Hoboken Historical Museum

Today, I went to the Hoboken Historical Museum. It is in a lovely area of Hoboken and I very much enjoyed the day. (In an edit, some photos from a July 12th visit were added on July 13th.)

Mulholland Dr.

This is my general interpretation of David Lynch's enigmatic and mysterious film, "Mulholland Dr."

"Betty" (Naomi Watts) is a winner of a jitterbug contest who comes to Hollywood filled with dreams. She hopes to become an actress and play a coveted role in a film called, "The Sylvia North Story." Betty desperately wants that part. Laura Harring plays the physical manifestation, in an elaborate hallucination, of the part Betty wants. The hallucination is named "Rita." Rita has amnesia (after she is in a car accident as a character in a film) and she does not know her identity. She will not know who she is until she is cast in "The Sylvia North Story." Rita wanders off to the apartment where Betty is staying. Betty tries to make the part her own by having her hallucination, Rita, wear a blonde wig and think she could be named "Diane Selwyn." Diane Selwyn is Betty's name in the second part of the film. And Betty falls deeply in love with the physical manifestation of part, played by Laura Harring. This is all revealed in a flashback after Betty falls asleep at the beginning of the film.

"Betty" auditions for the role and she is terrific. But, another actress, Camilla Rhodes played by Melissa George, gets the part in "The Sylvia North Story." That piece of fate sends Betty into a downward psychotic spiral. We see Diane unravel in part 2 as she continues to see her hallucination and the real Camilla, Melissa George, as Laura Harring. Laura Harring is playing Melissa George, who is Camilla, in a pentimento. We are seeing the film from Diane's perspective and she always sees the role from that script as Laura Harring. Diane plays small roles in Camilla Rhodes's films, but she never achieves great fame and success.

Diane kills herself at the end because she has completely unraveled and she can no longer separate truth from fantasy. She wasn't able to wake-up and face reality. And her dreams are gone. She has no more hope.

Fate came knocking at the door...
It was indeed fate that came knocking on Diane's door and Rita saw Diane's fate when they visited the Sierra Bonita apartments.

The two old people were there when "Betty" was filled with hopes and dreams and they were there in her head when she realized she would never achieve her dreams... and so she ended it all.

The box was fate, the "monster" behind Winkie's was the keeper of fate, and we saw the keys to Diane's fate.

And at the end... we are reminded by the "blue haired lady" that fate is best rendered "Silencio."

a show at The Art Students League

Tonight, I attended a show at The Arts Students League of New York.





Jerry Torre was displaying two of his amazing sculptures: TECHMUSH LIMESTONE and RUINS DORATA.

TECHMUSH LIMESTONE





RUINS DORATA

Lunch with Lila and Susie

Lila Afiouni is an artist from Sydney, Australia, and she came from San Francisco to New York City with her friend, Susie, who lives in San Francisco. I know Lila from a Beat online forum, and we met today and went for lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. We discussed many interesting topics and I had a great time!

Please check out the art of Lila Afiouni.

Anna Berger, actor

from 2009:


I got in touch with Anna Berger after I saw "Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Goldberg," an Aviva Kempner documentary film which is about the legendary Gertrude Berg. Anna appears in the film discussing Philip Loeb, who played Jake Goldberg in "The Goldbergs." I was very emotionally moved and touched by Anna's recollections of Philip Loeb... and the way in which she expressed how he was fired and blacklisted. He eventually was so despondent over so many things in his life, he committed suicide in 1955 at the Hotel Taft in NYC.

Today, I had lunch with Anna Berger at Artie's, a wonderful delicatessen on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I was thrilled to have Anna discuss with me her impressive and long career on stage, television, and in film.

Anna was born on the Lower East Side, right across the street from Katz's delicatessen. Every tenement neighborhood had a settlement house. This is where everyone gathered for socialization, and there were art classes, dancing classes, and singing classes. The classes were without charge and this is where Anna found the stage. Anna, since the age of six, was in all the settlement plays for the audience of all those living in the neighborhood. Years later, the settlement house offered Anna a scholarship to any drama school of her choice. She chose Erwin Piscator's Dramatic Workshop of the New School. Anna declares: "These were the three most happy years of my life."

