QUESTIONS

8/19
I don't know why that smells.   Why does anything smell?

8/21
There is a space where nothing exists, they say.   But where?

8/22
Why is it that the stuff I don't want to change, changes constantly and the stuff I want to change NEVER changes?  

Does God exist?

If God came to you in the form of a person, would you punch Him in the jaw?

8/23
What do you do with rage?

8/24
Does anyone have any answers, really?

Meditation on Ramona

Ramona.  

At the edge of the forest
Among the green leaves and thick trees,
Near a gently flowing stream,
Sits Ramona.

You cannot see her;
She is barely visible, even to me.

Ramona lives forever in the summer air,
In the silent heat of summer,
Among the green leaves and thick trees,
Near a gently flowing stream.

"Who is she?" I wonder.
I always have;
But I do remember her,
And love her.

But her heart is a mystery,
An elusive nymph, flitting
Here and there,
Sad and lonely, floating, darting,
Among the leaves and summer breezes.

So she remains
A mystery and
Unapproachable, forever.

Ramona, your simple beauty haunts me,
Haunts my dreams,
Like a beautiful memory
Of love I once knew!

But she glides, in and out of reality,
Like a leaf in hot summer breezes.
She lives in the silent heat of summer, hidden,
Among the green leaves and thick trees,
Near a gently flowing stream.

Her song, simple and pure,
Rises above the chirping sparrows and robins,
It, too, is a beautiful  mystery.
Oh, how lovely it is.

See! There! She treads, soft and pure,
To the stream's edge,
Holding a basket of fruit.
In the hot summer air she remains still and chaste.

Can you hear her song?
It lingers,
Gently, as it soars through
Time and space, then disappears.

Ramona lives just beyond us,
We who have known her,
Who live only on the earth's plane.
Our world is not hers.

Let me come to you!
I cry, silently, to her.
I weep, knowing I cannot.

Our eyes meet, , , but only for an instant
She smiles her knowing smile,
And she is gone.

I linger, waiting, searching;
And I listen.

Can you hear her song?

GENE KELLY'S BIRTHDAY

It was the 100th anniversary of Gene Kelly's birth yesterday.    I know this because Turner Classic Movies devoted their whole day to his films.

While I think Kelly had genius, his films are often very disappointing.   His most celebrated (critically) is "An American in Paris," which I find a complete bore from  beginning to end.  And I can't figure out why, exactly, it just is.  And that endless "ballet" sequence.    Are you kidding me?   Ballet for people who hate ballet.   Sorry, Mr. Kelly, I love you but this sucks.

"The Pirate"?     I won't even begin to comment on that piece of tripe.

"Cover Girl" is an interesting piece.  With songs by Jerome Kern, a cast that includes Kelly, Rita (All Genuflect before the Goddess Rita) Hayworth, Phil Silvers, Eve Arden (is there a better screen comedienne?) Rita Hayworth, and did I mention Rita Hayworth, and many other fine character actors, some stunning choreography by Kelly, this should have been a much more successful film.   It is not beyond the joy of just looking at Rita Hayworth (oh my God, Rita) and appreciating her beauty plus talent.  Was there a  more stunning creature to grace the screen?   Ah.... no.  

But back to the film, did I mention how sizzling HOT Rita Hayworth is?   Oh, sorry.

"Cover Girl's" flaws can be simply elucidated:  it's script.   What's that smell?   Ugh!   It's that script!   How, in God's name, did Harry Cohn approve of this script which reads like something from a Junior High School play?    And this film did not skimp on production values: technicolor, costumes, a multitude of costumes, big production numbers, music, music, and more music, I don't get it.    It's like he said, "Make it look good and who cares about the script."

Indeed, who cares when you're looking at Rita, but Rita's not on the entire time, you know, unfortunately.   And she does have to deliver some insipid dialogue.   Good lord, none of it was believable.  None of what we were supposed to take seriously, anyway, like the Kelly/Hayworth love-conflict.   Pure nonsense.

So how did this happen?

I don't know.   I was hoping one of you had the answers.    But you don't, do you?  I'll bet you don't even know what I'm talking about, do you?   Come on!   Come on!!!    Admit it!

Bah.    I'm wasting my time on you troglodytes.    Go back to  the Kardashians,  or Dancing With The Stars, or, Jersey Shore, or whatever particular piece of crap you allow to flow into your homes through the television.  

Anyway, Gene Kelly's birthday.    Got to say something nice, here, no?

Okay.   "Singing In The Rain."

You smiled, didn't you.   All anyone has to do to make someone else smile is say, "Singing In The Rain."

