Dear readers:

This blog contains interviews, poems, and photos. In order to read past interviews and see previously posted photos, please click on "Older Posts" at the bottom of every page or click on back months to the right. Thank-you, and I hope you enjoy these entries.

Robert Siegel, writer/director

an encore, from May 2009:

This interview with Robert began on a Thursday evening at a Chelsea diner. And we concluded the interview the following day, on a muggy Friday Manhattan night in the same diner. So, this was my first two-part interview. I was excited and happy.

Robert was editor-in-chief of "The Onion" from 1996 to 2003... when it was in it's original phase as a Madison, Wisconsin publication. The editor of "The Onion" when Robert arrrived was Ben Karlin, who later left to join "The Daily Show" as executive producer. He was followed by David Javerbaum, who is still the executive producer of "The Onion" and he wrote the music for the Broadway show, "Crybaby."

In 2001, "The Onion" moved to new headquarters in New York City. And shortly thereafter Robert began writing "The Wrestler." Robert explained that the process of creating a film is a long one. It can sometimes take five years from "script to screen." But Robert knew from the beginning that Mickey Rourke was "ideal" for this film and he wrote "The Wrestler" with Mickey Rourke in mind. Robert knew he would be just perfect for this part. Robert wanted to create a compelling character and story. Yet, he realizes the story is both sad and emotional. And throughout, there are many scenes in the film that show the character's great and extreme loneliness with moments of so much sweetness.

The audience knows at the end of the film that "The Ram" will not last long after he makes a decision to go back into the ring. He has made a decision to die. It was the director's decision to end the film with a freeze frame... to perhaps leave the final moments without a closure.

I think there are huge emotional moments in "The Wrestler" and it was Robert Siegel from whose fingers this heartbreaking film began and... he indeed created the film which gave Mickey Rourke his "comeback." Robert was nominated for a WGA award in the category of "original screenplay" for the film.

We moved on to a discussion of "Big Fan," the film which Robert wrote and directed and which will premiere at BAM on June 19th as part of the Next Wave Festival. In the film, Patton Oswalt plays Paul Aufiero, a loner who is obsessed with the Giants and he spends much of his time calling in to a sports radio show. For this role, Patton Oswalt won the award for "Best Actor" at the Method Festival. Robert describes Paul as a "Marty" or "Rupert Pupkin"... and perhaps "Big Fan" is the "King of Comedy" of sports movies. I asked Robert if he personally knows any of these "obsessive nerds" and he said he based the character on his imagination. But we have all had experiences which make us lonely and we all share basic human emotions and it is those feelings which Robert hopes to bring to film. "Big Fan" will open on August 28th.

Well, another interview had ended. As darkness was falling, the sidewalks were still packed with people and the streets were crowded with busy traffic congestion. I started thinking as I began the walk home. People weave in and out of our lives.... but I have known Robert for several years, and tonight I continued to be impressed by Robert's sincerity, integrity, openness, and warmth.

addendum: "Big Fan," written and directed by Robert Siegel, was nominated for the 2010 Independent Spirit John Cassavetes Award.

Alan Berliner, filmmaker and media artist

an encore, from October 2009:


My interview today with Alan Berliner was different from any other that came before. Alan Berliner is the filmmaker who two years ago invited me to join an NYU class on film archiving that was visiting his lower Manhattan studio. The specific purpose of my visit was to discuss a possible solution for the preservation of my old family photos. During the class discussion, Alan suggested I post the photos to the internet where they would be saved and available to any viewers who might discover the site. And shortly thereafter my memoir in a blog, marjorie-pentimentos, began. Today, Alan called my visit to the class an "intervention."

Many months ago when I began marjorie-digest, I asked Alan if he would be interviewed by me for this blog. He thought it would be worthwhile if I again joined another class from NYU and talked about my experience of two years ago and how the process was suggested in a concept during the first visit. Alan requested that I arrive early and that would give us a chance to talk. I was excited and I looked forward to today. I had no idea that the interview that I had intended to be about Alan would somehow morph into an interview about me!

We began and I told Alan that on Sunday many of the descendants of my great-grandparents, Abraham Levine and Goldie Benjamin, gathered at a restaurant in Manhattan for a family reunion. I told Alan that I expecially loved watching the family home movies from around 1952 that were brought by my cousin, Allen. As I talked about Sunday, I slowly began a stream-of-consciousness about so many different topics I felt somehow as if I was going to places that should never have left the imaginative confines of my own head.

And Alan sat there taking notes. He asked just the right questions to bring me to these personal places that were bittersweet and emotional. I talked and talked... about reincarnation, and quantum physics, and consciousness, and past lives, and memories. When I talked about time travel, I think my mind was on that train longing for "Willoughby" where I could enjoy the comforts of the past.

I talked about my life in retirement and my life... and I even spoke about my OCD. I just kept talking and talking... and dialogue flowed (probably from my subconscious) about personal feelings, old family photos, and home movies. I told Alan I love home movies because they are the closest thing to time travel we will ever get. The conversation was layered at times with fantasy, and imagination, and wishful thinking. And Alan kept writing.

He was able to somehow make me want to become nostalgic and share thoughts on so many things... when I was there to be the listener and learn more about him! I was embarrassed and I apologized to Alan that the interview became about me. He waved his hand and seemed to not care and said something like "Maybe I wanted to do that."

And this must be why he is a phenomenal filmmaker. He has this uncanny and kind ability to inspire people to be real and in a defenseless and in a very unguarded way to discover meaningful feelings.

Well, I had to temporarily shut-up because the class arrived and Alan played some very interesting and engaging sound effects for them and then they sat in a circle while I was asked to speak about the birth of my blog. And I did.

Alan inspires me to want to be a better "keeper of the memories." If after I contacted him two years ago Alan had not graciously invited me to meet with him, all my "stuff" probably would have one day been lost forever in a Staten Island landfill. That makes me sad. It makes me sad because one of my personal treasures is a letter that was written by my grandmother to my mother in about 1929. It appears in my memoir in this entry with a poem I wrote in 1992 which developed from some of my feelings about that letter... maybe sentimental memorabilia is in a sense a "madeleine."

In "Synecdoche, New York," the writer Charlie Kaufman ends the film with a monologue: "Now, it is waiting, and nobody cares. And when your wait is over, this room will still exist, and it will continue to hold shoes, and dresses, and boxes. And maybe someday, another waiting person. And maybe not. The room doesn't care either..."

Alan cares and I am on Alan's wave-length. And maybe there is a large group of total strangers who share these thoughts about time and the passing of time and the importance of, as Alan said, "saving pieces of individual lives" even in small scale ways.

At his website Alan has a link to his articles, essays, and journals. Please read his essay, "Gathering Stones." Alan showed me the way to help my own "orphaned photos" find a home.
And in his journal piece "Nobody's Business," Alan writes: "But yes, it is me who returns to visit -- not any of their children, their grandchildren, or any (other) of their great-grandchildren. Just me."

And so I realize that I had forgotten to tell Alan that on infrequent down days when I have little to do, I ride to the still-standing buildings in Brooklyn where I once lived. It seems to be always gloomy and raining on those days. But even on bright sunny days, I think about the homes and the times inside those homes. My mind wanders and I can still hear my mother calling me, at 5:30 PM, for "supper." Sometimes, when I arrive at one house... I park my car slightly down the street, and look at the outside of the window in the room where I once lay in bed at night, so long ago, listening to the sounds of whooshing cars as they passed while I watched their shadows dancing on my bedroom wall. And I still visit my grandmother's house in Bensonhurst.

Alan Berliner is a creative award-winning filmmaker. You can learn more about him and his work by clicking on the links below.
bio

films

The Sweetest Sound

Nobody's Business

Intimate Stranger

The Family Album

Wide Awake

Short Films

online Interviews:
POV - The Sweetest Sound

San Francisco Film Festival: Wide Awake

Three Letters, Two Photos, and Two Days

I found two old long forgotten photos while rummaging through an old shoebox. I also found three letters from a summer of long ago.

