8

Hey you,

I read your blog and saw the picture of Kite, so beautiful. You didn't mention all the tupperware and food and the needed laughs though. I was tempted to point that out in a comment but it seems that everyone is too awestruck by your genius to write comments in your blog! I feel tentative and hushed when I start to write a comment... I am feeling a little awestruck by your genius and your increasing significance and I'm starting to feel competitive. I'm going to start a blog anonymously too -- SEE IF YOU CAN FIND IT. :)

Anyway, it was really really fun. Except for the fact that you were so lovely with Kite, and if I'd had a choice, I wish I'd come alone and stayed with you.


-CAR

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________



CAR,


1. If I can get to it, I'll create a gorgeous blog entry (quite dry and plain) dropping little details about your intelligence, wisdom and ability to plan.

2. Comment away (on my blog entry) (if you care to). Maybe it will break the ice.

3. Try to remember to rent Paper Moon so that you can act it out with Sophie and Walter when you drive around town.

4. I will call Foster. I just don't like doing anything. And I don't like walking and talking in front of people.
I don't like being the "marked" person.

5. Thank you for all the shopping and help.
I really loved the bike and boat ride. That is my kind of sh-t. I am corny that way.
(Remember the day (22 years ago) we went to the top of the Empire state building and took pictures with your Dad's Leica.
And then we went to Crazy Eddie and bought a TV. The same damn TV I have now? I still count that as a recent visit to the Empire State Building)

6. I really like Kite. He is stimulating and funny, although I did feel a little defensive around him because he appears smarter than me.He is both (a bashful 10 year old) and (a stinging IVY league type).

7. I drank a lot of wine last night and ate the pasta salad from Jackie (next door).
Shall I have pate and brie for breakfast?
No! I'll try that tasty cereal you insisted I buy.

Charlie

8. The Dinosaur is on the kitchen counter with all of it's price tags intact.
I'll send it when you send that box to Merrill.

Ha.

HUDSON RIVER BOAT RIDE

WHERE'S G-D?

Charlie,

My colleague Donna got back to me. Here's what she said:

Rob Tokel 805 631-1184--I believe he's the PT who does chi gong. Works in NYC.
If you want me to call Rob, I'll give him a call to see if he thinks it would be beneficial for you to work with him.

Book; Cancer As a Turning Point, by Larry LeShan, psychologist. the info in it is appropriate for healing/helping more than cancer, it has written exercises in the back.

I think it would be a really good idea to get this book. I would think the exercises could be very helpful.

Did you listen to the Prairie Hoe Companion Joke CD yet?

Mattie

P.S. What is your birth date if you don't mind me asking



Hi Mattie,

Thank you for this.

Birthday is 9/26/62 LIBRA.

I suppose I will call him. Maybe today.
Or should you call first?

I will put the book on a list of ones to be investigated.
You have to be a good researcher/reader when you get into trouble (apparently)
I will read!

The weather today is so GREAT. It feels like I might be camping Franconia Notch State Park. I have loved the weather this summer.

I haven't played the cd yet. I was with my friend CAR and her son Kite last night.
They got a cheap room in a cool boutique hotel, THE TIME HOTEL on 49th and Broadway, right across from "Chicago".

Kite has Aspergers (so they say).
On the elevator ride down in my building Kkite saw me laughing with CAR and asked,
"Charlie, aren't you going to die anymore?"

I said, "Well... I'm not dead right now... am I !?"

I think I relate to Kite.
I remember taking my first ride in an airplane and when we were above the clouds, I turned to my mother and asked
in a (clear and loud) little boy voice,

"Where's G-d?"

All the adults around me laughed. I didn't understand why.

Car and Kite and I may take a boat ride on a schooner tonight at sunset on the Hudson.
Pretty cheap $25 with champagne!

CHARLIE

DON'T EVER THINK ABOUT IT

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.

EMAIL TO the WEST

Hi Merril-

I am not a good phone talker. My voice is tired.
I shall have to add voice and diction to an endless list of daily chores to knock off.

I've been swimming... sometimes twice a day.

Sounds like you guys had fun at the wedding.
Did you sing? Or did you speak the words.

My Dad.
My Dad fell and broke a hip outside the Apple Store on Cape Cod. Fell with a brand new laptop in his arms.
Two weeks before he broke some ribs. Fell out of bed maybe?

But he is okay.
He is a survivor.

He is in a place you go after the hospital. Rehab?

None of this would have happened (maybe) if he did his daily exercises. He won't leave his chair.
So he loses his balance. He is willful and it has gotten him in trouble (is the way I see it)

I had a great fourth. Some friends came over -John, Sonya, Kathy and Ellen, and we had a huge dinner and danced and watched the AMAZING fireworks from the back deck of my building.

I made this excellent and super easy water-mellon salad. So good.

http://www.amateurgourmet.com/2009/06/watermelon_sala.html

It was good to see Norman. It was bad timing however.
I was un-showered unshaven sweaty and shirtless in underwear on the couch. My door was open.

I keep being sought out on Face-book from my best friends from child hood New Canaan. Four, in the last week!

How is Charles and bovary?
How is your DAd?

I guess it's hot out west... according to my iphone.

CAR and Cronkite are visiting tomorrow. Maybe.

I am zonked.

Charlie

I bought "the Flip". It's a mini video camera the size of a wallet.
It's VERY easy to use. (I think it's intended for you-tube)

I made this short film in about an hour using i-movie.

(It's my bike-ride down to the 10th Church in SOHO on Sunday morning)

Like a written blog entry, I tried to limit the time I spent creating it. (an hour)
It's a sketch (or an idea) for a short film.

