SCARE-CROW

I meet Phoebe at the Christopher Street Pier. We lie on the grass among groomed, muscly, good looking gay men.
It is the eve of Gay Pride.

This afternoon, I feel like hell. I shared a bottle of wine with a friend two nights ago and my chemistry (these days) simply won't allow for it. It totally saps me. Two days later.

My throat is closed up and I am having difficulty speaking and I concentrate on Phoebe to prevent a growing panic.
My mind flashes to an ambulance making its way down the pier.

But my anxiety subsides as we recollect summers in Evanston Illinois, skinny dipping in Lake Michigan, the makes of the cars we had at school (convertible VW for me, old jalopy for Phobe)

Phoebe tells me about the classes she is taking (Psych and Alexander technique) and I complain to HER about my mysterious body. And as I complain (with my labored speech) Phoebe grows (quiet and still) listening to me as one does the sick and elderly.

I describe my ailments and my tricky mind wanders. I wonder if there will be anyone left who will want to spend time with me, who will not hesitate (ever so slightly) before agreeing to see me? And I also wonder how long I will keep this complaining up. I will simply have to get better (or) eventually ignore the whole issue and so will my attending audience.

Phoebe and I share a super rich sugar lemon cupcake by way of an earlier coffee date Phoebe had in the East Village.

But!

Charging down from the Bronx is a huge rain cloud! So we find our way off the pier and seek cover by the restrooms.

It pours. It downpours. It drenches.
All of this magical rain might be part of Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.

I am grateful for the rain.
Every day I say, "please let it rain."

I fall in with strangers under an awning at the concession stand. We are intimate and joyful in our predicament.
We are in that lovely place of having only one choice but to wait. We are free of our busy minds, of having to make choices about the best use of our time.

It is a relief.


The feel of other's wet clothing, the proximity of breath, the intimacy of conversation... about this rain, a subject we can all discuss freely, have opinions about, we are ALL allowed to express ourselves about the rain. We are all equal. We all have authority.

Teetering and unbalanced, I spoil this intimacy by stepping on a tiny woman's open shoed toes behind me. ( I must look drunk)

And.

It clears up in that humorous way, that awestruck way in which you marvel that the downpour ever really happened.
"My G-d! It stopped just like that?" you say to person nearest you. "Like it never rained at all!"

Phoebe and I make our way into the very West Vllage, she on foot, me on the Schwinn.

The villages is packed with restaurants and cafes but this makes choosing the right one ever so much more difficult. I suggetst the quaint & affordable "Bus Stop Restaurant" on the corner of Bethune and Hudson. It's old fashioned and with plain food.

I order an omelet and tea, Phoebe a BLT and a glass of Sangria!

"Go ahead and order it! I'll share it with you. I'll have a sip."

We talk about divorce & dogs. We tell competing dog stories.

The time my dog ate a large wedge of cheese. (Fondue surprise for the next few days)
Phoebe's dog liked her toys and would grab one in her mouth to greet anyone who rang the door.
When there was a doorbell on TV, her dog would grab a toy and run for the door and wait patiently.

Pet stories never fail to elicit an embarrassingly over-stretched grin on both the teller and listener.

(later I describe the recent substance of my days. I describe how I lose the day to sleep (staggering around after ten hours of sleep) and then my two hours of coffee on the couch in boxer shorts.

I wonder if I will regret telling Phoebe this later.

As we leave the Bus Stop, we notice that the New York air feels like the mountain air of Montana.

I totter toward my bike on locked up on Hudson as if it was I who had had the sangria.

Phoebe and decide that I am walking like the scare-crow from "The Wizard of Oz" which is just right

(or relevant or something)

because Michael Jackson played the scare-crow in the movie of "The Wiz" and Michael Jackson just died.

His music is playing on every radio station that I pass in the city, every radio station that Phoebe and I pass in the village, at the concession stand on the Christopher Street pier, in a parked Subaru on Bank Street, in the Bust Stop Restaurant on Bethune. And this feels just right too. Each one of hit songs is great to hear.

Sometimes, our country gets it right.

FOR PETE'S SAKE

Pete!
Charlie here.

Congrats on the New Beulah!
I really liked it. I saw Our Town the week before. Fun to be part of an expansive community for a couple hours.

Lot of talent up there. I enjoyed seeing Bob too.

And thanks for giving up your seat. It was great to see your Mom. She said she loved the film, that was great to hear.

I have had a weird year.
I have been dealing with a big health issue that came up out of the blue.
Thus, I haven't been my whole-hog (get out there) and just do it! - self. I have had to turn down stuff and take it easy.

I didn't want you to think I was blowing you off as a supporter.

I'm praying it all turns around and stops.

I bet the rest of the run will go well. More fullhouses? Impressive.
Have fun in the Fringe. If you can, go to a ton of shows, it makes you feel like downtown is a small theatre village.

Mums the word- Chalie

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hey Charlie!

Thanks so much for coming. I'm glad you liked the show. I really, really appreciate your support. Yes, hopefully we'll have two more nice big crowds. A fellow who writes a blog gave us a nice little write up...

(http://oneproducerinthecity.typepad.com/one_producer_in_the_city/2009/06/see-this-new-show-or-everybody-dies-.html )

...so that's cool.

I looked for you to say goodbye, but you had already left!

Yes. My mom LOVED the film. she thought, as always, you were absolutely wonderful. It's a great little film and I think we've got some good mileage out of it so far.

I am sorry to hear about your health. Please, keep me updated with as much or as little information as you see fit. I send my love your way and hope that this turns around and that soon enough you can be your whole-hog self once more.

I am leaving for CA on sunday to work on this fringe play for a couple weeks, then to minneapolis, then back to NYC once more. We must, then, catch up for real. If not, the angels will cry.

You are a good man, Charlie Roberts.

INSURANCE MESS

I spent yesterday ordering the bills by postage date, date of service, and money owed.

Today I color coded and made a chart repeats.

I called SAG. They told me I owed an amount that doesn't match any of the amounts on the bills.

They told me that they held up paying out any amount of money because they were waiting for a letter from my doctor at Columbia as to the nature of the problem. Columbia delayed the letter but did not delay billing me. So I have a pile of bills and four "I must insist that you pay now!" from a collection agency.

I called Columbia. They told me I didn't really owe anything, not much anyway.

I called the collection Agency. The collector, Diane, is gone through mid July on vacation.

This is a huge mess.

Wrong numbers, misinformation.
One operator at Columbia Presbyterian gave me the phone number to Goldman Sachs (twice).

I finally reached a nice woman in "Patient Finance". Her name was Evalia.
She told me the amount that SAG Blue Card PPO told me I owed, was wrong.
Columbia has not received anything from my insurance.
(What?)
She told me she would call off the collection agency (my credit rating won't be affected at this time) and to throw out most of the bills because they are all wrong. These bills are pink and blue.
They had been sending them to the wrong place (or something). We're going to talk again next Friday.
She liked me. I think my weak voice elicits sympathy.

Also, she told me,

Some of my payments go to doctors that have nothing to do with Columbia's billing department (for some reason).
They have their own billing. These bills are blue and white.
So I have to call them individually and make sure they are sending to the correct insurance address.
There are about five of them.

I shall obtain a note book (a dickensian ledger!) a tall brittle stool, a fountain pen with a nib, a banker's visor, and I shall add and subtract figures from the wad of invoices and bills (for chunks of time) every few days. At my leisure.

(Props & costumes help).

MIRACLE HEALING

"Father Emil Kapaun gave glory to God by following his call to the priesthood and thus serving the people of Kansas and those in the military," the prayer says. "Father Kapaun, I ask you intercession not only for Chase Kear... but that I too may follow your example of service to God and my neighbor. For the gifts of courage in battle and perseverance of faith, we give you thanks oh Lord."

http://www.kansas.com/news/story/861812.html?story_link=email_msg

LIGHT

A film writer emailed me to tell me he has written a part for me in his next film. A small one.

