moma
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Happy Birthday
My mother hangs a sign on my living room wall.
It says,
"Happy 80th Birthday!"
(my mother is a child of the depression)
It says,
"Happy 80th Birthday!"
(my mother is a child of the depression)
the journey
I bike to East 42nd and Second Avenue to see my doctor at the Alternative Medical Clinic. I go for my weekly dose of gluthotione IV or "a push" as they call it because the glutathione doesn't drip from a bag, a nurse sits next to you and slowly pushes it into your vain. I get a b12 shot too.
If you want to know more about glutathione and why you should eat tons of broccoli and kale, take a look at this link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eh2PYQBICWs
As I bike across town, something's not right. The ride is no fun. I am stuck at lights at virtually every intersection. I almost get hit by a bus. (If I 'd turned left to look behind me, that would have been the end of me and my terrible disease). The bus and car exhaust is invasive. This can't be good. I'll use 40th or 44th next time.
At Second Avenue, the the block between 42nd and 43rd, is barricaded. (The CIA, The General Assembly). My appointment is going to be hard to get to. Abrasive security is everywhere.
I zip past my doctor's office and lock my bike up (what seems to me like) miles and miles away.
As I lock up, a woman with a cigarette says, "nice bike, that's a REALLY nice bike... I like the color... white. That's a really nice bike."
The woman is in her late thirties. She's open and sloppy and flirty, and she looks like the kind of co-worker that you can never find at the office. She looks like the kind of co-worker that when you throw a fit, because you can't find her, it doesn't really phase her, she stays in the ether of sloppy, languid, fun girl.
"How far can you get on it?'
"Twenty miles"
"So... what? That's about from where to where?"
"Well, it's only a couple of miles to SOHO, so you can use it pretty much all day. Next week I'm planning a ride to Williamsburg."
(I've made an appointment to visit the artist, Talia Lempert)
http://www.bicyclepaintings.com
"No kidding, WOW! That's really nice. How you going to get there?
"I'm going right over the Williamsburg bridge. Should be pretty easy."
"Oh, wait. (she stops smoking for a moment to get her bearings, to reconsider)
Wait, I thought you were talking about Williamsburg VIRGINIA, I thought you were going to go... I thought you were going to bike all the way to Virginia!"
(my brain quickly scans to see the if this would be possible... I'd have to knock on a stranger's door every twenty miles and politely ask to plug my bike battery into a vacant power outlet. It would require charm and persuasion. And then it takes two hours for the recharge. I'd read and nap!)
"No, just Brooklyn." - I'm losing patience with smoking girl. She's just using me for idle entertainment while she gives her job the slip.
"Well, I gotta get going, I don't move fast so... so... I gotta get going."
And like a physical punch-line in a vaudeville sketch, I move from my bike to "get going" and I move at (half the speed) of the (slowest turtle). After about a minute or two, my smoking friend has not moved and I haven't got more than 15 feet away. She watches me without changing expression or giving up the rhythmic comfort of her cigarette inhilations. She's figuring - but she's not letting on that she's figuring. Finally she asks, "Hey... you want some help there?"
And given my epic journey ahead, I say .... "sure."
I put my hand on her shoulder and we begin a sort of dance, a pas de deux, down 44th street."
"Hope you don't mind the smoke."
This partnered walk is strange and intimate. This is the opposite of who I am (normally).
This kind of shared closeness is usually reserved for longtime friends and elderly parents.
But given my situation, I gotta be open to anything that will help me get to my destination.
I gotta improvise.
As we near Second Avenue we pass her co-worker. (I brace myself for the "and who is this? conversation but the co-worker doesn't notice me (really). She's racing back to work from lunch.
(So her co-worker is helping out the handicapped, who has time for details).
"Hey, did you hear they called a meeting?" she asks without stopping.
My smoking friend mumbles something, but not much, she is still intent, still enjoying our small journey.
But after a nine or ten more steps, she ruminates, "Meeting" she says to no-one in particular, "I don't like that sound of that. A meeting around lunch? That's not a good sign. Never a good sign. Not these days... if you know what I mean."
But after a nine or ten more steps, she ruminates, "Meeting" she says to no-one in particular, "I don't like that sound of that. A meeting around lunch? That's not a good sign. Never a good sign. Not these days... if you know what I mean."
I feel so removed from THAT kind of anxiety, that in a way, I DON'T know what she means.
At Second Avenue, she steps on her cigarette and leaves me at a police barricade.
"Thank you so much. I really appreciate it." I say, not looking her in the eye.
