Garbo
There’s a chill today in the May Manhattan air that gives me old shivers. Haunting ghosts are riding on it, swirling just above me. Or are they at home, here on first avenue? I haunt them. My new old haunts, these streets. I invade them again, they greet me teeming, and cool. This sensation is strong, like an undiluted perfume splashed on too liberally. I want to cry. I am relieved. Garbo haunted this neighborhood. Is that true? Can living people haunt a place? Or, was she not living, not really? Was she haunted? By…?
Wait, I feel that certain folks who took so many of my emotions, gave some of theirs to me, wrestled mine, theirs, controlled mine, even, sometimes, but absolutely furiously stirred me—by my choice because I had to cooperate—these people are dead to me, so they can be only ghosts now. Garbo was here among her people, her meddlers and partners and robbers and mutual stirrers. As each one died, did that person join the ghost club, and was Garbo glad to meet them again and again, here in the old haunts? She could have fled. Inward. But she did that a long time ago, I guess. We hear. Who can know? Be careful. Be full of caring for her life, its secrets and patient, stern solitude. I ran away years ago from some of my burglars. Thieves of hearts. I was a second story man, though. I was. I wanted and wanted, and there was no end to my wanting (Carl Sandburg?). I would think of Garbo’s leaving in Hollywood what I longed for. She had it all. It! And she smiled and took a walk.
What I would give to have some of it. What? I wouldn’t give anything else, only what I had always been prepared to give, my attention and talent, time, devotion, energy, patience. Patience? Can you be patient by choice? You are neglected to a conditioned position of patience. Who chooses to be patient? It’s a quality, patience, that is foisted on your psyche. You don’t want it or want to be in a position to need it. Do you? You want what you want, and patience be damned! Garbo wanted to be alone. Maybe company tried her patience. Maybe she was impatient with directors, cameramen, actors, writers, and all the fuss. Maybe she didn’t have or need patience to be alone. I had been a thief. I went after them, ghosts now, with love, I thought, feeling mostly lust, and gave to get, then felt dispossessed of myself. So I ran away. I had to be patient, to wait for the almost irresistible grip of obsession to relinquish me, I had to resist contact with those beings I had wanted. But Garbo might have had to be patient while she was with the people she wanted, in order to get what she wanted. Money that would give her the freedom to flee and stay alone?
Then she walked, we are told, up and down Manhattan, and around her seven-room apartment, did exercises on her balcony—I once saw a photograph of her on her back, legs way up over her head, parallel to the ground, stretching—keeping in shape to walk? For years. And she hid. She disguised herself, or just covered up, while I tried to make a spectacle of myself. I kept my privacy, though, as she did but in public. I’ve wondered if she helped anyone. Well how could she, if she hid all the time? She might have sent money to the needy, but she wouldn’t make an appearance for them, or we would’ve heard about it. So what did Garbo do in this sharp May air? She breathed deep. The air used to be cleaner. She was gulping it down here in the 40’s. I was in clean, simpler Wisconsin. Quicker, too. But she took way down into her very dirty air in the past few decades. Of course, she travelled, too. And when she got to a new place, did she want to be alone, or did she visit people? Probably both.
I got to New York and stayed put, mostly. I was afraid to budge. I was afraid to stay put, too. I was a mess. I had thought I knew what I wanted, but I didn’t know. Garbo knew. I got more than I bargained for, some of it dull and bitter. I wonder if Garbo found in these shops every thing she needed. I’m just now re-discovering First Avenue. I guess I avoided it for years. I would tend to go out and turn right, heading for Second Avenue. Is that the tendency, to turn toward your handedness? Did Garbo turn left out of her building; was she left handed? Where did that take her? To some of these sun shops, sometimes in the heavy acrid heat of the New York summer, sometimes on a crystalline afternoon like this one. Oh, Gretta Gustafson, I know the loneliness of the lovely drinker, which I suspect you were. Lonely drinkers live with people that are alone, and they drink with people, but stay lonely. One sort of self-condemner eats vitamins and exercises vigorously then soaks his organs in alcohol. To preserve them? To preserve the loneliness, perhaps. Loneliness is full of oneself. There is no room left in that place for responsibility.
ON THE WAY TO LONDON
ON THE WAY TO LONDON
I’ve spent the whole day rummaging through all my closets. I’ve been packing, but as always with these simple intentions, I stretched the agenda to include switching some clothes from wire hangers to plastic and vice versa (Danny Dearest?). Relocating some garments, by putting all short sleeve shirts together and all winter clothes in the same place instead of scattered around at random. Giving up on pants and shirts that are definitely too small and putting them in the hall closet with a note on the hanger. My brother Bob, or Ed, gets those. It’s fun to do this. But it’s perplexing, too, because I keep getting sidetracked. So many questions. How many bags? Which ones? Okay. So, what will I be wearing?