Anna appeared in the Dramatic Workshop's stage productions with the other students: Bea Arthur, Elaine Stritch, Harry Belafonte, Louis Guss, Walter Matthau, Gene Saks, Ben Gazzara, Michael Gazzo, Judith Malina (who founded the Living Theater), Marlon Brando, and Joseph Sargent. Joseph Sargent is currently one of the leading directors in Hollywood. He directed the original "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three" in which Anna played the mother of two children who, along with other passengers on that train car were all held hostage.

After she graduated from the Dramatic Workshop, Anna and some of the other actors formed their own theater group called "The Interplayers." This group included Michael Gazzo, Anne Meara, Jack Palance, Gene Saks, Joe Sargent, and Bea Arthur. One day Cheryl Crawford, Elia Kazan, and Bobby Lewis came to recruit working actors for the beginning of an idea of a place where actors could work on the challenges and problems of their craft. They called it The Actor's Studio.

Anna's first TV show was called "The Goldbergs," and Anna appears in a scene from an episode of that show in the documentary "Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Goldberg." In the documentary, Anna speaks strongly about the injustice of blacklisting and of the now infamous question during McCarthyism: "Are you now or have you ever been?" Many actors, writers, and directors who were blacklisted could no longer get jobs. Many fled to Europe and to Mexico and Anna's "dear, dear friend Philip Loeb" committed suicide.

In 1954, Anna appeared on Philco Television Playhouse in a play called "And Crown Thy Good." Many great actresses read for the part of "the Mother"... including Molly Picon and Jennie Goldstein. Gertrude Berg was considered. The great actor Nehemiah Persoff co-starred in the production. The play was directed by Delbert Mann. It was about a group of Jewish settlers who traveled out west to start a Jewish community. That same year, Anna appeared again on Philco Television Playhouse in a Paddy Chayefsky play called "The Mother." She played "the bookkeeper." Maureen Stapleton played "the daughter."

Anna played the sister to John Garfield's "Joe," in the Clifford Odets play "Golden Boy." One of the highlights of Anna's career was going on tour with Mae West in a show called "Diamond Lil."

In 1954, Anna appeared on Broadway in "The Fowering Peach," another play by Clifford Odets. Menasha Skulnik played "Noah." In 1956, Anna appeared in "A Very Special Baby," at the Playhouse Theater on Broadway. This was a Robert Alan Aurthur play which was directed by Martin Ritt. The cast included Luther Adler, Sylvia Sydney, and Jack Klugman.

In 1954, Philco Television Playhouse had presented the Paddy Chayefsky play "Middle of the Night." It starred E.G. Marshall and Eva Marie Saint and Anna had a role in that TV play. In 1959, the play was made into a movie and the part of "Betty" was played by Kim Novak. The film starred Fredric March, Albert Dekker, and Lee Grant. Anna played "Caroline" in the film. I asked Anna about her recollections of Kim Novak.

She told me that Kim Novak was very frightened of working with "New York actors." She was impressed with their work and perceived New York actors on a higher level than "Hollywood stars." Kim Novak felt very insecure and asked Anna to share dressing rooms and they became friends. The friendship lasted many years. Every year, Anna and her husband, Bob, received very personal and beautifully hand-painted Christmas cards from the great artist Kim Novak.

Anna again appeared in a Paddy Chayefsky play. The play was called "Gideon," and it opened on Broadway at the Plymouth Theater in November 1961. The play featured the actors Fredric March and Douglas Campbell. Paddy Chayefsky called Anna his "good luck charm." Anna Berger and Paddy Chayefsky remained friends for all the years that followed.

Bob joined us at Artie's and he told me how Anna developed quite a following when she appeared on the soap operas "Ryan's Hope, " "General Hospital," "One Life to Live" and others. Anna says the most loyal fans are the soap opera fans.

In 1998, Anna appeared in the episode "Moving Out" of "Everybody Loves Raymond." "Robert," played by Brad Garett, moves out of his parents' home and into the garage apartment of "Rita." Anna played "Rita." Robert moved to escape his mother's overprotective behavior, but finds carbon copies of his parents in his new home. This episode was loved by the fans of the show.

On television, one of the most memorable roles for Anna was the role of "Cookie" in "The Sopranos." When Paulie Walnuts brought his mother to the retirement community of Green Grove, Cookie remembered that she never liked his mother in the old neighborhood. Cookie therefore did not want Paulie's mother to be part of her social group in the dining room. "There's no room at the table; we're a set group," Cookie informed Paulie. Anna felt that Cookie could have been "whacked" for being so mean to his mother, but Paulie had Cookie's son's arm broken... as a warning. In another episode, it was Cookie who innocently told Paulie that Minnie hid her money under the mattress... and this resulted in Paulie killing Minnie and robbing her. What a character!

Well, the lunch ended and so did the interview. I have to admit that as I am writing this entry I realize that Anna Berger shared with me today only a small part of her long and impressive career. She could fill hours and days talking about her memories. Anna now has a one woman show in which she talks about her life, which was so filled with rich experiences. "Absolutely Anna" raised thousand of dollars for an art colony made up of young actors and artists.

Anna, Bob, and I exited Artie's and slowly walked north on Broadway in a light rain. We passed the location of the now closed William's Bar-B-Que, which used to be on Broadway at 86th Street. I was filled with intense nostalgia... and I was simply overwhelmed by Anna's remarkable life.

Since I was a child, I wanted to be able to time travel. The concept always seemed filled with so many endlessly wonderful possibilities. After meeting Anna, I wished I could go back to September 24, 1951... to the Fulton Theater, which was on West 46th Street right off Broadway. Anna Berger appeared there on that opening night as "Mrs. Kramer" in the play "Twilight Walk," and Nancy Kelly and Walter Matthau were also in the outstanding cast. That evening must have been magical!

Anna Berger's online biography at filmreference.com

Anna Berger in films and television:
Anna Berger, on IMDb

Anna Berger on Broadway:
The Rose Tattoo
Unlikely Heroes
Gideon
Twilight Walk

Anna Berger was interviewed by Peter Rinaldi, and the interviews can be seen on YouTube in seven parts:
YouTube, Pt. 1
YouTube, Pt. 2
YouTube, Pt. 3
YouTube, Pt. 4
YouTube, Pt. 5
YouTube, Pt. 6
TouTube, finale

THE SIXTH ANNUAL HOWL

Tonight, I attended THE SIXTH ANNUAL HOWL event at Columbia University.

Howl







The lights in the little trees on the campus led the way to Philosophy Hall.



This is David Amram right before "Take The A Train" and "Pull My Daisy."



This is Joyce Johnson reading from "Visions of Cody."



This is Ann Douglas describing how when she passes different places at Columbia University, she is reminded that those were the buildings that Jack saw. And, when she awakens in the morning and looks out at the Hudson River she imagines that those were the same boats that Jack may have also seen.



This is Ann Douglas reading a part of "Howl."



David Amram ended the evening with "This Song's For You, Jack."

It was an exciting and thrilling evening.

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?

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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 Mockingbird
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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

TIME STANDS STILL

On D79,
In Vicel-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.

© 2011 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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 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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

for Frances Slade

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

NAKED AMNESIAC

DAWN ON SEVENTH AVENUE

There is a moment of quiet stillness
Right before sunrise, before light;
When a clammy breeze passes
Through Manhattan
And nothing moves, nothing stirs.
My pristine gown clings in the humidity
Like translucent second skin.

I awaken, not knowing if it is evening...
Or morning.
See my reflection
In the haze of this smoky cracked mirror:
This is all I have ever been,
And all I will never be.


SPINSTERS AND GHOSTS

It is murky and dim down the street
Where an unforgiving lonely spinster
Lives almost protected under blankets
Of carefully crocheted elixirs.

Here- where the ghosts of ancestors,
Sitting on the moss of invisible oaks,
Offer kind words of encouragement
Adding seconds to midnight
When dreams turn to film noir.

There- where starry-eyed children
With handsome fathers
Would spin until dusk... or dawn
On a forgotten Ferris wheel
Left behind by the carnival
After roadsters skidded home along
Slippery highways.

Now- up on a vacant fifth floor
The weariest is carefully coifed and rouged,
Sitting on the other side of gold brocade.
Bloodless thighs wrapped in an opaque afghan,
She is clinging to a teacup of cold chamomile.

Later, she shares ambrosia with gods.
Then in a final gesture,
She scrapes and scrapes the bottom of her dish
Searching for one last drop.


OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVE DISORDER

I catch a subtle whiff of dried lavender
As the director, a wiry-haired widow,
Lights a cigarette and with a simple single
Gesture flicks the ashes into the palm of her
Fashionably tattooed and manicured left hand.

“There is no need to state your full name;
Just speak of the fear, the constant fear,”
The director coaches.
Behind us, the steady swing and flutter of
Gold diaphanous curtains as a clammy, familiar breeze
Passes through the old chartreuse theater.

We describe strange, tormenting, ritualistic behavior:
Washing, checking, hoarding... mental anguish so
Exquisite the weariest sheds mellifluous tears:
“I’ve shared ambrosia with gods;
At midnight, demons turn my terror to film noir.”

That evening, I dream of solitude
And the transmigration of souls...
One lonely soul wishing to return
Washed in amnesia, hypnotized and untainted.

When I awaken, it is still dark-
Down below, the street is eternally bathed
In disconsolate orange moonlight...
Trapped in an endless maze of mirrors.


THE BOARDER

Long ago...
A child rested on a maroon sofa
In the still musty living room
Of her grandmother’s house.
The house was decorated with gold tassels
And white lace and starched doilies...
And it trapped a scent of burnt potato pancakes.
At night, the ghosts of ancestors sucked the juice
From the peaches of a backyard tree.

A fake fireplace electrically glowed
Orange-yellowish and whispered in
All seasons the child was home.
On a maroon table, sat an
Incandescent pink seashell...
“Hold it to your ear and you can hear
The sounds of the ocean,” ventriloquists urged.

The steady whir and flutter of the slats
Of off-white Venetian blinds lulled her
As chill winds passed through Brooklyn.

At dusk, the front door opened and
A man, wearing gray and gray,
Silently traipsed through the house
To “his room” and he closed “his door.”
He was home, too.

The grandmother called the man
Just “the boarder.”
The child only glanced up as he passed and
He never spoke to her... nor she to him.

On the clearest of days she cannot even recall
His face... yet she stares at him whenever chill
Winds pass through Manhattan.


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.


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.


SWEATING MADNESS

Speak to me in hushed tones
And tell me who stole the peaches
From the old backyard tree
The night I danced the fandango
In front of a closed automat.
As the humidity of that evening
Turned my hair a burnt sienna
An elastic lady teased, “Tsk tsk,”
Because the chartreuse slippers I wore
Were not even my own.

Siamese twins took turns
Stroking the belly of an insect
That rested on the sterling silver tray
I held in my outstretched left hand.
A fading fragrant French cologne-
Earlier a sweet elixir-
Melted under the neon lights
At the very moment
The tattooed film director
Held a lit match to her cigarette
And started a small fire.

And the charlatan I once loved
Did a few fancy smart steps and knew,
As usual, I would forget.


MURMURS IN THE DARKNESS

She is not the first tenant who weeps
Into that stained pillow at night.

She limps to the window
And peeks out to face the pale moon
Jumping from one side to the other
While the heat of the evening
Becomes even more oppressive.