"No problem, have a great day, okay?"
Our journey completed, we must both face the near future alone.
She'll get into a lengthy and sloppy discussion with the lobby doorman at her office building and be late for her meeting. I'll have a chat with the elevator operator about where O'bama stays when he is in the city.
"The Waldorf, there is special suite suite for the president at the Waldorf."
LITHIUM, results are disappointing
A Randomized Clinical Trial of Lithium Carbonate with Riluzole versus Placebo with Riluzole in ALS Shows No Benefit.
In February 2008, Dr. Francesco Fornai and colleagues at the University of Pisa, Italy, reported in a pilot study that lithium carbonate at dosages of 300-450 mg daily (titrated to a plasma level of 0.4-0.8 mEq/liter) combined with riluzole showed a large positive effect in people with ALS (Fornai, F., et al., Lithium delays progression of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. PNAS, 2008.105(6): p. 2052-2057).
To further investigate lithium carbonate as a possible treatment for ALS, a randomized, blinded, multicenter trial of lithium carbonate with riluzole versus placebo with riluzole was conducted in people with ALS in the U.S. and Canada. The study used similar dosing to the Italian study. The study was conducted by the Northeast ALS (NEALS) and Canadian ALS (CALS) Consortia and was sponsored by the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke (NINDS) of the National Institutes of Health, The ALS Association and the ALS Society of Canada. This unique collaboration between investigators and funding organizations resulted in a novel study design and expeditious execution of the trial to efficiently answer a critically important clinical question. Study leaders included Drs. Swati Aggarwal, Lorne Zinman, Jeremy Shefner and Merit Cudkowicz.
An interim analysis was conducted after enrollment of the 84th subject and presented to the NINDS Data and Safety Monitoring Board in September 2009. Based on the interim analysis the trial was stopped for futility. This study did not show the same beneficial effect of lithium carbonate on the progression of ALS as the prior pilot study conducted in Italy.
Although the results are disappointing, it was very important for the ALS community to quickly and efficiently determine if the large benefit first observed for lithium could be replicated in a well controlled trial. With the ongoing assistance and commitment of patient volunteers, researchers can now focus on other promising therapeutics for patients with ALS.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
LABORATORY
My electric bike saves my ass. I love it. It really gives me complete freedom.
Everyone should get one.
Today, I biked to Staples on Sixth Avenue.
So fun and (normal feeling) to be wandering around Sixth Avenue.
(Wandering is stretching it) teetering, is what I mean.
The good part about being (disabled looking) is the attention you get from store employees. It's almost like they're trying to head off a lawsuit or protect their display tables from the klutzy blind man. As soon as I make my entrance, I am attended to. I play it up. I act the role of the the humble, soft spoken gimp with a heart of gold. I can't be a bad person, I can barley walk. I couldn't hurt a fly.
At Staples, they immediately escorted me to a handicap elevator in the back storeroom. They sent me down in the tiny dismal chute alone. It was like going down in a trash compactor. At check out, the cashier randomly gave me a $4 discount.
I came home, cooked a whole chicken (organic free range) and swam in the pool.
My juicer came in the mail, as did my urban organics food box. (One of the doorman carried it up for me without asking). My kitchen is a laboratory of organic fruit and vegetables, supplements, herbs, oils, filtered waters and wholesome nutrients.
I need to see a neurologist to ask about meditations and get my FVC tested and check my blood, etc.
But I feel pretty good.
I'm starting to do more research. For instance, calcium can actually cause problems for
my disorder. So I stopped taking calcium magnesium and just got the magnesium (today).
Everyone should get one.
Today, I biked to Staples on Sixth Avenue.
So fun and (normal feeling) to be wandering around Sixth Avenue.
(Wandering is stretching it) teetering, is what I mean.
The good part about being (disabled looking) is the attention you get from store employees. It's almost like they're trying to head off a lawsuit or protect their display tables from the klutzy blind man. As soon as I make my entrance, I am attended to. I play it up. I act the role of the the humble, soft spoken gimp with a heart of gold. I can't be a bad person, I can barley walk. I couldn't hurt a fly.
At Staples, they immediately escorted me to a handicap elevator in the back storeroom. They sent me down in the tiny dismal chute alone. It was like going down in a trash compactor. At check out, the cashier randomly gave me a $4 discount.
And people continually ask me (strangers on the street) "Are you alright? Do you need help?"
Which is a good sign for society I guess, but it leaves me continually swatting people away.