It’s summer, luckily, so almost all of the clothes are light, of cotton or linen or both. Tee-shirts. I believe in the ease and function of tee-shirts. They seem like no clothes at all, as if they’re weightless in the luggage, and infinitely versatile. Wear one with a suit—nouveau chic—or with jeans, of course, as expected, or under a long sleeved shirt for extra warmth (but not too much). They’re so slight that I can take ten or even fifteen and not feel that I’ve gone too far, taken too much, overburdened myself, and then have every color I can imagine just in case I need to match a pair of socks or get bored and want a surprising new combination of contrasts. I know damned well that I’ll end up wearing a few of the same clothes over and over again. And who else cares? No one will notice. What am I afraid of? Of boring myself? It’s working in a prison yard, rearranging and reordering and stacking and aligning and noting and recalling, giving a false value to things, which don’t really matter. Making time, spinning wheels, shuffling along, is all it is; this flurry.
I’m relieved today, now that I’m ready to go. Rehearsing the play is all that matters. I’ll be too busy to think about clothes. I’ll be in an intense revery, pounding lines into my brain and repeating ad nauseum words and moves—no, I won’t get sick of the work for weeks. I may not ever wear out and wish it over. Yes, I always want to get to the end of an assignment. I want to start, to continue, to end. I want all the phases, thank you.
Girls in high school used to cry when the play was over, remember? I was always glad. Let’s get to the next project. Movies go on. They follow you. You hope they’re not bad, so that they haunt you. But a play goes away. It’s smoke. It lives in the memories of those—few—who saw it, some people write or tell you. Not for long. You can barely remember the details, especially years later. You remember very little. That’s good. Move on.
Having the experience matters, that’s all. Living. For me, acting. Actors are forced to take action. We act! We can’t deny life, our very work demands participation. Maybe that’s why actors seem immortal—or at least youthful, energetic, enthusiastic. Ours is a therapeutic exercise. When you’re doing it right you are only, blessedly, in the moment, unaware of anything outside yourself. It’s that state of utter relaxation many Eastern spiritual disciplines speak of or seek; being in the moment, without desire, clear, unencumbered, restful, fully alive moment to moment to moment. It’s a refreshing state to be in. You’re telling a story, being a story. Some writers say that, after food, story-telling is the greatest need of humankind. Could be. I know you can’t wage war or peace without it. The Iranians and Iraqis could not possibly have continued their war, and they can barely live in peace, because they will not allow the belly dancers to tell their stories. We have Bob Hope and singers, dancers, actors telling things—stories—that make us laugh, cry, and relieve loneliness. Maybe actors are lonelier people themselves, so that they must always be telling stories in order to feel involved, needed, necessary; not left out.
I know darn well the clothes don’t matter, except insofar as they help me function in London so that I can go about preparing the story we’ll be telling. The clothes tell my story, partly. They’re my costume, aren’t they? They entertain me, amuse me, comfort me, while I scuffle, run, and jump around. The bags are scuffed now. I’m trying not to go back into them. I’m trying to put away everything in the apartment, as I aways do when I leave. To leave it neat, clean, and welcoming for the next visitor. But the order gives me freedom. Life is complex and messy. It’s dirty out there—too noisy and confusing. I have to be relaxed, clear, and undistracted, so I can tell our tale. It’s full of what? Signifying. . . I beg your pardon? And what did you say that makes ME?! Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Have a nice piece of fruit, then I’ll act out a story for you. Okay?
Airplane
Fellow on plane from N.Y. Haward, attorney, pudgy 47 years old, angry about babies in First Class – should be in storage, all these “upgraded” passengers!
Saw promo of Fellow Traveler, me walking next to Ron Silver, no sound, and said, “Well, there’s a fellow who doesn’t want to be near that other guy!”
“Very good,” I said.
Ellen’s comment about Haward Beach . . .
McCarthyism
RE: Slanderous Article
When Senator Joseph McCarthy recklessly attacked American citizens who were found guilty in the end only of defying his committee, he started each assault by declaring someone a communist. People who believe him expected that the next utterance would bring forth corroboration, substantiation, maybe even actual solid proof. What they saw instead was a sometimes literally drooling nervous man waving what he declared were lists of traitors and their affiliations. He never showed those lists, only the papers he claimed they were written on. When he spoke, he connected no dots. He spewed vague suggestions. He muttered near-quotes. He would often ramble on about the general world of espionage, dark forces, meetings, people acquainted with certain people (with a watery wink), implying we-knew-what. Recently, an amateur article appeared in a gossip publication about my private life.
The headline on the front page was McCarthyesque. It made a declaration. Anyone with an ounce of sense (and obviously some prurient interest), would read on expecting to find corroboration, substantiation, proof. But like McCarthy’s lists, the details inside made no sense. There were some opinions expressed by neighbors (the so-called reporter says) about my civic manners. All seemed to be complimentary. There was a semi-quote from someone I barely know about the origins of one of my closest friendships. Then there were lists, every one, fabricated. The most illogical one of all was that I had been a fixture on a certain social scene in Hollywood. It's the sort of world many readers long to hear about. I lived in Los Angeles for twenty-nine years. One would expect that in all that time of operating in a social scene of such a titillating or sensational sort, I or anyone in whom the public might have a particular interest would have been identified as a participant long before now, most especially by a publication of this ilk. In fact, it is inconceivable that such long term activity could have gone unnoticed. There was nothing to notice, of course.