THREE LETTERS

August 3rd
Dear J:
I want to tell you what happened on a hazy hot sunless Sunday, in July, at Long Beach. A few feet from where an amnesiac sat on the boardwalk eating hot dogs-- a lady, a blue blood, and a wanderer observed in the sand a mystical image. Well, because they were frightened that the startling sight might rapidly disappear or be scrambled by an insouciant breeze, an attempt was made by the lady to photograph the sight-- to freeze and thereby validate the remarkable event. The lady put down her translucent parasol and a love letter that was written in Sanskrit on an ancient faded doily. And as a tow headed child paddled to shore in a teacup, a picture was taken and developed. It passed from the lady, to the blue blood, and then to the wanderer-- from whose tired, careless fingers it slipped. The wind carried the picture down and up, up and down; it danced the tango for a few seconds before it collapsed in my open right hand. I swear J, in that photograph I saw the transmigration of a soul!
Kindest regards, L

August 12th
Dear L:
I love you and want to marry you! Why didn't you tell me you were spending July out at Long Beach? I desperately wanted you to know that I enrolled in a film workshop and I will complete the requirements and be eligible for a certificate. By the way, the theme of my first project is the lost years of Jesus. I wish you were with me supporting my cinematic aspirations and visions. Last Tuesday, while I dined at an outdoor sidewalk cafe on Madison Avenue, a lady passed holding a translucent parasol. She was walking her Shih Tzu and when she paused, in front of my table, she allowed her thirsty pet to take a few swigs from a bottle of Evian. I took a picture of the lady and her dog, and I am sending it to you.
Love, J

August 28th
Dear J:
Your letter was forwarded to me from the Long Beach address. I am now staying in Westhampton. While I was having dinner at a restaurant in East Hampton, I was introduced by a blue blood to a group of young Buddhists. In the early mornings, I joined them at a mansion for the recitation of five prayers. I want to tell you what happened at the beach on a hot sunny Sunday in mid August. A dilettante, a pacifist, and a codependent led me to a spiritual man, who for a short time in July posed as an amnesiac at Long Beach. He now conducts a series of past life regression sessions and I was persuaded to participate. As I reclined on the Westhampton sand, a lonely seagull flew overhead and a tow headed child paddled, in a teacup, to shore. In time, I recalled a past life! I realize now, Jason, that we were lovers during the French Revolution. So, I will be returning to Manhattan at the end of August, and we shall plan our wedding.
Love, xxxooo

TWO PHOTOS

And soon thereafter, I had a dream about...

TWO DAYS

One hot sunny Sunday, in July, at Long Beach

An amnesiac sat on the boardwalk watching

A strolling lady who was carrying a pearl-handled parasol.

A handsome soldier passed holding a love letter that was

Written on a faded lace white doily and a lonely spinster

Stared at vague images in the sand...

Lines soon to be scattered by an insouciant breeze.

An innocent, guileless, sienna-haired child

Paddled to shore in a teacup.

This is what happened on a hazy sunless Sunday,

In mid-August, at Westhampton.

A spiritual man, who once posed as an amnesiac,

Conducted past life regression sessions

In an old chartreuse theater and

A tattooed director, with wild cinematic aspirations,

Filmed the event in shades of mysterious gray.

Later, I rested on sands

And watched one lost kittiwake fly

In circles overhead while an organ played

Music from an invisible carousel.

I listened to the ocean and

Imagined mermaids swimming painlessly

In peaceful and seductive warm waters.

A sienna-haired child

Stepped out of a floating teacup,

And walked with sea legs

Along colorless sands.

Cut.

Sometimes before twilight... I think of those three letters, the two photos, and how I awakened from that dream about two days not knowing if it was evening or morning. I had a vague feeling I was trapped in an endless maze of smoky mirrors.

© 2004 Marjorie Levine

STREET POEMS, with graphics

NOBODY HOME

Between Muirfield Road and Culduthel Road,
In Inverness, there is a street with no name.
But, you can get there.

An old stone building is quietly hidden
Surrounded by a low iron gate
In a lush green fragrant forest.
All sad sounds have fallen away
The many footprints are gone
And all that is left is the still.

The now boarded up windows
Allow no lights from inside to
Show the way home
And I think
Nobody is home
In this long ago forgotten home.



DESERTED HOUSES

On McDonald Road,
In Lovington, on the dusty
Road under the blue sky
There is an old wooden
House that is deserted.
There's nothing left of the roof,
Or the porch, or the doors.

I traveled down that lonesome road
And saw another house, also deserted.
And then another, set far back and
Looking all broken and empty, too.

I suppose at some time people
Played here, and danced here
Maybe they even sang here
In these now empty rooms.

But, they are all gone now
And nothing is left to hear.
Not the songs they sang or
Even the sound of the wind
That once was, once was
Right there and heard
On days long gone.



PICTURE PERFECT

On Tazewell Avenue Southeast,
In Roanoke, some houses sit very high
Above the street under a bleak grey sky.
The trees are suffering and bent and leafless
And the air appears to be chillingly cold.

I wonder who climbs those long steep
Staircases to sit closer to that foreboding
Sky, where clouds cling together trying hard
Not to let thin patches of blue peek through
Because the view might be less mysterious.




THIS HEADY ELIXIR

On Clifton Hill,
In Niagara Falls, there is a soft intoxicating
Smell in the air of sweet and heady nostalgia.
Walkers cross the street to a bright lush green
Park and the water is then behind them as a
Light mist sprays their backs and the
Visuals turn into blurred memories
Set in stone.

All the excitement is about to begin.
There is a turquoise haunted house,
A beckoning moving theater,
The wax museum,
And a souvenir shop:
It's a massive swirling kaleidoscope of
Dreamlike and almost surreal color.

Then, in the center of all this heady elixir
Is a glorious and perfect SkyWheel,
Where I imagine children sit with parents
High up above it all, setting the graphics into
What will years later seem almost
Hallucinogenic.




BY THE SEA

On Coast Road,
in Larne, two people stand
Between the purple rocky cliffs and the
Pale colorless sea on the other side of
Yellow and purple flowers.

Cars pass by with drivers and passengers
Whose faces I will never see.
There is an open gate with a path that
Leads to an unseen place.

And soon, there is a sign that says,
"Boats," and then the sky turns magically blue.
But, in the distance the clouds are so low that
They touch the water.




STANDING STILL

On Højdevangs Allé,
In Copenhagen, the flowers
That line the street
Are so fragrant that two
Women stopped walking.

They stood between two buildings
To look at small blue flowers on
One side while purple and white
Flowers flourished without moving
Behind them, on the other side.




THE LIGHTHOUSE

On Main Street,
In Chatham, there's a lighthouse
Between the red, white, and blue flag
And a white house with a red roof
All at the end of the street.

There are cars looking to park and
Men pushing baby carriages
And women with shopping bags
And everybody is going one way:
To the ocean, to the blue ocean.

There's a lantern there to light
The way back at night to other
Places: to other places near to here
So that the walkers can go
Back the other way to reach home.
And the way is lighted so the drivers
Who have come from far away from here
Never quite reach the end of the street
At the end of the day.




REMEMBERING AN OLD STREET

On Main Street,
On Martha’s Vineyard, I am
Filled with bittersweet memories.
I remember Main Street...
I was there, so long ago.

I can still smell that ocean air,
So briny and salty and
All those summers come
Flooding back.

The day we ate in the diner
And how the jukebox blared all
The songs we loved.

In spite of all the quaintness
Of that lovely and charming place
I longed with desperation
To be some place else.

I suppose we are what we carry
Inside us and in spite of that
Heady beauty, whenever I was there
I longed to be somewhere else.

I suppose there are places that always
Make us want to go home.




ORDINARY THINGS

On Main Street,
In Northport, there is a
Guy standing in the middle of the street
Wearing an orange helmet
And a lady, riding a bicycle on the sidewalk,
Wearing a pale straw sun hat
And two children walking home from school
Wearing book bags and carrying skateboards.

A beautiful house proudly displays the flag,
There are two churches on both sides
When you reach Church Street
And one has lovely pink flowers in front.
There's a post office, a bank,
The fire department announcing
The "Fireman's Fair"...

In front of pristine houses on a crisp clear
Day ordinary things are happening
Where extraordinary things happened.
Nothing remarkable here at all
To speak of the remarkable man that
Once lived here.

Pass through this town, keep driving
Keep going, don't look over your shoulder
Keep going until you read the end:
The water with the boats and the looming
Hill on the other side
And you know you can't turn back.




GOING THE OTHER WAY

On Larimer Street,
In Denver, I went the wrong way
Because the sun was endlessly bright
And my eyes hurt.

So, I winced and decided to turn
Around and see a different view
And go the other way.
I longed for night, so the darkness
Might blur the vision.

In sunlight, there were too many new
Things and I longed for the
Old buildings; these pieces didn't fit.

This music is too now,
And the haircuts are too today.
These silvery parked bicycles
Have taken short trips.
The billiard club fills me with despair
For times gone by so I go over
And look at all the hanging beads for
Making necklaces, as if they held a key to
Some magical thinking and wearing beads
Could bring back what once was.

I wondered if this pawn shop
Accepts memories,
And keeps them safe
Until later when the memories
Are bought back.

Nobody finds places long gone.
But, taking back memories
Makes me smile.
On this street,
It would be fitting.




WHAT REMAINS

On Merrimack Street,
In Lowell, there's a signpost
That says: Detour.

Maybe he never should have
Taken the other road,
Maybe he should have gone
Back, gone the other way
And stayed on these roads.

The air at the end of these
Roads becomes thick and
Dense and there is fog.

Here, on lonely low bleak cloudy days
There are quiet somber and grey
Places: big old several storied houses
With many front steps and slanted roofs
And lots of windows for eye prints.

The houses on University Avenue
From long ago are comforting with
Stubborn intoxicating attics whispering
Secrets obsessed with what
Was, so returning to this street
Reveals air like a strange pentimento.

Old stores with faded signs, corner
Places that never ever yielded or
Changed and they don't bend, they
Remain strong, proud, and solid.

If he stayed for more than a short
Time he always heard the swing
Music; drizzling so he could remember.
At night, in dreams, when
The way became lost, he
Soon realized he never left.
All that time, all those years
His eyes were just closed.
The boarded up windows gave
Him reasons to cry.

Now, this is the end of the seductive
Road, his forever destination:
A place that always surfaced
When sad dreams and deep
Longing finally fell away...
And he had to return to this place
Like a traveler who finally uses his
Return trip ticket.
Home.




THIS PENTIMENTO

Via Comandante Simone Guli,
In Palermo, a street so old that
High above wives still hang the wash
Out over the black iron balcony gates
Next to green leaves and blue and white
Striped curtains falling out of windows.

Once children stood there with mothers,
Waiting for fathers to return home.
The red flowers now sit high over sad
Graffiti and a tobacco shop which
Serves as some reminder not
To obscure the view.




THE FRONT OF THE LIBRARY

On West 10th Street,
In Kansas City, there is a
Library that looks like
Books.

The front looks like
Big books all
Next to each other
All tall and proud.

Catch-22, Oh Pioneers!,
And Fahrenheit 451
To the left, and
Lord of the Rings, Truman,
And To Kill a Mockjngbird
To the right.

Take a walk through
The middle doors,
Right through the middle
And go inside, go all the way in
Walk right inside the books to the
Places the stories can take you.




THE BASKET BUILDING
On County Highway 585,
In Newark, there's a seven story
Building
That looks just like a basket.

I didn't want to be outside the
Building,
I wanted to be inside.

I wanted to be inside that basket.
And when I was inside,
I wanted to join hands with
Everybody else who was inside
And sing a song.

Some places are just like that.
They inspire singing;
I left this
Building,
This road
With a basketful of smiles.




SCENES FROM LONG AGO

On Beard Street,
In Kernersville, there are colorful
Wall murals which give glimpses
Into what was, long ago.

I saw ladies in billowing long
Red and white dresses standing
With gentlemen wearing tall hats
All waiting at the railroad station
For family arriving from faraway places.
Soon, they would all step into a horse
Drawn carriage to take a short ride home.

Nobody looked up to see the child
Perched high above who on bleak days
After school would climb to the flat roof
To wait for the trains to pass.

The trains were carrying weary passengers
Traveling to faraway places, and they were
Also going home.

Many years later, she would remember
The sound of the whistle as the trains
Passed and she would speak of the sound
As both sad and mournful,
Perhaps because it always
Strangely reminded
Her of all times past.




VISITING THE DEAD

On Maiselova,
In Prague, so many people
Come to visit the long gone
And dead at the Jewish
Cemetery near
Staronova Synagogue.

These are the dead from
The ages: they were born,
They lived, they loved,
And what's left here now
Is the dust to dust.
Visitors walk slowly as if a
Mere whisper might wake
These dead.

All the many people tiptoe
Quietly around and around
The wall around the old cemetery.
They walk around to get to the
Other side where there are boats
On the still water and newer things.
And they speak, or speak not,
Of times long ago.

The clock in the high distance
Reminds that time always passes,
It passes and passes and passes
In time with the heartbeats,
And there is always a solid wall to
Separate the living
From the dead.




OPTICAL ILLUSION

On Edinburgh Street,
In Winnipeg, parts of the ground were still
Covered in snow under a crisp blue and
White sky that almost crackled with sharp
Definition and clarity.

It was there that I turned a corner
And stopped at a driveway and saw
In the icy cold snow carved footprints
That finally reached an almost
Tropically lighted home.




THESE DAYS

On the Promenade,
In Blackpool, exquisite wonder
And bright colors create an intense
Kaleidoscope of magical fun.

There's a high tower and
Amusements and prizes and
Horse drawn carriages riding next to
Modern cars.

On the pier, there's a Ferris Wheel with
Rotating gondolas perfectly suited for
Grand and glorious views
Of luminous illuminations.

Luminous illuminations
All right by the sea
By the sea, so all the children
Who come here
Will remember these days.




PRETTY WALK

On East Guenther Street,
In San Antonio, I felt I should
Be wearing fancy ribbons in my hair
Because the houses are so pretty.

I passed by houses that are
Treasures with artistically sculptured
Facades and stunning lace screened
Verandas where guests might dine
On tea cakes spread out on crisp white
Doilies and later when the sun goes
Down, talk of small things that matter
And rinse their hands in dainty
Finger bowls to keep things fresh.

There's a place to stand to view the
Spot where the breathless
Flowing river passes through
Bringing a sense of sameness.

I got lost on this intoxicating street,
Longed to stay, and knew I could return.
There's a sense of serenity in this old
Comfort as the sunlight falls on this same
Street as it has fallen on this street forever.




THE GHOSTS OF GAY STREET

On Gay Street,
In New York City, there are quaint
Red and white and orange houses that are
Intoxicating because they are so old and little.

There is a building with turquoise shutters and
There are pinks and red and white flowers in
Lovely window pots and green trees
To the left and to the right.

The facade is frozen, but not the living...
Or the dead.

It is said that number 12 is...
Haunted. Maybe so.

But,
It is the house across the street where I see
A ghost.
She is peeking out from the second floor window
On the left side of an orange brick building.

She has bushy eyebrows and one hair roller
Sits on the top of her head.

Her mouth is open as if she is startled and
She appears to be more frightened than the
Tourists who down below night and day
Haunt the street looking for the
Ghosts of Gay Street.




SEEING ALMOST NOTHING

On Repatriation Road,
In Pickering Brook, I drove
For a long time
And saw almost nothing
Except the narrow road
Ahead and trees on both sides
With nothing behind me
And nothing ahead of me.
Then, I saw a tractor on one side
And a low gate on the other and
I knew I was reaching a place.
Some place.

Then, I saw a tiny little house
All alone there behind some flowers.
It had a front porch with old chairs
And some other muted things.
In front of the house was a tree,
Three times taller than the house!
I kept going.
I kept going
Chasing the end of that road.
Until I reached the end of the road.
Literally.
And then I went back home.




TO GET TO THIS PLACE

On Aleppo Road,
In New Freeport, there are wonderful
things, rich and wonderful things.

Old houses made of dark crumbling
Wood that remembers what was,
A dry waterless sandy creek
And an old and tired bench
Where an old grandmother sat
And turned, with bent and gnarled
Fingers, the pages of a book
While whispering magical words
That filled a child's imagination.

Keep moving past a graveyard where
Old and broken and long forgotten cars
That yesterday were shiny new cars that
Once took children to faraway colorful fairs.

And past some jumping deer going up a
Steep hill to get back to the forest to hide,
To get back to familiar safe places.

A shiny white gazebo stands alone on
The grand grass where dolls sit
Wearing fancy hats and having sweet tea.

To get to this place you will need to
Go the other way, go that other way,
Go a different way to be taken away.




WHERE THE ROAD STOPS

On Via Regina,
In Griante Como, I knew I
Was very far away from
My own home and
All places familiar,
All things remembered
And then easily forgotten.

This street with this view was
Created by some artist with sentimental
Sentiments and great attention to
Detail from his own mind's eye: the buildings
With arched entrances, the restaurants where
Diners eat outside under white umbrellas or
Under the clear blue sky next to the perfectly
Sweet green round trees near the boats
On the lake coming and going,
Going and coming.

The remote and fancy street looks out
Upon a gorgeous lake with mountains
High above in the distance on the other side
On all sides.

On the other side, there's a soft
Mist above those mountains with a
Tiny village sculpted right into the
Mountain above the view of the lake
Behind the red flowers, red flowers
On this side.

This place, where children grew up
And in later years returned to
The same place with the same view
Of the mountain under the mist
And the tiny village sculpted right
Into the mountain.

This might be a good place to stop
A fine place indeed, to stop.
Because after all, all journeys end
And where do I go from here?
Where can I go from here?


© 2010 Marjorie Levine

KIDDIE RIDES

I awakened and longed with desperation
To return to Brooklyn.
I wanted to ride until dawn on a creaky
Ferris wheel left behind by a carnival and
To visit the still standing luminous
Chartreuse home of my grandmother.
Memories behind stained glass windows
Beckoned like some naked amnesiac
Who struggles to reach home.

In the air, I could still smell the fullbodied scent
Of burnt potato pancakes that wafted through that
House and I often glimpsed the ghosts of ancestors
Lurking and sucking juice from the backyard peach tree.
I longed with desperation to return to old Brooklyn.

At 5 P.M. I slipped into my car
And drove south through Manhattan.
The pink sun soon sizzled on the Hudson River
And set, to my right, in bright blazing Technicolor.
In the distance, one kittiwake
Seemed to have found the way.

I headed for the elixir of the spinning
Teacups: the kiddie rides at intoxicating
Coney Island... in the most haunted and
Haunting of places: Brooklyn.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

TWO DAYS

One hot sunny Sunday, in July, at Long Beach:
An amnesiac sat on the boardwalk watching
A strolling lady who was carrying a pearl-handled parasol.
A handsome soldier passed holding a love letter that was
Written on a faded lace white doily and a lonely spinster
Stared at vague images in the sand...
Lines soon to be scattered by an insouciant breeze.

An innocent, guileless, sienna-haired child
Paddled to shore in a teacup.

This is what happened on a hazy sunless Sunday,
In mid-August, at Westhampton.
A spiritual man, who once posed as an amnesiac,
Conducted past life regression sessions
In an old chartreuse theater and
A tattooed director, with wild cinematic aspirations,
Filmed the event in shades of mysterious gray.

Later, I rested on sands
And watched one lost kittiwake fly
In circles overhead while an organ played
Music from an invisible carousel.

I listened to the ocean and
Imagined mermaids swimming painlessly
In peaceful and seductive warm waters.

A sienna-haired child
Stepped out of a floating teacup,
And walked with sea legs
Along colorless sands.

Sometimes before twilight,
I think of those two days.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

NAP TIME

At dusk, a dream through stained glass:
In a hazy deciduous forest, I am almost naked-
Pristine gown clinging like translucent second skin,
Chartreuse satin slippers, cheeks pale porcelain rose,
And humidity turning my hair burnt sienna.
The scent of dried lavender drifts through trees-
“Alone in nature, by nature,” ventriloquists murmur.
Bejeweled spiders, resting on carefully crocheted cobwebs,
Melancholy widows, eyes green tourmaline,
A soldier seduced by indifference...
Haunted beauty washed forever in soft pink light.

A fading fragrant French cologne-
Earlier a sweet intoxicating elixir- melting and melted.
An elusive black-throated warbler,
Pausing on a great oak, bears witness:
An icon is shedding mellifluous silver tears,
Reflecting my grandfather, wrapped in his tallit
Stirring, turning, saying, “You look very familiar to me.”

A clammy breeze passes through Manhattan.
I awaken this time, awakened last time,
Acquiescent and still, not knowing
If it is evening... or morning.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

Elisa Jordana, singer and songwriter

Elisa Jordana says: "I love to write music, play piano, and sing. I am a terrific dancer, talker and overall creative person. I love animals and the muppets. Some people even consider me a muppet." She's more than a "muppet." She is a very talented and beautiful singer who I think you will all enjoy.

You can hear her sing her original song, "This Town," at her website here: Elisa Jordana.

I think you will love the mellifluous sounds of Elisa Jordana! And as an extra treat, you can hear her sing a lovely song with her friend, Benjy, called: "Online Sweetheart." In the song, they both are excited and delighted as they look forward to meeting each other. The tune is very catchy and may inspire others to try online dating in order to find their own "bashert."

Jerry, the "Marble Faun"

bumped up, from May 2009:


I was more than elated when Jerry Torre agreed to be interviewed for this blog. Don't you know who Jerry Torre is? He's featured in the great documentary, "Grey Gardens," by Albert and David Maysles. You've seen it, haven't you?

Jerry is who Little Edie Beale called the "Marble Faun," in that "artistic smash." I always loved Edie Beale. I never thought of her as an "acquired taste," as Big Edie describes her in the recent HBO film, "Grey Gardens." She seemed to be filled with excellent wit and humor and she had such a great spirit. She actually is one of the people I miss who I never met. And I was thrilled when Jerry Torre met me for a late lunch on this Friday afternoon. I recognized him immediately as he crossed the street.

Jerry found his way to East Hampton from Brooklyn one summer when he ran away from home and was looking for adventure. He became an assistant gardener for Mr. Gerald Geddes, and he had his own little room over the kitchen in that home. And when he was on his bicycle wandering around one day, he found Grey Gardens.

We started talking about the mansion, Grey Gardens. Grey Gardens was quite dilapidated and Jerry said raccoons would watch from the rafters, cats would jump all over the room, and cobwebs draped the staircase... and on rainy days water would seep into the house through cracks. Jerry says "Mrs. Beale was very comfortable with the untidy conditions of the house." He never questioned the conditions because he did not want to be impolite. But one day, when a kitten died it took some time to convince Mrs. Beale that the kitten needed to be buried.

Then I asked Jerry what the Beales did all day. Jerry said that Little Edie dedicated her life to her mother and she was always in the house. He told me they had no television and just a small radio. Jerry said they would sing, and Little Edie would recite poetry and read to her mother. She would entertain Big Edie with little costumes that she created and run in and out of her dressing area. And they challenged each other in great debates about everything and that kept them going because they bickered all through the day and night. "They were like lawyers." The topics included the Kennedy clan and how to get through the winter. They would discuss men, etiquette, and have endless discussions about the environment. They often discussed the social politics of their East Hampton town. They "stayed occupied with their minds." Little Edie was an interesting woman filled with ideas. She was a very "complete human being" and she very much wanted to express all of herself. Jerry told me that Little Edie would often sit in the "forgotten chair" when she wanted to escape from "the scene." It was red leather and in a garden surrounded by overgrowth in the back of the house.

Jerry had great concern for the Beales and he fell in love with them and felt a huge sense of responsibility for their safety. He explained that Big Edie used a Sterno (which was next to her bed) to prepare the corn, and he wanted to be called over every time the Sterno was used. He had great fear that somehow that dangerous Sterno would cause a fire. During the interview, the deep love that Jerry had for the Beales was always very apparent and revealed in his thoughtful and kind demeanor.

Jerry lost touch with Little Edie after Big Edie passed away. While Edie was a very strong woman, she very much missed her mother. Edie stayed to herself and lived for about two years alone in Grey Gardens until it was sold. I felt overwhelming sadness as Jerry spoke because I believe that Edie had to be very lonely during that time.

We then moved on to discuss what Jerry has been doing all these years since his appearance as the "Marble Faun" in the great documentary "Grey Gardens." Jerry explained he has kept to himself because he wanted to own the relationship with the Beales and keep it private. Only in the last few years has interest in him and his time in the house become mainstream and at first he was not sure he wanted to share his memories. This is a renewed "avalanche of interest" in what Jerry calls a magical time in his life. He said, "after all, it is 33 years old." He asked me if that made sense.