At the vitamin store on Seventh and twenty-fourth, I sat down by the window as a lovely lady with an elaborate polish accent ran around and got all of my requests.
At the vitamin store on Seventh and twenty-fourth, I sat down by the window as a lovely lady with an elaborate polish accent ran around and got all of my requests.
She told me to take Boric Oil? and recommended the book "Anti-Oxidant vs. Cancer" by Ralph Moss.
My terrible disease allows me to become chummy and intimate with strangers in seconds.
She asked me the name of my disease, and when I named it (I almost whispered it) she told me " Ife neveaire he-ared uf tat bevore."
"It's rare" I again whispered.
There were people around so I didn't want to get too emphatic about how terrible a disease it was.
And there was some absurd relief at her ignorance. Maybe if I moved to Poland I wouldn't have this disease.
I told my polish friend that I am now taking so many anti-oxidants I am worried (I said suppressing a smile) that I would die from vitamin poisoning. We BOTH found this funny.
(Lately I have found myself smiling for no good reason and this worries me. This is how sweet, dying, old men act - (of course I'm taking three tablets of St John's Wort, a day - so maybe that's why I'm giddy).
I went to the Whole Foods next door and bought all rice products because I've decided to go (no-gluten or dairy) again, to see if it will help. Now that I eat at home (mostly) the diet will be easier. On PLM, losing weight is a big topic. So now I eat even when I'm not hungry.
And finally, I went to CVS on 42nd and Tenth and picked up baby Tylenol. It contains Acetaminophen. Which (in theory) protects neurons from oxidative stress.
I told my polish friend that I am now taking so many anti-oxidants I am worried (I said suppressing a smile) that I would die from vitamin poisoning. We BOTH found this funny.
(Lately I have found myself smiling for no good reason and this worries me. This is how sweet, dying, old men act - (of course I'm taking three tablets of St John's Wort, a day - so maybe that's why I'm giddy).
I went to the Whole Foods next door and bought all rice products because I've decided to go (no-gluten or dairy) again, to see if it will help. Now that I eat at home (mostly) the diet will be easier. On PLM, losing weight is a big topic. So now I eat even when I'm not hungry.
And finally, I went to CVS on 42nd and Tenth and picked up baby Tylenol. It contains Acetaminophen. Which (in theory) protects neurons from oxidative stress.
I came home, cooked a whole chicken (organic free range) and swam in the pool.
My juicer came in the mail, as did my urban organics food box. (One of the doorman carried it up for me without asking). My kitchen is a laboratory of organic fruit and vegetables, supplements, herbs, oils, filtered waters and wholesome nutrients.
I need to see a neurologist to ask about meditations and get my FVC tested and check my blood, etc.
But I feel pretty good.
I'm starting to do more research. For instance, calcium can actually cause problems for
my disorder. So I stopped taking calcium magnesium and just got the magnesium (today).
MY HEAD
Send me your cell when you have a chance. I got laid off 2 weeks ago and suddenly have bountiful time on my hands...want to hang out? I could come by...I'm going to LA for some loving from G this Sat and am back Oct 1. How's your head?
KC
Sorry to hear about your job. You'll do great. Don't worry. If you can, pray or meditate about it. The right thing will happen. Sure I want to hang out. I can meet for movies and coffee. You just sort of have to hold me up. My life is eating full time and taking vitamins full time and reading shit about my shit on the internet full time. And my head is okay. It could be the insular bubble I'm in, but right now, I feel okay. I bought a battery operated bike which is so great. I love it. I can get anywhere in the city no problem; I hired a cleaning lady. We clean together. And I am living just one day at a time. I want to travel but my head is in permanent "now". I can't seem to grasp future. Future tense never enters my language or thoughts. So that's me.
CR
KC
Sorry to hear about your job. You'll do great. Don't worry. If you can, pray or meditate about it. The right thing will happen. Sure I want to hang out. I can meet for movies and coffee. You just sort of have to hold me up. My life is eating full time and taking vitamins full time and reading shit about my shit on the internet full time. And my head is okay. It could be the insular bubble I'm in, but right now, I feel okay. I bought a battery operated bike which is so great. I love it. I can get anywhere in the city no problem; I hired a cleaning lady. We clean together. And I am living just one day at a time. I want to travel but my head is in permanent "now". I can't seem to grasp future. Future tense never enters my language or thoughts. So that's me.
CR
KITCHEN CLOCK
photo.jpg
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts
I bought this at the Darien Thrift Shop for $4. Meh.
Phoebe put a new battery in it and hung it up for me.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
JANET
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
She was in a class with me. We got to be friends.
She was in her mid sixties (I guess). With a collegiate voice, a knock out body, and zero signs of emotional baggage, you quickly forgot about her age.
I first spotted her while performing Richard the Third in an acting class in the Village. When Richard exalts "And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! ( and here I threw my head back with actorly confidence and exhaled,
Ha!
From the fourth row of the crowded classroom, she "Ha!-ed" back at me, like a kid being goosed by her favorite uncle. Even as I continued... "Hath she forgot already that brave prince", I thought, "wow I must be "on" because that girl with the Mia Farrow haircut and designer glasses is watching me like I just woke up the room, I'm VERY talented and (glasses girl) gets it. After class she made a beeline to my
hesitant exit.
"Hey, hi, hey, I really dig your work"
"Thanks, I guess I was into it. I guess I really relate to Richard... unfortunatly ha, ha, ha."
"yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."
( I later learn that she is from San Francisco, this must be how people from San Francisclo make small talk... sprinkles of "yeah, yeah, yeahs."
We agree to do a scene from Sam Sheperd's "Curse of the Starving Class. I will be young son Wesley to her mother, Ella.
At rehearsal I learn she is divorced, enjoys a stiff drink and since she abhorted her career for three kids and a house in the LA suburbs she has no savings for retirement, a fear that hadn't entered my anxious brain but guessing her age, I realized she could be in a shit load of trouble since, (gee) she might want to be retiring pretty soon.
At Thanksgiving, we went to the Bob Dylan movie "I'm Not There" on Houston Street.
We walked home after the movie to midtown.
It was late and as we got to 45th street (her place), she suggested we go out for a drink.
"Women NEVER want to walk like that," I told my mother poolside in Florida.
"This woman knows how to stay young... and she never once stopped to re-adjust a strappy shoe or beg to cab the rest of the way. It was me who was too tired to stay out. It's like she's twenty-eight.
Her daughters kept a blog. I read it every day.
It looked like she was going for good.
But she had her comebacks.
When I saw her I acted like it was no big deal, like it's a stubborn case of the flu.
"Relax", I said as if discussing an unfair charge from the phone company, "I know a lot of people who've had cancer... as a matter of fact MY lungs don't feel so great."
I always play that card, try to trick the person, (the body?) into thinking they're okay and that it's no big
deal.
The minute you say, did I ever tell you how cool you are... it's over.
She was in a class with me. We got to be friends.
She was in her mid sixties (I guess). With a collegiate voice, a knock out body, and zero signs of emotional baggage, you quickly forgot about her age.
I first spotted her while performing Richard the Third in an acting class in the Village. When Richard exalts "And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! ( and here I threw my head back with actorly confidence and exhaled,
Ha!
From the fourth row of the crowded classroom, she "Ha!-ed" back at me, like a kid being goosed by her favorite uncle. Even as I continued... "Hath she forgot already that brave prince", I thought, "wow I must be "on" because that girl with the Mia Farrow haircut and designer glasses is watching me like I just woke up the room, I'm VERY talented and (glasses girl) gets it. After class she made a beeline to my
hesitant exit.
"Hey, hi, hey, I really dig your work"
"Thanks, I guess I was into it. I guess I really relate to Richard... unfortunatly ha, ha, ha."
"yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."
( I later learn that she is from San Francisco, this must be how people from San Francisclo make small talk... sprinkles of "yeah, yeah, yeahs."
We agree to do a scene from Sam Sheperd's "Curse of the Starving Class. I will be young son Wesley to her mother, Ella.
At rehearsal I learn she is divorced, enjoys a stiff drink and since she abhorted her career for three kids and a house in the LA suburbs she has no savings for retirement, a fear that hadn't entered my anxious brain but guessing her age, I realized she could be in a shit load of trouble since, (gee) she might want to be retiring pretty soon.
At Thanksgiving, we went to the Bob Dylan movie "I'm Not There" on Houston Street.
We walked home after the movie to midtown.
It was late and as we got to 45th street (her place), she suggested we go out for a drink.
"Women NEVER want to walk like that," I told my mother poolside in Florida.
"This woman knows how to stay young... and she never once stopped to re-adjust a strappy shoe or beg to cab the rest of the way. It was me who was too tired to stay out. It's like she's twenty-eight.
I sometimes think she might be "interested" in me... "and she has three grown kids!"
Her youthfulness used to bug me. What's with all the sunny energy and ambitious outlook? Aren't you divorced? You're a legal secretary, right? Didn't you mention you had no savings? I mean, really.
But, I see now that we should have gone out for a drink at two in the morning. Life can be unfairly tricky. A month later, there would be no more opportunities for a drink at two in the morning.
Around Christmas we got together. We read poetry at the Cup Cake in midtown.
Whitman, e. e. cummings, stuff from the New Yorker, and talk about her obsession, Becket.
At the Cup Cake, something is off. She can't move her head.
"Did you sleep wrong?" I ask teetering in with my whipped americano.
"I went to my chiroapracter. When he corrected me I thought I'd throw up. I'll see my Doctor next week. Dr Leeds on 15th Street. Who I love, the whole family sees him. Great just great.
You gottta meet him. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."
I told her about my own doctor who ( I think) must of had some recent life changing event. The man was losing it.
Dr Johnson was an (eeny, meany miny, mo) through my health insurance plan, He was a tall handsome-ish, black man with a hair tigger laugh that made me snarl my lip and become instantly obdurate.
Turns out Dr Johnson specialized in AIDS medicine. This frightened me. I thought , if one is to believe in the ways of G-D of (forshadowing) this might be an unhappy coincidence.
I often felt that Dr. Johnson was fondling me when he checked me out. Do I have an out-sized ego? Maybe. But on my last office visit for cholesterol testing, I noticed the portrait of his wife and two kids were missing, replaced by a plain middle aged white guy.
In any case, her neck? Turns out it was a tumor. A tumor in her neck. She got a BAD case of cancer. Like colds, some are bad and some are tolerable, hers was terrible.
But it's okay because she has a ton of people who adored her and now I feel honored that
she wanted to get to know ME. My swanky low self esteem suggested that maybe she's a little off, a little light in the noggin if she's so interested in me. Turned out she had a pile of friends and a first rate attitude and singled meout as someone she needed to know and now I wish I had taken advantage of her solid sunniness and bald intelligence.
One of her last "good days" I escorted her to the BUMBLE & BUMBLE hair salon in the Meat Packing District. She neeeded help keeping steady. I'd never been to Bumble and Bumble. Wow.
I photographed the whole thing. I told her I was miserable at my 15 dollar an hour investor relations phone-office job. She said " I'm jealous."
Her youthfulness used to bug me. What's with all the sunny energy and ambitious outlook? Aren't you divorced? You're a legal secretary, right? Didn't you mention you had no savings? I mean, really.
But, I see now that we should have gone out for a drink at two in the morning. Life can be unfairly tricky. A month later, there would be no more opportunities for a drink at two in the morning.
Around Christmas we got together. We read poetry at the Cup Cake in midtown.
Whitman, e. e. cummings, stuff from the New Yorker, and talk about her obsession, Becket.
At the Cup Cake, something is off. She can't move her head.
"Did you sleep wrong?" I ask teetering in with my whipped americano.
"I went to my chiroapracter. When he corrected me I thought I'd throw up. I'll see my Doctor next week. Dr Leeds on 15th Street. Who I love, the whole family sees him. Great just great.
You gottta meet him. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."
I told her about my own doctor who ( I think) must of had some recent life changing event. The man was losing it.
Dr Johnson was an (eeny, meany miny, mo) through my health insurance plan, He was a tall handsome-ish, black man with a hair tigger laugh that made me snarl my lip and become instantly obdurate.
Turns out Dr Johnson specialized in AIDS medicine. This frightened me. I thought , if one is to believe in the ways of G-D of (forshadowing) this might be an unhappy coincidence.
I often felt that Dr. Johnson was fondling me when he checked me out. Do I have an out-sized ego? Maybe. But on my last office visit for cholesterol testing, I noticed the portrait of his wife and two kids were missing, replaced by a plain middle aged white guy.
In any case, her neck? Turns out it was a tumor. A tumor in her neck. She got a BAD case of cancer. Like colds, some are bad and some are tolerable, hers was terrible.
But it's okay because she has a ton of people who adored her and now I feel honored that
she wanted to get to know ME. My swanky low self esteem suggested that maybe she's a little off, a little light in the noggin if she's so interested in me. Turned out she had a pile of friends and a first rate attitude and singled meout as someone she needed to know and now I wish I had taken advantage of her solid sunniness and bald intelligence.
One of her last "good days" I escorted her to the BUMBLE & BUMBLE hair salon in the Meat Packing District. She neeeded help keeping steady. I'd never been to Bumble and Bumble. Wow.
I photographed the whole thing. I told her I was miserable at my 15 dollar an hour investor relations phone-office job. She said " I'm jealous."