So! That bright star is not a star, after all!
“It is Jupiter,” she murmurs.
The strange sound of a fog horn,
In the clear night, seems to place
Her in one moment and then another.

She tries to remember what
Passed from there to here,
From one time to this time...
But she is lost now like a
Prisoner in this nightmare,
This fantasy...

This fantasy or nightmare
In a thick veil of darkness.


THE WAY I LIVE

My memories have always been vague-
Arriving at dawn on Seventh Avenue
Or at the beach on a sunny hot Sunday,
Visible as peculiar visions in colorless sands.

In an old chartreuse theater, a wiry-haired
Director captured a slight shadowy piece
In muted shades of gray and gray.
But, I danced the wild fandango
In front of a closed automat
To try to forget.

Then one day I remembered
Everything, just like that...
Just as smooth as slipping into
Second skin.

But whether I remember
Or choose to forget,

The forgotten has always determined
The way in which I have lived.


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

from The New York Sun

Letter to the Editor, July 20, 2004

Letters to the Editor
July 20, 2004

After I read "Education By Smoke and Mirrors," I sadly concluded that a discussion of the problems in the New York City schools has "jumped the shark" [Andrew Wolf, Opinion, July 9, 2004].

In Region 9's "Third Grade Summer Success Academy," the teachers were given a manual that has been adapted from the Teachers College Reading and Writing Project 2004.

The Balanced Literacy Program consists of a 95-minute Reading Workshop and a 55-minute Writing Workshop.

The components of the program include a read-aloud, independent reading, conferences, shared reading, guided reading, writing minilessons, independent writing, and word work.

The 2 1/2-hour block is so micromanaged that it includes prepared dialogue for the instruction of the children. When teachers help students choose a "just-right" nonfiction book, they are told what to say in order to model thinking:

"Hmm. Here's a book titled 'My Farm.' I've already read a lot about farms, and I don't want to learn more about farms right now. This is not a just-right book for me. It's not interesting."

Then, "Hmm. Here's a book called spiders. I've always been interested in spiders. Let me try reading a page. (Teacher reads page 10 fluently.) I'm used to reading a book with more words on a page and even some harder words. I think I won't learn enough. This is not a just-right book for me. It's too easy."

The teacher goes through a scripted process and then randomly distributes one nonfiction book to each student. She says, "Take a look at the book I just gave you. Decide if it is a just-right book for you by deciding if it's interesting, and checking a page to see that it's not too easy or too hard - a book you can make sense of while you're reading. Then turn and tell your partner what you were thinking.

At first glance, the lessons in the summer curriculum may be impressive and seem effectively crafted for successful results.

But, experienced traditional teachers would consider this learning model to be a major farce, where education has moved into the surreal world of "The Stepford Wives."

As more time passes, the articles on education seem to have deteriorated into redundant pieces "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." I shake my head in disbelief and I am glad I am retired.

MARJORIE J. LEVINE
Manhattan



Letter to the Editor, October 10, 2006

Letters to the Editor
October 10, 2006

‘The Spin Doctors'

Andrew Wolf states [Op-ed, "The Spin Doctors," September 29-October 1, 2006], "This prevalent teaching methodology is the common thread that directs our national march to mediocrity."

At almost the end of my thirty-four year long teaching career, I was directed to change the seating arrangement in my classroom from rows to groups, develop an atmosphere of "productive noise," and construct mini-lessons. The new "balanced literacy" model was filled with layered components and the classroom was mandated to be have visual and heady appeal.

A student shortly pleaded to "go back to the old way of learning," which was a more no-frills and basic textbook approach. I discussed this with my supervisor, and I was told it was my fault my students didn't like the new style. I had not properly motivated the students or successfully implemented the model. The whole system has become like scenes in "Alice Through the Looking Glass."

MARJORIE LEVINE
New York, N.Y.