In the years that have passed Jerry has lived and experienced so much. He is now a sculptor at The Art Students League of New York and one of his awarded works is "Confetti."

Jerry did openly speak about and share his memories and feelings with me during this interview and I was very moved. I felt an almost overwhelming general nostalgia and a longing for a time gone by. I was overjoyed to meet Jerry and very happy that he allowed me a glimpse into those few years of his life.

We left the restaurant and we promised to stay in touch. Jerry, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Lunch with Jerry, "The Marble Faun"

an encore, that was written on October 22, 2009:


Jerry and I met for lunch at a restaurant in midtown. We spoke about the Beales and Grey Gardens, and relationships, and where life takes us as we move along through the decades. It was wonderful seeing him again, and each time we are together we grow closer. Jerry is a very interesting man and he has many memories and it was a pleasure to spend part of the afternoon with him on a very beautiful day in Manhattan. Here is my interview from last May with Jerry, Edie Beale's "Marble Faun."

And this just in: Jerry, In Production! Jerry has had a very interesting life and I am thrilled, delighted, and excited... and I cannot wait to see this documentary!

And this, from June 2009:
Tonight was the reception at The Art Students League of New York for the 2008 Merit Scholarship Winners. The winners of merit scholarships from 2008 presented their work. Jerry Torre received the Martha T. Rosen Memorial Scholarship and he presented two sculptures: "Bohack Dorata," in Italian sandstone and "Confetti," in Spanish limestone.
I attended the reception and here are some photos of the event.

This is Jerry with "Bohack Dorata."


This is Jerry with "Confetti."


Albert Maysles arrived with his daughter, Sara, and I was thrilled to meet him. Albert Maysles is the filmmaker who, with his brother David, made the documentary "Grey Gardens." Sara and her sister, Rebekah, are the authors of the brand new book, "Grey Gardens." Albert Maysles told me tonight that it was thirty years after "Grey Gardens" was made that he was reunited with Jerry. He kept in touch through correspondence with Edie Beale, who had moved to Florida. And Edie had told him that Jerry was living in Saudi Arabia, working as a gardener for a royal family.

This is a photo taken tonight of me and Albert Maysles.


And this is a photo of Jerry (Edie Beale's "Marble Faun,") Albert Maysles, and me! How wonderful it was to see them together again, almost 35 years after that legendary documentary was made.



And here is Jerry with Little Edie Beale and Big Edie in 1975, from the original documentary "Grey Gardens."

Mary Engel, photo and film archivist

from 2009:


This interview with Mary Engel about her parents, the talented filmmaker Morris Engel and the creative and legendary photographer Ruth Orkin, began over the telephone. As she requested during that call, I submitted a few questions to her in an E-mail... and her answers appear below.

The many biographies of Morris Engel all state he was a combat cameraman with the US Army Signal Corps during World War II, and he was present during the D-Day landings at Normandy. Morris Engel took much of the film footage that has appeared in documentaries featuring the D-Day landings. Morris Engel wrote and directed three films: "The Little Fugitive" (1953), "Lovers and Lollipops" (1956), and "Weddings and Babies" (1958). I recall first seeing "The Little Fugitive" as a child. It is about a young boy who is tricked into believing he shot his brother. He runs away to Coney Island and he has quite a day of adventure before his brother finds him and brings him home. Today, "The Little Fugitive" is recognized as a very well done independent film which influenced such filmmakers as John Cassavettes and Francois Truffaut. In April 2009, TCM aired a tribute to Morris Engel called "Morris Engel: The Independent" (2007). The documentary is by Mary Engel and it explores her father's life, career, and work with his wife Ruth Orkin.

During that same day in April, TCM showed a documentary called "Ruth Orkin: Frames of Life" (1997). The biographical documentary was also directed by Mary Engel and it is about her mother’s work during her career as a very talented and gifted photographer. So many of Ruth Orkin's photos give me a general feeling for times gone by and "Comic Book Readers," New York City, 1947, evokes a very personal and emotional nostalgic response. Mary can be seen in her mother's photo, "Mary and Morris Shaving," New York City, 1966.

These are Mary's replies to the questions:
Q: How do you think your father influenced independent film?
A: My father Morris Engel was one of the first independent filmmakers in New York City, and his film “Little Fugitive” (1953) has tremendous significance in film history. He made the film with my mother, photographer, Ruth Orkin. I think they both inspired many filmmakers, and the response to the film even today 56 years later is extraordinary. My father made the hand-held 35mm movie camera with a friend Charlie Woodruff, and that enabled him to shoot “Little Fugitive” from the little boy’s perspective, with only one assistant. The film was made for only $30,000, during a four-week period over the summer in Coney Island. “Little Fugitive” was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Motion Picture Story (now known as Best Original Screenplay) and won the Silver Lion at the Venice Film Festival. It has also been added to the Library of Congress National Film Registry, and was restored by the Museum of Modern Art. Francois Truffaut said, “Our New Wave would never have come into being, if it wasn’t for the young American Morris Engel who showed us the way with “Little Fugitive.” Also, as stated in my new film “Morris Engel: The Independent” there were several important documentary filmmakers such as Albert Maysles and D.A. Pennebaker who were influenced by him, and who made their own cameras after seeing my father’s camera. The French filmmaker Jean Luc Godard also wanted to borrow my father’s camera.

Q: Do you have any memories of participating in "Mary and Morris Shaving," New York City, 1966?
A. My memories of the photo “Mary and Morris Shaving, NYC, 1966” are primarily from the photo. My mother had 500-watt lights in every room so she wouldn’t miss anything. However, she primarily shot everything candid, so I don’t have memories of being posed, or resenting having her constantly shooting. I love now having all the photos that I do have of my childhood.

Q: On a personal level, "Comic Book Readers," New York City, 1947, gives me a general feeling of nostalgia and a feeling for times gone by. Can you talk a bit about how other photos may evoke that emotional nostalgic response?
A. I think both of my parent’s photos evoke memories of the past because they were taken primarily in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s. It brings back an era that people think of as golden, and when New York was a different place. Obviously, for me, I can only dream about what it was like, because I was born in the 60’s, but I love looking at all the photos to see how different parts of the city used to look like. In addition, much of the architecture was so wonderful, and it is a shame that so many buildings were torn down, that it is great to have memories of these landmarks from their photos.

Q: Are you planning any exhibits of your mother's work?
A. I work full-time as the archivist of my parent’s work, at the Orkin/Engel Film and Photo Archive so I’m continually trying to promote their work by arranging new shows, working on various projects, and planning new books. I have published several catalogs of their work on my own. The websites are a great way to learn and see more of their photographs. Go to The Ruth Orkin Photo Archive, and The Morris Engel Photo Archive.

The above Ruth Orkin photo, "Comic Book Readers," New York City (1947) appears at this blog with the written permission of Mary Engel. It is from the "Children" collection.

Brian Gari, songwriter/performer/author

from 2009:


I first saw Brian Gari on October 24, 2008 at the Friends of Old Time Radio Convention held in Newark, NJ. He moderated a very interesting panel discussion with guests such as Lucie Arnaz, Betty Rose, and Ervin Drake. Joe Franklin was there, too. Brian presented a loving tribute to his father, Roberto Gari, who passed away in January 2008. I was very impressed with Brian's participation, so I went to the Drama Book Shop and I bought his book, "We Bombed In New London," to learn more about him and his career.