THOM GUNN

The Road Map

If I saw you liked that dull unhappy boy
and let you be, and did not react
to see you driving off together
to the country on Sundays
........................................ it was
to make your position indefensible
and, that established,
must not my own lack of blame
survive, copious?
(How can you answer back? You were in the wrong.)

I teased a schoolmaster when I was twelve
until his accumulated rage
was out of proportion to the offence.
My emotions drew up a road map.

Now my mind catches up and looks back.

And wreckages of trust litter the route
each an offence against me.
I gaze back
.................in hardened innocence.

Apartment 916

And so I sit on the couch in my boxers. I sit daily. My new job.

At night, I sleep forever.

In the morning, I get up, gamble a walk to the kitchen, make my daily cup of coffee. Each morning is a test to see if I can pick up the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal left outside my front door. It becomes more and more of a challenge. As I struggle to pick it up, my mind observes my old man struggle with a younger man's distance (my mind and body are no longer simpatico) "surely this is not so hard, it's a newspaper on the floor, pick it up! Will I fall? Will my legs give out? The mind dictates the body - but I am told to listen to my body, to pay heed to what my body is slowly revealing, this is the opposite of how I normally run things. Am I making this up for my TV Movie of the Week? Am I leaning into the tragedy? Do I imagine an audience watching my with pity? Am I writing my teleplay or screenplay?

I stagger to the couch. I fall back into the couch. I sit on the couch (feels so good on my bony ass and scraped away thighs and hips. I sit on the couch and I try to distract myself on the web, or by reading the arts sections in the Times, or checking my flickr account, or by reading facebook (Rob P. just bought a mini cooper and is mad at his bossy wife but his daughter is going to be a pop star- watch this clip)

(I will hide Rob)

My legs ache, my hips ache. This is a bad dream. (Until later when I am out and about and it doesn't exist)

So odd that it rains daily. I like it. I can count on it. No need for sunblock or sunglasses. The cool air feels familiar. Like I picked the wrong week to rent a house on Cape Cod or go camping in Maine, but I'm on vacation damn it, so I'll make the best of it.

It makes my prefab, unnatural New York apartment feel earthy and green. The cool wet air, the dark clouds hanging languorously peeking through my metal blinds. You are included in nature, in the natural order of things (the clouds and cool sea air tell me) even in your pat apartment that normally blocks all the smells and senses of earth and the natural order of the day, the cool earthy rainy air is present on twelfth avenue and 42nd street, nine stories up, in apartment 916.

NO ERRORS

New York is not the same city.

I locked up my bike on the corner of 14th and 8th Avenue for three days and two nights.

I cabbed back tonight expecting to see it cannibalized, a wheel missing or the handle bars gone.

But there it was, untouched, like I'd left it locked up at the school yard or the local YMCA.

Christian Scientists would say that it was there because our world reflects G-d's world, and with G-d there are no errors.

MALBEC

Susan, thank you for a lovely Sunday dinner.
Next time I'll host.

I'd been cooped up at home so it was nice to get out.

I love sitting on your patio in your garden.

I got home fine.
I'm watching a dvd of Australia and petting the cat.

xo

Charlie

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Charlie

I loved reading your blog. You are a good writer! You have a wonderful voice in your writing, honest, thoughtful, warm, brave and witty.
Like you.

Listen, another thought about the name and number I gave you. One thing you could find out about from this lady is services that might help you. So you may want to find out about those or have someone else find out, and I don't think you have to alter your decision about this "issue". Just a thought.

Also, how do I get to log on to your blog? Can you make me a friend with my aol address? Or should I join gmail? I really would like to follow.

Is Australia good? Is Aroo purring like a madman?

It was so great to see you. Thanks for coming all the way north. Next meeting: your house. When?

Okay, I'll shut up now.

nighty night. big hug.

Ms.Susan Maramalbec

___________________________________________________

Susan,

I open and close my blog. I want to chronicle? but I feel exposed.
The best writing is the most vulnerable but I am unsure of myself so I don't want to be exposed.