Two Schools, a teaching career

These were the two schools where I spent most of my teaching career. The first school literally was on the other side of the tracks... in "Hell's Kitchen." The other school was on the Lower East Side, "on the D." The parents loved me... they said "Miss Levine is the only teacher that can handle a class."
I was quite innovative. I kept the students seated in rows and I taught with a piece of chalk at the board. And I kept a quiet classroom where you could hear a pin drop. The students had basal readers and textbooks and notebooks filled with material. And I actually gave spelling tests on Fridays.

A Manhattan Ghost Town, a "sunken corridor"

When I was a teacher at the pink school in the above photo, the low area in the photo was just simply called "the train tracks." I used to tell people that there were days the teachers and students had to walk over dead bodies to get into the school. I was often misunderstood. My listeners believed that I was telling them in some obtuse way that corpses blocked the entrance to the school. That was not the case. The bodies were found as they lay forgotten along these railroad tracks. They were often discovered by some "hobo" or other "drifter" as they wandered along these winding paths rummaging with long sticks through the piles of debris that were strewn along the way.

These days the "sunken corridor" exists in stark contrast to the much discussed more southern "highline." These tracks are between 10th and 11th Avenues and are visible on both 44th and 45th Street through the cracks of the silver fences. I looked north and I looked south through those openings, and I took photos of this amazing sight last year. I was even able to catch a shot of a train down below as it traveled south and whizzed by under the overpass on which I was standing. But, the photo could not be developed for some bizarre technical reasons. They are totally blank.
I returned the next day and took more photos, but unfortunately no train passed through. After waiting for quite some time for another locomotive photo op, I was told by a young teacher exiting the school that no trains even use those tracks any longer. I was confused, but I relished my eery moment and I left with a great sense of glee: my wonderful shot of that "phantom train" will now exist only in my memory as it sped quickly south on a rainy Thursday afternoon. It carried invisible passengers to some unknown downtown destination in... "The Twilight Zone."
Please enjoy these photos of the "sunken corridor" which still sits on a vista that now resembles a forgotten and neglected and worn out Manhattan ghost town.



These tracks pass from a "sunken corridor" to the famous "highline" as they stretch south through Manhattan.


That day, I visited the Allen Sheppard Gallery on West 25th Street and viewed the amazing photos of this highline by James Bleeker. And here is my photo of the highline that I took on West 25th Street as I left the gallery.

Francis Cape, The Other End of the Line

At the High Line: outside the trailer





At the High Line: inside the trailer

Helen Weaver, writer

an encore, from April 2010:


Shortly after I read the heartfelt and bittersweet memoir, "The Awakener," I connected with Helen Weaver. I was enthralled with her memories of her love affair with Jack Kerouac. We began to communicate in E-mails... and today, I am happy to call Helen my friend.
Helen met Jack Kerouac in November 1956, when at 7:00 on a Sunday morning he arrived with Allen Ginsberg at her apartment in 307 West 11th Street. This is a photo of that building that I took after I read the book. Helen was delighted with the photo, and she told me her window can be seen on the left, right behind the blue balloon.

Noho Gallery

Marilyn Henrion, Soft City

Noho Gallery

Gallery Henoch

Gallery Henoch

Max Ferguson, "My Father at Katz's"



Max Ferguson, "Central Park Nocturne"



Max Ferguson, "Late in the Day"

Angelino Heights

East Kensington Road



Carroll Avenue





from Wikipedia:

The Jewish Museum

The Jewish Museum: Houdini: Art and Magic.


from the NY Times

Museum Visits

Museum of the City of New York: SAMURAI IN NEW YORK: THE FIRST JAPANESE DELEGATION, 1860.

Museum of the City of New York: NOTORIOUS AND NOTABLE: 20TH CENTURY WOMEN OF STYLE.

Time Warner Center: “Dalí: Vision of a Genius,” “Persistence of Memory” and “Woman Aflame.”

Museum Visit, MOMA

MOMA, Abstract Expressionist New York.

Walking Off the Big Apple.

ABSTRACT: THE ART WORLD review of “Abstract Expressionist New York,” at the Museum of Modern Art.

Jackson Pollack, "Lavender Mist"