Jean Hagen, in "Singing in the Rain."
Donald O'Conner, "Make 'em Laugh"
Kelly's monumentally entertaining, "Broadway Melody"
Cyd Charisse's legs.
All those great songs.
Wonderful script from Comden and Greene.
Cyd Charisse's legs.  (homina, homina)
Kelly's absurdly perfect "Singing in the Rain," number.

Come on!   Best screen musical evah!   (not based on a Broadway show).

Thanks, Mr. Kelly.   If you had done nothing else, you gave us, "Singing in the Rain," and for that, you should be canonized.

Carolyn's Sky

I met Carolyn at a health-food place on St. Marks.   The place is long gone now, but I loved the waitresses there and they loved me.   Really.   They did.   Well, not like that, but they loved me. 

Anyway, one of them said to me one day, "Hey, Joe, you'd love Carolyn, and I think she'd love you!" 

"Really?" I thought. "Well, make it happen."

Carolyn was a dancer, it turns out, and taught movement and dance at the same day care center that Janelle, the waitress did. 

"Come back tomorrow at around two o'clock.   She'll be here."

And so, we met.   It was during the Christmas season.  We sat at the same table in the health-food place.  She seemed to like me but when I offered to drive her to the airport, she flipped.   She thought that was the greatest thing one person could do for another.   Damn, she was pretty.   Very, very pretty.  And a dancer, so I don't have to tell you about her overall physicality.  

I drove her to the airport a few days later, for her Christmas visit home.  She promised that, upon her return, she would take me out to dinner. 

"How about Peking Duck?" she asked.

"Sure!"

"Well, then, it's a date.   I'll call you as soon as I get back."

And she did.  We had a wonderful dinner in Chinatown, Peking Duck, it was, and then we attended a dance recital that included one of her pals.   Very nice.  She lived on the upper east side, not more than a quick cab ride from me.   I saw her home.  I offered to cook dinner for her to return the favor for the duck.  She accepted.

So, I cooked and she was floored.   She couldn't believe I could cook so well.    I served the food but before we ate, a walked over to where she was sitting, raised her chin gently with my finger, and placed a long, gentle, warm kiss on her mouth.    And she responded.    It was a great "first kiss."    Anyway, I had her in the palm of my hand because of that meal.   We moved to sofa and watched some TV and "made out." Nothing more.   She was clearly not ready, so I didn't push it.   She was special and lovely, really really lovely, so I didn't want to do anything to jeopardize our budding romance.  Besides, she revealed that she was a Buddhist, whatever that meant.   I thought it had to mean something, so it gave me pause in rushing into a sexual encounter.   Those things are always best left to happen naturally.    That was my philosophy, anyway.  

A couple of more dates, a few meals, then lunch, after which she said, "I'm going with some friends this weekend to ski.  It's something we do every year."    Oh, I remember it so clearly.    She wore a gray trench coat in the winter chill, with a red scarf.   She was so beautiful.   I remember telling her how beautiful she was.   She like to hear it, too.   

"Skiing?   Sounds great."

"Yeah, just a bunch of friends, you know, it's fun.  We go every year."

"Sounds like fun."

"I'll call you when I get back."

"Can't wait to hear all about it!" 

We kissed gently, and as she walked away . . .  and then it happened.  There came that awful, cold, cold shiver, that portent of tragedy that comes from. . .?   Where?    Wherever it comes from it comes to warn you.  And woe to him who ignores or downplays it.   Pity him.  Pity Me.  

And so, at that moment, as had happened so many times before, I knew that I would not see Carolyn again. As she walked away I thought, "Take a good look, Joe, because this will be the last you ever see of her. . . take a good look. . ."  And I did.  I watched her as she walked away. I saw her stop at the light on the corner and wait for it to turn green.  When it did, I watched her cross the street and descend the stairs down into the subway.   The last thing I saw was her short cropped black hair on the top of her head.    

Next night, she called, saying she was about to leave, and that she would call me as soon as she returned  on Sunday, and that she would miss me.  How sweet and considerate!  I told her so. She made me feel so. . . loved.     (Maybe I was wrong.   Maybe she did still want a relationship with me.   Maybe my fears were unjustified!   Maybe she'll call me on Sunday, just like she said, and we'll just pick up from there, fall deeply in love, if we weren't already, and get married!    Maybe this chill down my spine was. . .)   No.  I knew better.   But still, I hoped.   Against all the forces of the universe,  I hoped.  I foolishly, stupidly, childishly, hoped.   And I paid the price for that hope.

Sunday.    Sunday came.    Sunday came and went.   No phone call, no Carolyn.   Fool that I am, I stayed home, waiting for her to call, hoping against hope, trying, in vain, to dismiss what I knew to be true.  I tried ~ in vain.

I struggled not to call, not to appear, "needy," as we all know, women find that more of a turn off than having only one credit card. . 

But by Thursday, I had to call.  There was no answer, so I left a message. 