Her daughters kept a blog. I read it every day.
It looked like she was going for good.
But she had her comebacks.
When I saw her I acted like it was no big deal, like it's a stubborn case of the flu.
"Relax", I said as if discussing an unfair charge from the phone company, "I know a lot of people who've had cancer... as a matter of fact MY lungs don't feel so great."
I always play that card, try to trick the person, (the body?) into thinking they're okay and that it's no big
deal.
The minute you say, did I ever tell you how cool you are... it's over.
Monday, September 21, 2009
(THERE'S THAT GUY!)
I go to the gym in my apartment building.
I see Leah sweating in leotards. I haven't seen her in eight months.
We met working for a charity that helps kids with AIDS make their own movie project.
I see Leah sweating in leotards. I haven't seen her in eight months.
We met working for a charity that helps kids with AIDS make their own movie project.
It's called Hollywood Heart.
After the screening, the writer/director Tony Gilroy (I think he won the oscar) showed up for a talk back. (He'd clearly had a few drinks). This was his first time directing, he said. I remember him talking about directing Sydney Pollack and asking the venerated director for advice on how to direct a scene that Pollack was in. But Pollack resisted and told him to figure it out himself. Pollack was relishing his moment (just being) the actor. I can just picture that moment, I mean, I can relate to Pollack. I love, that as an actor, your only responsibility is to the character and your performance. A good director respects this, encourages it. It's a great feeling.
Tony Gilroy had a lot of confidence. I wanted to be Tony Gilroy.
We took a bus home after the screening and I remember telling Leah I wished I could write like Gilroy. Leah told me she was shopping for a mini cooper.
So I'm at my gym. Leah spots me across the room.
She crosses to me. I stay where I am. I couldn't slip away for the world.
I used to feel sorry for him. He was so solemn when he swam.
When I would sit next to him on the only bench in the men's locker room, I'd glance at his detached leg and feel lucky. As he hopped around on one foot (naked) - I felt saved from life's more tragic accidents. And now I feel like I got the short end of the stick. I'M that guy. And the one legged man swims away scott free, his problems contained and solvable.
______________________
I get an email from Leah the next day.
Hey Charlie,
Good to see you the other day at the gym. It's been a long time.
I wanted to let you know that I since I have a car and go food shopping up at Fairway on 125th St. on a weekly basis, if you ever wanted to come with, please let me know. In addition, please don't hesitate in calling me (anytime) if you need a ride somewhere. I'm just 9 floors away.
Talk soon.
Leah
http://www.hollywoodheart.org
Leah is smart and fun and and rich (I guess).
She never seems to have a job. (The apartments in my building aren't cheap).
She's blonde and athletic and carries herself like she does improv twice a week, like she could do the HAROLD. Her humor (I imagine) covers up gobs of disappointment.
Leah manages that (neat trick) of being both outgoing and remote.
A couple of years ago, Leah and I went to a Writer's Guild screening of "Michael Clayton".
There were about twenty of us in a small projection room in midtown, in one of those towering corporate skyscrapers on the Avenue of the Americas.
Leah is smart and fun and and rich (I guess).
She never seems to have a job. (The apartments in my building aren't cheap).
She's blonde and athletic and carries herself like she does improv twice a week, like she could do the HAROLD. Her humor (I imagine) covers up gobs of disappointment.
Leah manages that (neat trick) of being both outgoing and remote.
A couple of years ago, Leah and I went to a Writer's Guild screening of "Michael Clayton".
There were about twenty of us in a small projection room in midtown, in one of those towering corporate skyscrapers on the Avenue of the Americas.
After the screening, the writer/director Tony Gilroy (I think he won the oscar) showed up for a talk back. (He'd clearly had a few drinks). This was his first time directing, he said. I remember him talking about directing Sydney Pollack and asking the venerated director for advice on how to direct a scene that Pollack was in. But Pollack resisted and told him to figure it out himself. Pollack was relishing his moment (just being) the actor. I can just picture that moment, I mean, I can relate to Pollack. I love, that as an actor, your only responsibility is to the character and your performance. A good director respects this, encourages it. It's a great feeling.
Tony Gilroy had a lot of confidence. I wanted to be Tony Gilroy.
We took a bus home after the screening and I remember telling Leah I wished I could write like Gilroy. Leah told me she was shopping for a mini cooper.
So I'm at my gym. Leah spots me across the room.
She crosses to me. I stay where I am. I couldn't slip away for the world.
Leah knows about me (through gossip?)