I sent this on April 15, 2009:
Brian:
I am almost finished reading "We Bombed In New London," and I am loving it so much I am not wanting it to end. This is a fascinating story of a true journey... and I think what is so amazing is how the narrative is factually presented with visual memorabilia and is also written with layers of extemely dark wit and humor. It is hilarious! I am just astounded by so many parts. And it is so well presented that I feel as if I am actually watching the "vignettes" unfold.
The book has sort of Larry David "Curb Your Enthusiasm" moments:
p. 47: "(David Susskind) wasn't on the phone more than ten seconds when he screamed, "I'll never get involved in musicals again!" I guess he was right; he died a very short time after my phone call."
p. 115: "He didn't give a shit. He would report me. Imagine continuing to ride with this obstinate jerk."
p. 116 "I was flattered. My songs being bootlegged? What fun!"
p. 182 "Gee. I was shaking in my boots. I had incurred the wrath of the great Cindy Adams."
I think you did a great job showing in subtle ways how people interact and relate to each other. Brian, your book is just wonderful. Let me put it this way: it's a book that is the best independent film I have ever read.
Marjorie

Shortly after I sent the above E-mail to Brian, I wrote to him again and asked if he would be interviewed for this blog. He immediately replied, "sure," and we met on Thursday, April 30th, at noon... in the Key West Diner on upper Broadway. We started to talk, and right away I was impressed with Brian's straightforward, honest, and down-to-earth manner. He spoke about his musical, "Late Nite Comic," and he said he realized the show's "time (on Broadway) was short." He discussed, in a very forthright manner, how the last few days of the show turned into a "free-for-all" because the perfomers were not getting the response they expected. He wrote "Late Nite Comic" based on his relationship with his girlfriend at the time, named Janet. Janet never saw the show. Brian says in his book she blocked all communication with him. This was a huge disappointment to him that he lives with to this day.

We then discussed Brian's "Love Online," which is based on his real-life experience about finding love on the internet. He met a woman on AOL who answered his written ad. They had many E-mail exchanges and telephone conversations... and he fell in love with her "through her words." He fell in love with her phrasing, the depth of her conversations, and her life story. And after they finally met, the romantic relationship lasted two and a half years. He was strongly emotionally involved and their connection was deep. Brian insists it is possible to fall in love before meeting because... he "lived it."

Brian has an extensive list of accomplishments. He has a salute to Brian Wilson, which he will be performing at Don't Tell Mama and he has done a Christmas album as well as a Brazilian album. He did a salute to the music of Roger Nichols and Paul Wiilliams. Brian is still writing songs and doing speeches with his mother about his grandfather, Eddie Cantor. He is also working on a musical about his grandfather.
This was an enjoyable interview for me and I thank Brian very much for sharing his insights and pieces of his personal experiences. He is an extremely talented man and he is as heartfelt in person as he is in his writing.

Linda Richman, writer/lecturer

Here is an encore of an interview I did in April 2009 with my dear friend, Linda Richman.


Here is Linda's Proust Questionnaire:

Your most marked characteristic?
my irreverent sense of humor
The quality you most like in a man?
humor, humor, humor
The quality you most like in a woman?
her ability to nurture
What do you most value in your friends?
Loyalty with a capital 'L'
What is your principle defect?
I don't suffer fools gladly
What is your favorite occupation?
authors and writers
What is your dream of happiness?
knowing who you are and accepting the good, the bad, and the ugly
What would you like to be?
an accomplished pianist
In what country would you like to live?
Italy
What is your favorite color?
white, even though I know it is a hue
What is your favorite bird?
the cardinal
Who are your favorite poets?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning
Who are your favorite composers?
Marvin Hamlisch, Marilyn and Alan Bergman; I'm a Broadway baby!
Who are your favorite painters?
Matisse and Monet
Who are your heroes in real life?
myself
What is it you most dislike?
bigotry
What historical figures do you most despise?
Hitler
What natural gift would you most like to possess?
ballet dancing
How would you like to die?
in my sleep next to Antonio Banderas
What is your present state of mind?
I'm wistful
What is your motto?
I'd rather be kind than right

And this is how Linda describes me:
"Marjorie is complicated, brilliant, creative, clever, and impossible at times!"

Linda Richman is the author of the best-selling book "I'd Rather Laugh," and the inspiration for the "Coffee Talk Lady" on Saturday Night Live... and she is my friend.

The photo of the cover of Linda Richman's book is used in this entry with her permission.

STREET POEMS

THIS PENTIMENTO

Via Comandante Simone Guli,
In Palermo, a street so old that
High above wives still hang the wash
Out over the black iron balcony gates
Next to green leaves and blue and white
Striped curtains falling out of windows.

Once children stood there with mothers,
Waiting for fathers to return home.
The red flowers now sit high over sad
Graffiti and a tobacco shop which
Serves as some reminder not
To obscure the view.


STANDING STILL

On Højdevangs Allé,
In Copenhagen, the flowers
That line the street
Are so fragrant that two
Women stopped walking.

They stood between two buildings
To look at small blue flowers on
One side while purple and white
Flowers flourished without moving
Behind them, on the other side.


OPTICAL ILLUSION

On Edinburgh Street,
In Winnipeg, parts of the ground were still
Covered in snow under a crisp blue and
White sky that almost crackled with sharp
Definition and clarity.

It was there that I turned a corner
And stopped at a driveway and saw
In the icy cold snow carved footprints
That finally reached an almost
Tropically lighted home.


PICTURE PERFECT

On Tazewell Avenue Southeast,
In Roanoke, some houses sit very high
Above the street under a bleak grey sky.
The trees are suffering and bent and leafless
And the air appears to be chillingly cold.

I wonder who climbs those long steep
Staircases to sit closer to that foreboding
Sky, where clouds cling together trying hard
Not to let thin patches of blue peek through
Because the view might be less mysterious.


BY THE SEA

On Coast Road,
in Larne, two people stand
Between the purple rocky cliffs and the
Pale colorless sea on the other side of
Yellow and purple flowers.

Cars pass by with drivers and passengers
Whose faces I will never see.
There is an open gate with a path that
Leads to an unseen place.

And soon, there is a sign that says,
"Boats," and then the sky turns magically blue.
But, in the distance the clouds are so low that
They touch the water.


SCENES FROM LONG AGO

On Beard Street,
In Kernersville, there are colorful
Wall murals which give glimpses
Into what was, long ago.

I saw ladies in billowing long
Red and white dresses standing
With gentlemen wearing tall hats
All waiting at the railroad station
For family arriving from faraway places.
Soon, they would all step into a horse
Drawn carriage to take a short ride home.

Nobody looked up to see the child
Perched high above who on bleak days
After school would climb to the flat roof
To wait for the trains to pass.

The trains were carrying weary passengers
Traveling to faraway places, and they were
Also going home.

Many years later, she would remember
The sound of the whistle as the trains
Passed and she would speak of the sound
As both sad and mournful,
Perhaps because it always
Strangely reminded
Her of all times past.


THIS HEADY ELIXIR

On Clifton Hill,
In Niagara Falls, there is a soft intoxicating
Smell in the air of sweet and heady nostalgia.
Walkers cross the street to a bright lush green
Park and the water is then behind them as a
Light mist sprays their backs and the
Visuals turn into blurred memories
Set in stone.

All the excitement is about to begin.
There is a turquoise haunted house,
A beckoning moving theater,
The wax museum,
And a souvenir shop:
It's a massive swirling kaleidoscope of
Dreamlike and almost surreal color.

Then, in the center of all this heady elixir
Is a glorious and perfect SkyWheel,
Where I imagine children sit with parents
High up above it all, setting the graphics into
What will years later seem almost
Hallucinogenic.


NARROW STREET

On Villa Silla,
In Scanno, the low and narrow street
Has a quiet outdoor cafe with tables
Covered in yellow tablecloths.

One man dines alone
Next to and under purple
Red and pink flowers.
Gorgeous proud balconies are
Set into buildings with old grey
Chipped and broken stone.

A little store down the path displays
Colorful children's clocks:
Bunnies and elephants and angels
Designed to make the children laugh.

From another high window, freshly washed
Towels hang and down below mothers
Gather to talk and soon walk with their babies.

Flower pots sit on small steps,
Leading up to a home where another woman
Is standing above the street looking down
From a wide open window near a bird feed
And she too is hanging the wash out to dry.

And then nothing moves and all is frozen.
Only the wash; the wash flying in front of that
Large foreboding mountain under a crisp
And clear blue and white sky.


THE GHOSTS OF GAY STREET

On Gay Street,
In New York City, there are quaint
Red and white and orange houses that are
Intoxicating because they are so old and little.

There is a building with turquoise shutters and
There are pinks and red and white flowers in
Lovely window pots and green trees
To the left and to the right.

The facade is frozen, but not the living...
Or the dead.

It is said that number 12 is...
Haunted. Maybe so.

But,
It is the house across the street where I see
A ghost.
She is peeking out from the second floor window
On the left side of an orange brick building.

She has bushy eyebrows and one hair roller
Sits on the top of her head.

Her mouth is open as if she is startled and
She appears to be more frightened than the
Tourists who down below night and day
Haunt the street looking for the
Ghosts of Gay Street.


TO GET TO THIS PLACE

On Aleppo Road,
In New Freeport, there are wonderful
things, rich and wonderful things.

Old houses made of dark crumbling
Wood that remembers what was,
A dry waterless sandy creek
And an old and tired bench
Where an old grandmother sat
And turned, with bent and gnarled
Fingers, the pages of a book
While whispering magical words
That filled a child's imagination.

Keep moving past a graveyard where
Old and broken and long forgotten cars
That yesterday were shiny new cars that
Once took children to faraway colorful fairs.

And past some jumping deer going up a
Steep hill to get back to the forest to hide,
To get back to familiar safe places.

A shiny white gazebo stands alone on
The grand grass where dolls sit
Wearing fancy hats and having sweet tea.

To get to this place you will need to
Go the other way, go that other way,
Go a different way to be taken away.


BECAUSE I COULD

On Saatwinkler Damm,
In Berlin, I stood on the far sidewalk
And watched.

With lush green trees behind me,
No traffic in front of me, only parked cars
I gazed at the canal in the distance.

And the little white boat passed by
With a high carefree rider whose back was
To me, so he didn't see me.

I waited and watched and
Watched and watched for some time
Because I could.


THE LITTLE FLOWER SHOP

On Sternwartstrade,
In Munich, there is a charming little
Flower shop in a tiny little building
With a green and white
Striped awning.

It was tempting to stand and
Gaze at the technicolor flattered
Flowers.

But, I spun around to also see
Red flowers on tall stems
In front of a house covered in
Gorgeous green ivy.


NOBODY HOME

Between Muirfield Road and Culduthel Road,
In Inverness, there is a street with no name.
But, you can get there.

An old stone building is quietly hidden
Surrounded by a low iron gate
In a lush green fragrant forest.
All sad sounds have fallen away
The many footprints are gone
And all that is left is the still.

The now boarded up windows
Allow no lights from inside to
Show the way home
And I think
Nobody is home
In this long ago forgotten home.


HOT WATERCOLORS

At Plaja Jupiter,
On Strada Brindisi, look at the
Wonderful things and colorful things:

Rich green and pink stuff to take home
And even more stuff to chew and eat
So the sense of wonder is remembered.

Blue water on one side of the sandy heat
And huge proud swans wait on the water
On the other side, and never move.

Later, the day perhaps will become
Fragmented but the sense of wonder
Might never become blurred.


WHAT REMAINS

On Merrimack Street,
In Lowell, there's a signpost
That says: Detour.

Maybe he never should have
Taken the other road,
Maybe he should have gone
Back, gone the other way
And stayed on these roads.

The air at the end of these
Roads becomes thick and
Dense and there is fog.

Here, on lonely low bleak cloudy days
There are quiet somber and grey
Places: big old several storied houses
With many front steps and slanted roofs
And lots of windows for eye prints.

The houses on University Avenue
From long ago are comforting with
Stubborn intoxicating attics whispering
Secrets obsessed with what
Was, so returning to this street
Reveals air like a strange pentimento.

Old stores with faded signs, corner
Places that never ever yielded or
Changed and they don't bend, they
Remain strong, proud, and solid.

If he stayed for more than a short
Time he always heard the swing
Music; drizzling so he could remember.
At night, in dreams, when
The way became lost, he
Soon realized he never left.
All that time, all those years
His eyes were just closed.
The boarded up windows gave
Him reasons to cry.

Now, this is the end of the seductive
Road, his forever destination:
A place that always surfaced
When sad dreams and deep
Longing finally fell away...
And he had to return to this place
Like a traveler who finally uses his
Return trip ticket.
Home.


SEEING ALMOST NOTHING

On Repatriation Road,
In Pickering Brook, I drove
For a long time
And saw almost nothing
Except the narrow road
Ahead and trees on both sides
With nothing behind me
And nothing ahead of me.
Then, I saw a tractor on one side
And a low gate on the other and
I knew I was reaching a place.
Some place.

Then, I saw a tiny little house
All alone there behind some flowers.
It had a front porch with old chairs
And some other muted things.
In front of the house was a tree,
Three times taller than the house!
I kept going.
I kept going
Chasing the end of that road.
Until I reached the end of the road.
Literally.
And then I went back home.


THE SWANKY PLACE

On Cherry Street,
In Denver, I suppose nothing
Much has changed.

Maybe some things.
There's a liquor store on one corner
And a Mexican restaurant on the other.
With one breath,
The street is inside of me.

The beckoning street that held
The door through which he left to
Go up to the mountains, see an
Opera, and eat swell food:
The swanky place.

There is comfort in knowing
That not much changes:
In some places, time may indeed
Stand still.

The street is quiet now;
I think nobody is home.
And it does look like it will soon rain.


SET IN STONE

On Pineview Street,
In Rocky Mount, there is an old cemetery:
The place where the dead go.
One grave had nice fresh pink flowers
To whisper that somebody is missed.

Not many graves, but very old stones
Broken and chipped stones set in tired dirt
Seen through windows of houses that
Line that still street.

Some houses set way back
As if to separate the living
From the dead.

And then, I saw a children's swing set,
And the sun trying to peek through
To perhaps lift a sense of deep gloom.


ORDINARY THINGS

On Main Street,
In Northport, there is a
Guy standing in the middle of the street
Wearing an orange helmet
And a lady, riding a bicycle on the sidewalk,
Wearing a pale straw sun hat
And two children walking home from school
Wearing book bags and carrying skateboards.

A beautiful house proudly displays the flag,
There are two churches on both sides
When you reach Church Street
And one has lovely pink flowers in front.
There's a post office, a bank,
The fire department announcing
The "Fireman's Fair"...

In front of pristine houses on a crisp clear
Day ordinary things are happening
Where extraordinary things happened.
Nothing remarkable here at all
To speak of the remarkable man that
Once lived here.

Pass through this town, keep driving
Keep going, don't look over your shoulder
Keep going until you read the end:
The water with the boats and the looming
Hill on the other side
And you know you can't turn back.


GOING THE OTHER WAY

On Larimer Street,
In Denver, I went the wrong way
Because the sun was endlessly bright
And my eyes hurt.

So, I winced and decided to turn
Around and see a different view
And go the other way.
I longed for night, so the darkness
Might blur the vision.

In sunlight, there were too many new
Things and I longed for the
Old buildings; these pieces didn't fit.

This music is too now,
And the haircuts are too today.
These silvery parked bicycles
Have taken short trips.
The billiard club fills me with despair
For times gone by so I go over
And look at all the hanging beads for
Making necklaces, as if they held a key to
Some magical thinking and wearing beads
Could bring back what once was.

I wondered if this pawn shop
Accepts memories,
And keeps them safe
Until later when the memories
Are bought back.

Nobody finds places long gone.
But, taking back memories
Makes me smile.
On this street,
It would be fitting.


PRETTY WALK

On East Guenther Street,
In San Antonio, I felt I should
Be wearing fancy ribbons in my hair
Because the houses are so pretty.

I passed by houses that are
Treasures with artistically sculptured
Facades and stunning lace screened
Verandas where guests might dine
On tea cakes spread out on crisp white
Doilies and later when the sun goes
Down, talk of small things that matter
And rinse their hands in dainty
Finger bowls to keep things fresh.

There's a place to stand to view the
Spot where the breathless
Flowing river passes through
Bringing a sense of sameness.

I got lost on this intoxicating street,
Longed to stay, and knew I could return.
There's a sense of serenity in this old
Comfort as the sunlight falls on this same
Street as it has fallen on this street forever.


THESE DAYS

On the Promenade,
In Blackpool, exquisite wonder
And bright colors create an intense
Kaleidoscope of magical fun.

There's a high tower and
Amusements and prizes and
Horse drawn carriages riding next to
Modern cars.

On the pier, there's a Ferris Wheel with
Rotating gondolas perfectly suited for
Grand and glorious views
Of luminous illuminations.

Luminous illuminations
All right by the sea
By the sea, so all the children
Who come here
Will remember these days.


REMEMBERING AN OLD STREET

On Main Street,
On Martha’s Vineyard, I am
Filled with bittersweet memories.
I remember Main Street...
I was there, so long ago.