"Hi, Carolyn, it's Joe.  Hope you had a great time.   Call when you can.   Bye."

Days passed.   Nothing.  My pain, my curiosity, my longing, my conflicted hopes and desires became inflamed.   But now, I was angered by her lack of respect.  I was a mess.  I called again. 

"Hi, Carolyn, it's Joe again.  It's kind of been a while, and honestly I'm a bit concerned.  You didn't get killed on the slopes did you?    That would be a bummer.   Please call when you can, thanks doll."

Days turned into weeks and I left more and more urgent messages but always kept my emotions and temper under complete control.   Finally, though, I could hold my anger back no longer.

"Carolyn.   Look, if there's something wrong, if you don't want to see me anymore, I'm a big boy, trust me, I can handle it, just please, dammit, have the decency to call me, and tell me.   Okay?  Jesus.  Just call me.  That's really not too much to ask."

Well, in only a couple of hours, she called me.   Like nothing was wrong, like no time had passed with that insipid "sing-song" quality in her voice that women use when they can't admit they've totally fucked up.  "Oh, hi! Joe!  Hi--eee!   How are you?" 

"Fine. Carolyn.   What happened to you?   You know I've been trying to reach you.   You said you'd call when you got back."

"Well, Joe, you know how sometimes, you need some alone time, like, you know, you need time just to be alone, and, I'm sure you understand, that I've been in a place where I needed to be alone, just like, you know some alone time and I needed.. . "

"Yeah! Carolyn, I get it!   Alone time.  Right."

"I knew you'd understand."

"Yeah, well, okay, do me favor.  When you think you may want some company give me a call, okay?  Thanks."

"Oh, yes, definitely.  Joe."

"Good-bye."

So, that was the end of Carolyn.   She made sure to steer clear of the health-food place.   I took it rather hard, to be honest.   Much harder than I thought I would or should.  This one really hurt.

* * * 

Months later, Janelle came over to me at the restaurant and said, "Joe, Carolyn mentioned you today."

"Really?"

"Yeah, she said that she thinks you're mad at her."

I thought for a moment.

"Janelle, do me favor.   Would you do me a favor?"

"Of course, Joe, anything."

"Okay.  Would you tell Carolyn this, and it has to be exactly the way I put it, okay?    Can you do this for me?"

"Sure.  What do you want me to say?"

"Tell her: 'Joe asked me to ask you in these exact words, Carolyn, what color is the sky in your world?'  Do you have that Janelle?  Have you got it?"

"Yeah, Joe. 'Joe asked me to ask you in these exact words, what color is the sky in your world?'"  

"Thank you, Janelle."

I was told that Carolyn did not respond well to that question.  

INGRID AND THE CAFE

In The Cafe

Ingrid stirred her coffee indifferently, and without knowing it, I could no longer avoid staring at her hand, focusing with undivided attention on its irresistible motion.   The tips of three fingers did all the work ( as if she were drawing circles with a pencil), her wrist held just above table level.   It was a picture of the supreme economy of motion, no wasted energy, no excess movement.   It seemed effortless and graceful.   The longer I stared the more my mind wandered, experimented with the image.  Soon, the noise of the cafe became a meaningless din of people, their tables blending into the blackness of the walls behind them, and the objects on our table became blurred and indefinite.   While waiting for Ingrid earlier, before she arrived, there was nothing that attracted my eye or held my attention in the haze of cigarette smoke, food, garbage, varieties of teas and coffees, and the myriad of brands of cheap perfumes that hung in the air.  They all joined together to produce an elusive, indefinable and disturbing smell, seemly and unpleasant really.   My ear could only catch snatches of conversations, a word here or there, garbled from all directions, of varied pitch and volume, none with any meaning.   For the eye there was the movement of waitresses, constant and rapid, but going nowhere, and the customers, entering, leaving, and the occasional motion of an arm in some gesture, or a leg crossing or uncrossing.   But nothing really "moving," the eye remained unsatisfied and bored.   Over all this enemating from some invisible source, was some kind of music, or what was supposed to be music, or what should have been music.    What did I hear?  A beat, a bit of a melody, a rhythmic patter?   Did matter.   No.   (But it should have mattered.   It should have completed a portrait of the scene, making us more than we were making this moment more than it was, rich and alive.    But it didn't.   It couldn't.  This music was not supposed to inform on who we were, on what our society was.   It was just there, somewhere, somewhere in the mess of sounds, empty and pointless.)   Together these sensory elements combined to create a rather unsettling atmosphere, oddly sedating, but unwelcome, like that of an unexpected or bad reaction to some drug.  

But now, I only saw her fingers, the motion of those beautiful, graceful fingers that held some object, round and round, her gentle, sweet, caressing fingers. . .