"How you feeling?"
I muster a healthy sounding voice and cheerful expression.
"Oh, I'm hanging in there."
(I feel fine. That's what I SHOULD say)
"Whadya you do this summer?"
(Leah spent the summer on Cape Cod teaching pilates)
"What did I do?" I respond a little too acidly.
I recover.
"Hmm... that's a good question, what DID I do?"
(I sat on the couch and drank coffee)
"How you feeling?"
I muster a healthy sounding voice and cheerful expression.
"Oh, I'm hanging in there."
(I feel fine. That's what I SHOULD say)
"Whadya you do this summer?"
(Leah spent the summer on Cape Cod teaching pilates)
"What did I do?" I respond a little too acidly.
I recover.
"Hmm... that's a good question, what DID I do?"
(I sat on the couch and drank coffee)
After a few more exchanges, we make plans to (run into each other) in the building again!
Ha Ha. This lame suggestion is mine. And when Leah turns to go, I slide along the wall hoping she won't turn around in time to see how decrepit I've become.
I swim in the pool, for 15 minutes, never pushing.
And as I swim, I notice a man in the lane next to me.
(There's that guy!)
I noticed this man a few years ago.
This man is an intense swimmer. He creates a lot of splashing. This man is missing a leg.
When he gets out of the pool, this man is able to hop about without the use of his prosthetic leg. (no problem with HIS motor neurons).
Ha Ha. This lame suggestion is mine. And when Leah turns to go, I slide along the wall hoping she won't turn around in time to see how decrepit I've become.
I swim in the pool, for 15 minutes, never pushing.
And as I swim, I notice a man in the lane next to me.
(There's that guy!)
I noticed this man a few years ago.
This man is an intense swimmer. He creates a lot of splashing. This man is missing a leg.
When he gets out of the pool, this man is able to hop about without the use of his prosthetic leg. (no problem with HIS motor neurons).
I used to feel sorry for him. He was so solemn when he swam.
When I would sit next to him on the only bench in the men's locker room, I'd glance at his detached leg and feel lucky. As he hopped around on one foot (naked) - I felt saved from life's more tragic accidents. And now I feel like I got the short end of the stick. I'M that guy. And the one legged man swims away scott free, his problems contained and solvable.
______________________
I get an email from Leah the next day.
Hey Charlie,
Good to see you the other day at the gym. It's been a long time.
I wanted to let you know that I since I have a car and go food shopping up at Fairway on 125th St. on a weekly basis, if you ever wanted to come with, please let me know. In addition, please don't hesitate in calling me (anytime) if you need a ride somewhere. I'm just 9 floors away.
Talk soon.
Leah
SUNDAY IN THE PARK
It's Sunday, and the weather is glorious.
I seize the day like a hungry ghost.
(Or, like a ghost with a day pass?)
I'll bike to Central Park!
(This could be one of my last bike rides in the month of September - I think - or - try NOT to think about).
I bike to to the Park.
I bike north through Riverside.
The city is swarming with outdoor, sporty types!
Under the west-side highway, below Trump City, there is a (new) volleyball court planted in the center of a sunny expanse of green fields. (It seems) if there is a vacant spot to plant a bush, create a little park, or build a volleyball court... it will be found and transformed. I dreamed of this for the City (in the eighties) but didn't think it possible.
As I bike, I scowl. I am an outsider (now). A year ago, I'd be jogging down the bike path, shirtless. I'd be cycling to a tennis game on my Schwin with a racket strapped on my back.
Now I'm a faker. I pretend-peddle, the battery does all the heavy lifting. I keep my soiled t-shirt on to hide my (lazy upper body).
Instead of a tennis racket, I carry a book of essays by Mary Baker Eddy.
Still, I pull on the throttle.
ZIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(I can go fast!)
Central Park!
I know this.
I know where I am.
I like this. This is me.
Ah... yes!
I loop the park. The park is a kamikaze course of shirtless men, athletic women, parents and their children, and an army of peddle carts.
I ride by the rock outcropping near 110th on the west side. As you pass the rock, it feels like you're instantly dropping into a National Park. I always (make sure) to bike underneath it, certain of its curative power.
I bike 'round Sheep's Meadow, a place to be included, to be seen.
(I remember napping in Sheep's Meadow two or three days after 9/11. A fire truck drove by, its siren blaring. The entire crowd stood up and cheered as it drove by. (the slow clap)
I end my ride at Cherry Hill Fountain. There is a circle of benches. I sit on a bench, take my shirt off, and point my flaccid torso toward the sun.