I can still smell that ocean air,
So briny and salty and
All those summers come
Flooding back.

The day we ate in the diner
And how the jukebox blared all
The songs we loved.

In spite of all the quaintness
Of that lovely and charming place
I longed with desperation
To be some place else.

I suppose we are what we carry
Inside us and in spite of that
Heady beauty, whenever I was there
I longed to be somewhere else.

I suppose there are places that always
Make us want to go home.


EASY STREET

On Roxbury Drive,
In Beverly Hills, there's an air of
Leafy radiance that settles in and
Lingers until the bewitching hour
When the dusk comes and trances
These special swells into some
Hypnotic splendor.

The dark arrives as usual
And everybody settles in as usual
And there is nothing unusual
In these perfumed rooms.

And then the morning arrives,
The sun rises on this street
Shining a sharp light letting
All those who live on other streets
Know they don't live on easy street.


TIME STANDS STILL

On D79,
In Vichel-Nanteuil, I stopped to
Gaze for quite some time.
At this place, I longed
To stay longer.

I was outside on this road
But, I wanted to be inside:
Inside these quaint old stone
And very magical cottages.

Here, where there is a thick
Air of stillness and serenity
Across from a sparse forest.

These houses stay strong
They don’t give up
They remain stubborn and
They don’t change.

And there is nothing, nothing at all
In this beauty around anywhere
To remind anybody of
A passing of time.


DELICATE BRUSHSTROKES

On Vlissingsestraat
In Eck en Wiel, at the end of the street
There is a signpost with four different
Directions to point the way to quiet
Houses still standing alongside beautiful
Canals that take wanderers to places with
Other beautiful canals.

Go to the little graveyard, where people
Rest under the blue and green.
A place this beautiful might perhaps
Exist only in the imagination, in places
Where the weary and forlorn might go to find
Peace when breathless dreams fall away.

Keep going to arrive at a place to rest
And a place to go once around, go
Around and around and around and never
Leave because all here want to stay longer
Because this is a place so beautiful, so
Perfectly decorated with delicate and perfect
Brushstrokes, that nobody ever leaves.


HOUSES AND HOMES

On Lisick,
In Prague, there is a store with a wonderful wall
Decorated with a picture of a tree at the end of a road.
And sitting under the tree are pictures of dogs, birds, and a tiger:
Pictures to show the way when yellow sunlight hits the wall
And the glareless lines are not blurred.

Across from that store is a vacant lot, filled with
Colorful piles of stuff, there from perhaps forever.

I traveled down that road past a bright yellow house
With flower pots on ledges outside the bottom floor windows,
There to show a different way: the way home.
I traveled down that road past a short brown house
With only one floor and pale shutters and yellow flowers in the
Garden to show the way to a different home: this home.
And I traveled down the road past an orange house
With a tree near the gate to obscure the view of: this house.

All houses and homes on the same street and all standing so
Quiet and still and sharing the same sense of quiet in different
Houses and homes.

If a visitor were to sigh while passing through this street
The sound would shatter this street's tranquility:
Fracture the sense of beauty that lives on this street.


VISITING THE DEAD

On Maiselova,
In Prague, so many people
Come to visit the long gone
And dead at the Jewish
Cemetery near
Staronova Synagogue.

These are the dead from
The ages: they were born,
They lived, they loved,
And what's left here now
Is the dust to dust.
Visitors walk slowly as if a
Mere whisper might wake
These dead.

All the many people tiptoe
Quietly around and around
The wall around the old cemetery.
They walk around to get to the
Other side where there are boats
On the still water and newer things.
And they speak, or speak not,
Of times long ago.

The clock in the high distance
Reminds that time always passes,
It passes and passes and passes
In time with the heartbeats,
And there is always a solid wall to
Separate the living
From the dead.


THE BASKET BUILDING

On County Highway 585,
In Newark, there's a seven story
Building
That looks just like a basket.

I didn't want to be outside the
Building,
I wanted to be inside.

I wanted to be inside that basket.
And when I was inside,
I wanted to join hands with
Everybody else who was inside
And sing a song.

Some places are just like that.
They inspire singing;
I left this
Building,
This road
With a basketful of smiles.


THE FRONT OF THE LIBRARY

On West 10th Street,
In Kansas City, there is a
Library that looks like
Books.

The front looks like
Big books all
Next to each other
All tall and proud.

Catch-22, Oh Pioneers!,
And Fahrenheit 451
To the left, and
Lord of the Rings, Truman,
And To Kill a Mockjngbird
To the right.

Take a walk through
The middle doors,
Right through the middle
And go inside, go all the way in
Walk right inside the books to the
Places the stories can take you.


THE CHRISTMAS STORY HOUSE

On West 11th Street,
In Cleveland, I saw "The
Christmas Story" house.

The street is sort of nice
And leafy now, under a crisp
Blue sky peppered with
Billowy white clouds
Owning the scenes.

There's a sign that shows the way:
To the white picket fence,
That very homey touch,
And the leg lamp in the
Large and inviting bottom window,
Nice white curtains in the second
Floor windows, where you can see
The reflection of the blue sky
And white clouds:
I know I am there.

On this street, in front of this
House, every day is Christmas:
With one pure gasp you can still
Feel the sharp bone chilling cold,
And see the fresh pristine snow
Covering the ground.

And the day is yours,
Forever.


OLD AND NOW

On 2,
In Lucerne, there are old and newer
Things and all sort of things to remind
You of recent things.

A blue trolley, a grand stone hotel, a
Yellow casino across from a gray church
Where young men parked bicycles to go
To pray in the picture postcard.

There's a palace, and who lives there?
Then brand new buildings that are tiered
Like wedding cakes brimming with green
Shrubbery and a short little building with
Posters of Superman.

The bike rider passes the orange truck
And then the park, always a park so the living
Can remember these streets, these days,
And then keep going and move on.


MELANCHOLY

On Second Avenue,
In New York City, I had dined on
Sweet baklava at Gulluoglu
Every week for years
Feeling this way... or that way.

On one cold January melancholy day,
Under threatening skies, I wore my balaclava.

And in the distance, I imagined or imagined not
That I heard Chopin's Nocturne Op. 55 No. 1.


DESERTED HOUSES

On McDonald Road,
In Lovington, on the dusty
Road under the blue sky
There is an old wooden
House that is deserted.
There's nothing left of the roof,
Or the porch, or the doors.

I traveled down that lonesome road
And saw another house, also deserted.
And then another, set far back and
Looking all broken and empty, too.

I suppose at some time people
Played here, and danced here
Maybe they even sang here
In these now empty rooms.

But, they are all gone now
And nothing is left to hear.
Not the songs they sang or
Even the sound of the wind
That once was, once was
Right there and heard
On days long gone.


THE LIGHTHOUSE

On Main Street,
In Chatham, there's a lighthouse
Between the red, white, and blue flag
And a white house with a red roof
All at the end of the street.

There are cars looking to park and
Men pushing baby carriages
And women with shopping bags
And everybody is going one way:
To the ocean, to the blue ocean.

There's a lantern there to light
The way back at night to other
Places: to other places near to here
So that the walkers can go
Back the other way to reach home.
And the way is lighted so the drivers
Who have come from far away from here
Never quite reach the end of the street
At the end of the day.


WHERE THE ROAD STOPS

On Via Regina,
In Griante Como, I knew I
Was very far away from
My own home and
All places familiar,
All things remembered
And then easily forgotten.

This street with this view was
Created by some artist with sentimental
Sentiments and great attention to
Detail from his own mind's eye: the buildings
With arched entrances, the restaurants where
Diners eat outside under white umbrellas or
Under the clear blue sky next to the perfectly
Sweet green round trees near the boats
On the lake coming and going,
Going and coming.

The remote and fancy street looks out
Upon a gorgeous lake with mountains
High above in the distance on the other side
On all sides.

On the other side, there's a soft
Mist above those mountains with a
Tiny village sculpted right into the
Mountain above the view of the lake
Behind the red flowers, red flowers
On this side.

This place, where children grew up
And in later years returned to
The same place with the same view
Of the mountain under the mist
And the tiny village sculpted right
Into the mountain.

This might be a good place to stop
A fine place indeed, to stop.
Because after all, all journeys end
And where do I go from here?
Where can I go from here?


© 2010 Marjorie Levine