Good writing is more exposing than naked acting.
Funny that.

Given my present situation, I will write, because I like to make things.
So... I'll make a play, or a story, or a blog.

I'm trying to win a bike on a website.
http://www.inhabitat.com/2009/06/15/pimp-my-eco-ride-win-a-strida-sx-limited-folding-bike/

My entry is near the bottom.

Charlie

FOLLOW ME

Thursday night, I bike to the MOMA to see BUNNY LAKE IS MISSING. The film was directed by Otto Preminger in the '60s.
(I briefly met his daughter (or grand daughter?) on Fire Island last summer. I took her photograph on a pier with some friends. I should post THAT picture.

BUNNY LAKE IS MISSING is a creepy suspense thriller in the same world as Psycho and What Ever Happened to Baby Jane.
The film is in black and white, the editing is arty and slow. They spent money (back then) on interesting art/commercial films.

The performances are deliberate and large. Lawrence Olivier working away showing how smart and talented he is. Keir Dullea (at first) so cleverly awkward, I thought he was giving a bad performance.

I love those plinking piano or organ-harpsichord sounds introduced as the film gets creepier. So... of that era. Also used in the Stepford Wives, if I remember correctly.

Then on...

Saturday Night I took myself to another film, a documentary, "The Wind Mill Movie" at the Film Forum.

A documentary about a wealthy, Harvard educated, filmmaker and teacher attempting to make an autobiographical documentary. We follow him through the lush protected Hamptons, the SOHO of the 70's and 80's, various exotic countries. Some of the photography is gorgeous (the tanning women of the Hamptons, the nubile girls of Boston) ... worth the price of a ticket. The narrative kept my attention, but like the filmmaker himself, I wasn't sure how his story added up. We only saw one of his films. He was an important filmmaker but this aspects wasn't really emphasized (to me). He came off as a lying and spoiled artist adrift (at times). He made 16 documentaries?

Even so, his personal story is worth following.

But what I related to (in myself) and to other films like this one (TARNATION for example) is...

what is Dick Rogers (the filmmaker) trying to keep, to hold, to experience, by turning the camera on himself?
What did he gain? And what did he lose? I mean, not everyone does this. Is it a decent way to lead your life?
How much are you in your life if you are continually filming it?

(I wonder... truly thinking about myself)

I have boxes of tapes and films and photographs of me... of my OWN stuff.

What are Dick and I trying to do?
What does it all mean?
(In the long term)

At the end of the documentary, Dick Rogers dies (brain cancer).

I was not prepared.

I remained in my movie-theatre seat with the other (fifteen to twenty) people sitting in the dark and follow his thoughts on the nature of death and the meaning of the end.

I (reluctantly) followed along.

I think he said something like,

"in the end there will be no spirit lurking about, no ghost or soul, just this flickering movie I've created so that I might briefly come to life like a sort of movie induced seance."

Better get on my own film. (I thought queasily)

He talked about there not being enough time to finish this film. (A student of his at Harvard finished it)

During the closing credits, I had the feeling I was in trouble, like I hadn't studied for an exam or forgot an important deadline.

I tottered out. Gotta get home. (For what?)

And except for my walk, I forget that I must look okay and healthy.

Because,

a foreign man, slightly handsome, slightly overweight, slightly European, followed me out into the lobby and said...

" you are experiencing pins and needles, is that right?"

(He noticed my tottering)

I nodded meekly, a breathy weak laugh, as if he'd said the cleverest thing.

"Oh yes, YES, that's right." (ha ha, ho ho) I offered lamely.

He (charmed and delighted) - "oh ... I haven't had that since I was a kid."

More lame laughter from me and the European disappeared past the popcorn stand towards the restrooms.

I exit the theater looking for my bike, looking behind me, looking at my reflection in a window, looking inside me to make sure that I am okay with the sad ending of the film, and looking (oh so briefly) through the large windowed doors of the movie theatre to see if the European was going to follow me.