Fortunately, she stopped, and forced everything else to "reappear," to me.   It was jarring and I hoped Ingrid hadn't noticed.   Of course she hadn't.  She hadn't noticed that I stopped listening to her for several moments as she spoke.  I suppose she was in her own little separate place.  I was able to make sense of that last sentence, which was a question, and so I answered it.

"No, I have not seen 'Fitzcarraldo,' yet but I intend to."    And so she was happy.  I was not.  I had to end this absurd, irrelevant conversation.   I had asked her to meet me here for more important reasons.   I was determined to get some grasp of what was going on between us, between her and her ex-husband, but most of all, what she wanted of me.  Sex, I hoped, of course, being a rather shallow person, and male.   Maybe that's all I wanted from her.  I wanted to ravage her.  

"Ingrid, how are things with your husband?"  I surprised myself with my own directness. "The last time I saw you things were kind of bad.  Do you still see him?"

In one long, agitated breath Ingrid responded, "Oh, yes, I saw him today, in fact, -- he seems much better, much better-- I don't think he's drinking anymore--he was much nicer to me, he has been seeing a doctor and he's much better, it's strange, yes?-- he wants to have another child, well, I'm just not ready for that besides, my God, we don't even live together anymore and -- but -- "  

With the rest of her monologue becoming more and more indiscernible and contradictory I stopped listening.   Ingrid herself how, finally, began to fade into the strained, unpalatable fog.   What am I supposed to make of this woman?  She nearly begged me for a date, lavished me with compliments and physical affection, repeatedly asks to see more of me, but now speaks of her husband as if there was some kind of imminent reconciliation.   Why not?   The bastard only beat her regularly.   So what? 

I could tolerate sitting there no longer.   Convinced there was no reason to stay and that Ingrid was a bewildered, lost woman who didn't know what the hell she wanted from life, probably never knew, maybe never knew who the hell she was, I had to get away.  I wondered if I would continue to seek to be with women who seemed only to want more punishment from men, not love, not laughs, not at least, affection.   I  seemed to find women who wanted only drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and an occasional beating.  I knew there were women out there who didn't want that.  Why were they so hard to find?  

And so, I became cold and indifferent to this beautiful women before me, and feeling myself getting more and more anxious could now think only of leaving.   I signaled the waitress for our check.  She brought it and as I paid I apologized to Ingrid, saying that I had to rush off to a lesson and could not afford to lose the money it would earn for me.   She thanked me warmly and whispered, "Will you call me?"  I lied.   Then she stood and kissed both my cheeks.  I turned, quickly, leaving her in that noisy, odorous atmosphere that created the particularly confused din of the cafe. 

The "Who am I?" Game

Who am I?

I am tall and I wear a stovepipe hat and beard.   I freed the slaves.

Who am I?

I discovered America for the West, and made the world round for it.

Who am I?

I sang and women wept, men thrilled, at the Metropolitan Opera.   I am still remembered though I died more than 90 years ago.

Who am I?

I penned great poems of mystery and stories of the macabre and grotesque.

Who am I?

I loved many women, especially in Venice, and wrote my memoirs, which are still read today.

Who am I?

I have done nothing that anyone will remember;  no one will recall me, my name.  My passing will go unnoticed, and  no one will mourn my loss or seek to know who I was.

* * *

ANSWERS:

Lincoln.   Columbus, Caruso, Poe, Casanova.

Good-bye, Juliet.

Waitresses should be prohibited from speaking to the people they serve.  They should simply take the order and leave.  Then bring the food in silence.   Any questions or remarks about the food she may have must be written on paper and answered thus.  No verbal communication at all.  

The purpose of these rather draconian rules is is to protect innocent dupes, the romantics, and other fools who fall in "love" too easily and quickly because it is far too easy to fall in love with your waitress.  I know.   I do it all the time.   And it always ends the same way.    Painfully.  

So, when Juliet arrived at my favorite diner I should have known, I should have been prepared and protected myself.   Yes, I should have known better.   But didn't.   I was easy prey for her charm, her beauty and her feigned (I'm sure) interest in me.  They do work on tips.    So why not appear friendly, even overly?  We all know it makes for better tips.

But why do they have to be so beautiful?   Juliet could easily be a huge star.   She looks like something out of an Italian movie circa 1958.   Full thick lips, long black hair, full thick body, perfectly formed, full, thick breasts, full thick. . . you get the point.   And those eyes, oh my God.  And those legs.  . .  So beautiful.   How could one NOT fall in love?

So, I did.

Then, it came.   She wore her ring for the first time.  Like a knife in the back.  My foolish heart. 

Now, I must stop going to the diner for a while.   It's too painful.   When I was young I could bounce back more quickly, there were so many opportunities.   Now, there are few and far between.

Good-bye, Juliet!