Thursday July 2nd, I meet (director and friend) Olivia.
She has dropped off food at my very tall high-rise on the very end of 42nd Street.
I had mentioned to her that I didn't want to be treated like "the ill" or I will become ill.
She reassures me that it is nourishment to heal, not to abet an illness.
But I am not at my glamourous high rise, I am at B&H on 33rd and 9th Avenue. I am at B&H to buy the FLIP video camera.
As I step into the B&H, I lose my balance (repeatedly) and a security guard grabs me by the elbow and won't let go.
The security guard is simple and thuggish and thinks I'm a rascal. He thinks I am out of control.
I tell him, "It's okay. It's okay, you can let go." (I am meek and this has some power over him)
"Man, you lookin' a little unsteady there."
"It's okay, I got it."
I totter to the mini video camera section.
(When I am out, I scout my destinations and prepare.
It may be a few yards away but I must plan, mentally)
While looking at various options (color and file size) of the FLIP, I get texts on my iphone from Olivia. She has delivered the food.
I text back to meet at the Cupcake.
I purchase my FLIP camera and bike back to the Cup Cake (going the wrong way on evil 9th avenue - more people are killed by cars and trucks on this stretch of 9th Avenue than any other part of the city)
At the Cupcake I am happy to see Olivia.
I have collaborated with her on so many plays and readings!
We have a history that came about through our work together here in New York.
We fall in easily.
She looks good (she will more than likely read this entry and so I tell her NOW that she I like the way she looks and I often appreciate her style)
and I guess... I look okay.
I have shaved my recent beard (too itchy, too distracting) and left a mustache ( a porn-stache)
"Nice mustache" Olivia comments.
"It's a porn stash!" This delights me. Porn stash! I am such an innocent (I think) that I enjoy playing freely with rank language.
We gather tea and coffee and I notice she carries a script.
(Ah yes, projects, plays, industriousness. People with futures. I remember that.
I make a mental note to talk to her about the script but I never do)
We begin...
and, against my better judgement, against what I had planned, had preconceived, I launch into my health crisis with the abandon of a proud parent talking about their talented child, I gush about my disease.
There is a disconnect here) I am detached from the whole issue. Oh I talk about it, but I talk about it like I am talking about somebody else. I am gossipy.
I am special. I have a disease, a TERRIBLE disease. I may as well be talking about an exciting role I just got.
"It's bilateral, which is the deciding give away" equals "I'm working on a little film with Mike Nichols"
I am important.
Olivia asks me about support groups.
I tell her I don't want to encourage the disease.
(Not true (okay maybe a little true) I am just too lazy and lost at the moment)
We continue with,
my bad appointment at Columbia Presbyterian. Unemployment. Denial.
Applying for disability.
I tell Olivia, I make my point to Olivia, that given my circumstances, the prognosis, it is difficult to get off the couch and work on myself. "I mean if it's progressive you're continually swimming upstream, I guess the whole thing, the whole idea (now) is about quality of life."
"Well you're in favor of that, right?"
(I'm not so sure I mean If I'm not here to contribute... I think, but don't say)
But (and) in any case,
We have a good laugh.
I release a needed laugh.
I describe getting out of a cab in front of my building, falling on my ass and asking the doorman to help me stand back up.
This is hilarious to me (now) and Olivia joins in my crying laughter.
Sad but in keeping with the best comedy, Chaplin, Keaton... and really ... these were my true connections... artistically.
We gossip about friends. We talk of projects.
Olivia asks me about the bike that I was trying to win in a website contest. (I didn't win)
She tells me that she wants to buy it for me.
But this is crazy, because you buy gifts for people who are dying and penniless. I am neither one.
I am in a difficult spot.
I tell Olivia about Mind Science and Christian Science. We talk about her Temple.
Maybe we'll do an exchange.
She will come to 10th Church and I will come to Temple.
She is game.
Olivia reveals that she has suggested this blog to a friend at the New York Times.
The pitch?
An artist's attempt to heal himself.
The problem is, I tell Olivia, I am not in touch with my present crisis.
(I explain in a vague way ... via Jane Fonda discussing Michael Jackson)
"I remember one day he was visiting me at my ranch north of Santa Barbara. I pointed to a spot where I told him I wanted to be buried. Michael had a melt down right then and there when he heard this. He shrieked and bent over and said “no, no, no!” “ What’s the matter,” I asked. “Don’t ever talk about your dying,” he answered. “Don’t ever think about it.”
I think about death all the time. I rehearse my death. I think that’s a healthy thing to do. Death, after all, is what gives life meaning the way noise gives meaning to silence. Ooh, I thought to myself, Michael will have a hard time of it as he ages. He will spend all his energy trying to flee what is inevitable."
The Cupcake is closing.
And it is pouring.
Today has been blessed (like so many days this month) with Hollywood-style rain - showers that appear piped in from nearby water tanks. Sunlight... and corny drenching rains.
We are stuck.
"Where would you normally go in this situation?" Olivia asks.
And I answer, "I am not sure."
(like my future and past, the present is unsteady and unclear)
But the rain stops and we walk to my bike parked outside.
(At my bike) I am suddenly starved to express myself, to discuss any left over ideas that weren't gotten to inside.
I have grown daffy in my isolation and so I ramble...
"Send me any stories about neurological illnesses where there is recovery" I ask.
"You've spoken to Norman recently?"
"How will you get home?" (as if I'd be any help hailing a cab)
Finally, "I could go to my friend John's for the 4th, but I'd have to climb too many stairs... or to Williamstown? Williamstown with it's creaky bridge and all the hiking?"
As we leave that patch of the city, the only section left that resembles the New York I remember as a kid, as an eleven year old commuting to 1970s Manhattan during the garbage strike, where there were still Chock Full of Nuts diners on every corner and I met the likes of a pre-adolescent Ally Sheedy at auditions, as we leave this mini section of New York,
I ask her if I look okay, or rather, I TELL her that I look okay... "right?"
"Yes'" she says, "it's a relief to see you, to see you standing here, I mean ... it's not ideal... but yes."
And this is hard for me because in my isolation, I have grown used to my lesser physical self.
(a minor sprain, an endless flu... my deceptive mind reasons... I am fine. Now even the doormen avert their eyes when they see me.
I am a defended man. "Reserved" they tell me.
I want to look okay. I don't want pity.
My life has been about striving, auditioning, staying in there.
I am (now) on permanent ... adrift.
I think about moving to the Portland and starting over.
I am on my bike.
I ride my bicycle to a destination of goose-egg.
When I get to my high-rise, there is a generous gift of several dinners in 5 to six Tupperware packages. Olivia has attached thoughtful labels. It is impressive and kind. And (later) the food tasted really good.
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