A Memory

This was in 1985, and this was my fourth grade class. The students were curious and excellent learners. 

Street Poems, with graphics (more curtain calls)

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

The Recordings of A Soldier in the Army During WWII

A Partial Look at 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.

© 2010 Marjorie Levine

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.

© 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

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.

© 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

The Marvelous Helen Weaver

Here is 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 hanging from a branch of that tree.





This is a view of the White Horse Tavern from the front of 307 West 11th Street.

This is 454 West 20th Street, where Jack Kerouac, in 1951, wrote "On The Road." I stood in front of the door through which he must have passed so many times.

And this is the southwest corner of West 20th Street where: "Dean, ragged in a motheaten overcoat he bought specially for the freezing temperatures of the East, walked off alone..."

"and the last I saw of him he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue, eyes on the street ahead, and bent to it again."

This is now 325 West 13th Street, which is the location where Helen lived when she met Lenny Bruce. I do not know when this building was built... and it looks fairly new. The building where Helen lived may have been torn down for the construction of this newer apartment house.

This is 346 West 15th Street and it is where Allen Ginsberg lived from 1951 to 1952. It is where Jack Kerouac was introduced to Gregory Corso.

And this is a view of the block.

This is 149 West 21st Street and it was where Lucien Carr lived from 1950 to 1951. He and Jack Kerouac were friends and Jack visited him often. Bill Cannastra also lived in a nearby building that is now a parking lot.

And this is a view of the block.

This was added on January 21, 2010:
This is the front door of 421 West 118th Street, where Jack Kerouac lived with Edie Parker in the early 1940s.

 


This is 421 West 118th Street.

This is West 118th Street, looking toward Morningside Drive.

"The Awakener" is a beautifully written memoir that takes the reader to personal and heartfelt places of great joy and bittersweet memories.

Helen Weaver talks about her relationship with Jack Kerouac, and the book is so richly developed and defined that I felt the scenes were unfolding like a well-directed independent film. I was very caught up in the story.

I also had the feeling that I was becoming part of a wonderful time gone by... and I was motivated to visit several of the addresses mentioned in this book to put a visual to the text as the pages unfolded. 

Helen Weaver also discusses her other relationships from long ago... and she writes with honestly, clarity, and sincerity in terms of the direction of those relationships as the decades passed.

 Jack Kerouac, in "Desolation Angels," wrote: "So I actually felt like marrying Ruth Heaper and moving to a country home in Connecticut."

 If you are nostalgic for a time gone by and you want to hear "Ruth Heaper" tell her story, this book is a must!

ETA: Helen Weaver passed away on April 13, 2021.

Anna Berger, actor

This interview with Anna Berger first appeared at this blog in 2009. I learned today that Anna Berger passed away last May 2014. I will always remember the lunch we had at Artie's restaurant and how she described so many interesting anecdotes about the actors she met during her long fascinating career.

May she rest in peace.

 

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.
This interview first appeared in my blog in 2009. I just saw that Anna passed away in May 2014. I will always remember that lunch we had at Artie's restaurant in NYC... and how she told me so many interesting stories about her life and all the actors she met along the way. May she rest in peace.
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

Catfished, after thoughts

BETA VERSION, October 2017

“I did not know him, I knew my idea of him.” ― Sharon Olds, Stag's Leap: Poems

I do a live internet show which is a partial verbal memoir. I discuss my life and talk about some aspects of my personal history and experiences. 

In my broadcast, I try to gain new insights into a specific emotional saga and to achieve a greater perspective and understanding of my choices during a time when I was "catfished." And I was... for a long time.

I try to work through the confusion and to determine the motivations behind the behavior of the "other person" within the maze of many interactions that happened over the many years of a very bizarre period of my life.

During the journey, I remained quiet and allowed it all to unfold in great mysteries "behind the scenes." It was layered, complicated, and filled with great contradictions. The narrative in an explanation can be long and tedious because "the study" is detailed and involves a lot of inner work. And honestly, it is just not now worth the finger energy. 

I did not love this stranger who I met in my show back in 2013. We interacted in my chat room during my broadcast back then and he "got inside my head" and was eventually able to convince me that his emotional well being and happiness was totally dependent on having me in his life on a computer. If I told him to "go away," he made me believe he was becoming self destructive. 

I never saw him. He sent me photos of pictures that he said were of him, but they were clearly of different men. I sent cards to him and they were stamped "return to sender, address unknown." He created detailed stories and sagas about his life and after some time, I went down that rabbit hole. And to my bewilderment, I became attached to the interactions. 

This is not unusual and the curious case of "The Miranda Obsession" appeared in Vanity Fair in 1999. She seduced a slew of famous and powerful men including Billy Joel, Warren Beatty, Ted Kennedy, Quincy Jones, Robert DeNiro, Bob Dylan, Buck Henry, Richard Gere, Eric Clapton, and many more, all of them over the phone... and not one of them for a very very long time could confirm her identity or had even met her. She is called "the first catfish." And they talked to her for years over the phone about very intimate details of their lives.

The Miranda Obsession

My story was a deep dive into mind bends and will be incomprehensible to many of those who live in the real world within grounded mundane lives. This to them will be totally impossible to even understand. They function in a tangible world with activity consisting of visits to grandchildren, waiting for early bird specials, and bingo. In other words, a reality. That world. That snore worthy world.

But, there is a subterranean subculture of "night owls" who interconnect with each other on social media and who allow feelings for others in that world to marinate internally. They thrive in a different world. And those "kooks" will "get it." Just ask Sam and Gina. 

This journey was not what Diane Keaton has called "the sweet anguish of love..." In my specific situation, I was enabling this man's "idea" of me... in all it's full-blown delusional glory.

The above photo: somehow that place became totally involved in where he always told me he went to get drunk when I tried to disappear or distance him. 

You can't make this stuff up, but he certainly could. He even pulled others into his agenda... a woman who contacted me and told me I was "walking him to his grave." (His name is reacted)...

Yes, I could have blocked him, but he inserted himself more deeply into my life by becoming my videographer.... he was insidious in multiple ways and when you are being "gaslighted" by an expert you make excuses for the emotional abuse and think you are ahead of it when in fact you are controlled and manipulated and just a personal marionette for a catfish whose needs are being fulfilled along the way.

update: April 18, 2023. He is back. He left this message in the chat room next to my broadcast screen. What does anybody have to "endure because of" me? I never force any of the viewers to watch my show... 

Regardless of the level of fame, these characters crawl out of the woodwork.

His "nickname" is redacted.

April 19th 2023, to be continued and ongoing....

When "Denise" came to my show last week and told me of her heartbreak after an online thing ended, I was dismissive. She has been married, has lived with lovers, and has two children. But her hurt and pain from this guy who she never met, and who I know from my show, was real. It hurts to be thrown away... even in cyberspace. Why is it so hard to actually have true connections and let friendships develop? So much gets in the way. I apologized to her yesterday. 

A few years ago, I had fallen for "Jack" who goes on cam and actually was in a small way partially an inspiration for my book ROAD TRIPS which was written during a very solitary time when the pandemic was advancing and so was my fantasy world. Yep, cyber night crawlers do live in an alternate universe... a world of total limerence. But now, from where I sit, I feel I would rather be with them than sitting in some senior center playing Chinese checkers. Or sitting with a husband watching Lawrence Welk reruns. 

then and now

1975, at almost 28:

last week, at 70: