” or “The Hobbit.” Those types of films make their own world, and one enters that world knowing that they are going to live there. I feel exactly the same with Meyer, because being in his presence (via his films) I’m transported into a place that makes no sense to me, and that is the sole reason why I love his work so much.
I tend to love artists who transport me to their world, and I have to see everything through their eyes. The late and great Vivian Stanshall was another artist who made me appreciate the finer eccentricities of the British state of mind. Perhaps he was insane, but I totally understood the world, regardless of the fact that some of his commentary was totally foreign to me. But as they say in gangster films, I got the ‘drift’ of it all.
As an older and much more mature man than I was some years ago, I am almost embarrassed how I acted in front of women with my two friends Roger Vadim and Eddie Barclay. What we three had in common was drinks, music, literature, and...women. When the three of us got together a certain madness took over, that wouldn't happen if we were separated from each other. Thinking back now, it is scary.
There was a beautiful girl, whose name has stayed with me for many years now. Jenny Colon, whose name I like to think is more of a grammar issue than a body function, used to go out with a common friend of ours, Gérard. Or we should say he wanted to have her as a girlfriend. She sort of played with him in a rather cruel way, and when the three of got together we became obsessed with seducing her. While we were sitting at the Taboo club, drinking what I think was our third bottle of wine, we thought of a plan to invite Gérard and Jenny to my apartment that wasn't too far away from the club.
I remember the three of us had an argument what records we should be playing on my turntable. Eddie thought of Jacques Brel, but I wanted something more ambient sounding - we finally all agree on Fripp and Eno's "Evening Star" album. It was my theory that the pacing of the music was perfect for sex. It was quiet, but there were points in the music where there was a subtle amount of intensity building up, which to my experience was perfect while having intercourse with a woman. Once we agreed, and all three of us spent time cleaning and testing the sound of the recording, we cleaned up the apartment.
First things first was that we got rid of the chairs and tables. There would be only two choices here. Either standing up or laying on the floor or the bed, which was the only furniture in the room. It was small, there was this room, a small kitchen and toilet with a very small shower.
Gérard showed up with a bottle of wine, but as he entered us three looked behind him to see where Jenny was. I actually immediately left the apartment and went down the flight of winding stairs to see if she may be on the first floor for some reason. When I came back up, Gérard was in tears, saying that he and Jenny had an argument before leaving his place. The three of us looked at each other, and we just without saying a word, left the apartment, leaving Gérard alone with the bed and his bottle of wine.
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