I open the paper.
I read (in the New York Times) how prayer is big business (right now), the teaching of prayer and spirituality. The writer (or reporter) is funny and aloof (and annoying). Even when he was near death himself (he writes) he still wondered if he left his front door unlocked. He simply can't pray, doesn't believe. This is gimmicky writing. (He couldn't have been THAT near death).
I move to the grass and collapse to the ground in one, broken motion. My legs have no power to negotiate. I am up... and then I am down.
I pull out the Book Review and read about Paul Rudnick's new "hysterical" book (so MANY funny gay men writing memoirs). I read about the personal essays and stories of Jonathan Ames. I read a book about the history of jigsaw puzzles, the writer wove the history of puzzles into her own memoirs.
Oh! and I saved Thursday's HOME Section. (I love what the HOME Section comes up with). A woman in Texas, a lawyer, collects depression era HOUSES. She buys them cheap and drags them to her big, old, Texas Ranch. She has 25. I love that. I'd love to have 25 old houses in my backyard.
I lie on the grass. I am healing in the open air. The leafy trees, the dirt, the thriving undergrowth create a rambling paradise that cures. It's all apart of me and I'm in it.
"Gosh, it's so beautiful."
It's 5 pm. I exit through 72nd Street, past my friend Slade's apartment building.
Last time I saw him, we played tennis in the park.
I seize the day like a hungry ghost.
(Or, like a ghost with a day pass?)
I'll bike to Central Park!
(This could be one of my last bike rides in the month of September - I think - or - try NOT to think about).
I bike to to the Park.
I bike north through Riverside.
The city is swarming with outdoor, sporty types!
Under the west-side highway, below Trump City, there is a (new) volleyball court planted in the center of a sunny expanse of green fields. (It seems) if there is a vacant spot to plant a bush, create a little park, or build a volleyball court... it will be found and transformed. I dreamed of this for the City (in the eighties) but didn't think it possible.
As I bike, I scowl. I am an outsider (now). A year ago, I'd be jogging down the bike path, shirtless. I'd be cycling to a tennis game on my Schwin with a racket strapped on my back.
Now I'm a faker. I pretend-peddle, the battery does all the heavy lifting. I keep my soiled t-shirt on to hide my (lazy upper body).
Instead of a tennis racket, I carry a book of essays by Mary Baker Eddy.
Still, I pull on the throttle.
ZIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(I can go fast!)
Central Park!
I know this.
I know where I am.
I like this. This is me.
Ah... yes!
I loop the park. The park is a kamikaze course of shirtless men, athletic women, parents and their children, and an army of peddle carts.
I ride by the rock outcropping near 110th on the west side. As you pass the rock, it feels like you're instantly dropping into a National Park. I always (make sure) to bike underneath it, certain of its curative power.
I bike 'round Sheep's Meadow, a place to be included, to be seen.
(I remember napping in Sheep's Meadow two or three days after 9/11. A fire truck drove by, its siren blaring. The entire crowd stood up and cheered as it drove by. (the slow clap)
I end my ride at Cherry Hill Fountain. There is a circle of benches. I sit on a bench, take my shirt off, and point my flaccid torso toward the sun.
I open the paper.
I read (in the New York Times) how prayer is big business (right now), the teaching of prayer and spirituality. The writer (or reporter) is funny and aloof (and annoying). Even when he was near death himself (he writes) he still wondered if he left his front door unlocked. He simply can't pray, doesn't believe. This is gimmicky writing. (He couldn't have been THAT near death).
I move to the grass and collapse to the ground in one, broken motion. My legs have no power to negotiate. I am up... and then I am down.
I pull out the Book Review and read about Paul Rudnick's new "hysterical" book (so MANY funny gay men writing memoirs). I read about the personal essays and stories of Jonathan Ames. I read a book about the history of jigsaw puzzles, the writer wove the history of puzzles into her own memoirs.
Oh! and I saved Thursday's HOME Section. (I love what the HOME Section comes up with). A woman in Texas, a lawyer, collects depression era HOUSES. She buys them cheap and drags them to her big, old, Texas Ranch. She has 25. I love that. I'd love to have 25 old houses in my backyard.
I lie on the grass. I am healing in the open air. The leafy trees, the dirt, the thriving undergrowth create a rambling paradise that cures. It's all apart of me and I'm in it.
"Gosh, it's so beautiful."
It's 5 pm. I exit through 72nd Street, past my friend Slade's apartment building.
Last time I saw him, we played tennis in the park.
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