That's Beethoven in the background.

CIRCLE

I saw The Norman Conquests tonight,
The production was lovely.

50% OFF

I get my filling replaced today.
I am nervous about getting my filling replaced because the muscles around my throat are weak.
I don't want Novocaine. I don't want to die today.

I consider not going to the dentist.
I consider staying home and folding laundry.

I call my sister from my bathroom and she says, "tell them not to use too much Novocaine. Michael (her husband) refuses it.
Doesn't use it all. But the pain can reverberate for days."

I go.

I bike through the twisted hell that is Midtown at noon on a Wednesday.

I see the same lady dentist.

I tell her right away that "I'm nervous."

She says "I know"

I tell her again,

"I enjoy taking care of my teeth, I've never had any issue with dental work, no fears, it's just that now, I don't trust my body, I mean one day I am having trouble walking, another day I can't swallow, I sit in that chair with a numb throat and I wonder if the reflexive muscles in my throat will just lie there and I'l choke to death."

"This time I won't use any topical solution," she says. " I'll just use half (50%) of the regular dose of Novocaine.
The topical stuff is what makes you nervous because it's so messy, it goes every where, in your mouth, in your throat, it's messy, but this time, we won't use, that we'll just use a little bit of Novocaine. And I'll use the kind that won't make your heart race."

(one has a choice?)


"okay, you think I'll be alright?"

"Yes"

She gives me a small shot to my upper left gum, I don't even feel "a pinch" and...

I panic.

But I wait.

A young female assistant comes in the operating room to give me a new fitting for a mouth guard so I won't grind my teeth.

I ask her her name?

"Amisha, it's Indian, I'm from Punjab?"

"Can you spell that?"

And Suddenly I am in flirt mode. Suddenly I am trying to pick up the young comely Indian dental assistant. Suddenly I am Andrew Mcarthy in his Brat-pack days.

I find out she's from California but has family in India.

"I've been to India a lot."

"I went to Bombay when I was in High School." I toss out.

"I met Indira Gandhi. " I add without restraint.

" I sang for Indira Gandhi. We were invited to her palace in New Deli. I have photograph of us together!"

(top that! I seem to be insisting)

"Wow... she's dead, or died, or something?" - (Amisha is part Punjab, part Valley girl)

"Assisinated" I correct.

"Oh. Right, wow...
I never met Indira Gandhi " she concludes inanely.

(Of course you haven't ! No one has! That's why I bring it up often and randomly!)

Amisha is acting like she's impressed (which is polite and game of her) and she's catching on to my flirty vibe.

So then...

she lets me know she is married.

"Did you get to pick your husband?" I ask (as a joke)... the caste system, get it?

"Oh, I had one or two choices" she volleys.

And then,

my dentist lady is back and my adventure in flirting (which I've always had a talent for but FORGET!) has deflected my angst.

"How are you doing?"

"You were right, I am fine. My throat feels fine."

And I am calm and confident. Happy to be sitting in the dentist chair, happy because I am taking care of myself and I am not home avoiding all the things that I'm supposed to be doing. Happy I am in the DENTIST chair doing what I am supposed to be doing.

And even with just a little dab of Novocaine, I am fine. No pain. I am blissful (really).

As she drills and pushes and pokes, the dentist lady checks in with me from time to time.

I am a good patient. Like a seasoned actor I take direction well.
I am good at listening to her various commands,

"Wider!"

"Clench down."

"Turn your head to the right? "

"Relax your lower lip..."

I am committed to all of her commands.

It is over.

And I feel super happy for having gotten through it. I am thankful to my dentist lady, "Thank you!" thankful to Amisha as I spit out, "Thank you!". I am delirious and jovial as I gather my things, my New York Times, my i-phone, my reading glasses.

I ask Amisha "and where will you be for the fourth?"

(she hesitates)

I follow up teasingly " it is Henry Hudson's 400th anniversary and the Hudson River is going to be hopping. Loads of fire works and crowds. It's the place to be! I'll be watching from the top of my building" I offer rediculously.

Amisha is slightly game, but not much.
"I'll be with my family, here in the city, my husband... celebrating."

"Well Happy 4th!" I come back! (like I'm Santa Clause and it's Christmas Eve)

I go to reception to check out. I owe nothing because I randomly, loosely, and sloppily, charged it to my American Express Card my last appointment. (I won't think about it today)

As I'm picking a date to pick up my mouth guard, the dentist lady walks by,

"Thank you" I intone again, and she says "your welcome" and then she touches me, ever so gently, on my upper arm.

I love that gesture. It's a favorite of mine. A warm, gentle affirmation of my existence with all the boundaries firmly in place.
I like it!

I go outside.
I go to Ollie's.

This time I have my glasses and prudently order brown rice and broccoli.

Next?
To Pottery Barn!
There's a 50% off sale.

MATTY'S APARTMENT on WEST 10TH STREET in the WEST VILLAGE

LIST

Sunday, my father goes to Falmouth Hospital.
I go to Church.

and then get stuck in the crowds of Gay Pride.

Sunday Night, I begin to watch The Bicycle Thief, a beautiful Italian motion picture from 1949.
I call my sister (though) as the bike is being stolen (put it on permanent pause) and we speak of my Dad.
who is not coming out of anesthesia.

And then we talk about my self imposed isolation.
She tells me that people have contacted her about me.
She did not return calls because she thought that I wanted to be in seclusion and handle it myself.

i think the whole thing has snow-balled.

Life is a list. And today I will make a list.

I will make a list of people to call and explain myself to.

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).