In this McCarthy report, even the least significant detail is false. My house is not worth multi-millions of dollars, unless the pronouncer of that naïve fabrication will pay me that much. Oh, and not that there is anything wrong with it, but I have yet to appear in a dinner theater production. I have never attended a costume party in Los Angeles or anywhere else, at least not since I was a pre-teenager. But I should like to meet Dolly Parton someday. A formal sit-down party given by an ex-William Morris agent? I don’t think so. Nope, no such thing (can’t these McCarthyites dream up better stuff than this?!).
These lame lies are not important in themselves, especially because they’re so puny. But it is a good idea to pause a moment, should one be tempted to regard these unconnected dots as having led somewhere. Look again. McCarthy dots. No connections, no substantiation. No sense. There was not even an attempt to collect these pronouncements and tie them together with the conclusion that therefore he must be, you know…wink wink. Like the besotted Senators, this would-be reporter’s tool was limp. He threw out some poorly phrased foolish fantasies and ducked back into his lonely hole, er, room.
These publications rely on boobie brains, though I have enough faith in the general intelligence to trust that most readers’ common sense will tell them they have been had. There were plenty of boobs who wanted to believe McCarthy, though, and they helped destroy innocent people. Even the suggestion of certain things is enough for some unevolved humans to hate or fear and wish to punish or destroy.
What this public action declares so recklessly on its front page is nothing anyone should feel bad about, or that ought to be denied. Never would I even discuss such personal matters with anyone who does not know that such a private issue is never anyone else’s business. Only rude, insensitive and offensive, and mean-spirited sorts deal in these intrusions. If someone has the temerity to ask you, you can tell him directly where to jump. When a trivial pursuer publishes, you ignore him. Or write a letter.
Alan Dershowitz’s new book is entitled Sexual McCarthyism. In this atmosphere of prying illegally and irresponsibly into the President’s secret personal world, it is not surprising that innuendoes are published about even the least of us. What is suggested about me is not distressing. What is sad and frightening is that anyone would want to publish such things.
But what is worse, and could be outrageous and heinous, is that there is no “there” there. In this country, we allow publication of strings of unrelated and unproved assertions. We allow direct statements to be printed by strangers who know nothing about us, and who are not obligated to substantiate allegations, suggestions or implications. Once they’re published, though…
So why not sue? For what? My point is this: If they can say something like this about me or anyone else, they can go further and cause some real damage, and you will be stuck with the libel bill. Don’t take that lightly. It—and much worse—can happen to you. Ask McCarthy’s victims.
Paper
Cleveland
The pile on the table just grew. The script got there. I put it down, on top of its envelope, actually. A manila envelope, torn at the flap, ragged, flattened under an inch thick ream of white sheets, is its skimpy bed. Then some cards, large and small—not neatly stacked but askew—so that sharp corners are sticking out here, and ripped and shredded flaps reaching out there and at every elevation, as if straining to escape the pressure from above. Brads glint from between tight clumps. They’re holding together other complete scripts. Their sharp points threaten. The smooth button heads seem to cower—sandwiched and squeezed—impaling, but in the grasp of their prisoners. This pile lives. It keeps growing, and I keep thinking I should do something about it.
Answer the letters? Respond to the sender of the cards? File away the scripts and notes. Copy addresses into my book. The pile gets bigger. It skitters some, almost topples, one day, so I reduce it by starting another pile with the topmost pieces. Two piles are breathing there. Breathing and breeding, it seems. I’m beginning to realize that some of this stuff is disposable. It’s been acknowledged, so it can go now. So why don’t I dump those items? The pile defies me; dares me. It’s spreading. Paper. The paper plague, paper spawn: sheets, envelopes, note slips, receipts, catalogues, brochures, flyers, bags—some small (I might need just this size, small enough for just one bagel), large (this red one’s good, and pretty, for a gift) and that silver bag with the handle, a shame to just toss it, it’s so well-made; and the wrapping papers, ripped out magazine pages, letters, notes, schedules, and calendars. Paper! Can you imagine banning paper for a week—a year? What a relief that would be.
Most of what’s printed is poorly written. Most of the information is useless, redundant, or inaccurate. Most of the stuff advertised is not needed. Most of the news is awful, frightening, and disgusting; contributing only to further disease in the reader. It’s not useful. So little paper matter mattes. Let’s conserve our words, and our trees. How much toilet paper, how many colors, patterns, scents, thicknesses, and textures are needed? But the thing about toilet paper and facial tissues is that they get tossed. Always. Well, almost always. Come on, do you have the guts to admit it? Don’t you hang on to that paper towel into which you blow your nose only once, only a little bit? Don’t you fold it over and shove it back into your pocket, so you can use the rest later? Do you ever wrap up the small tissue in a bigger handful for a bigger sneeze later? Finally, you clean out your pockets and bags. Scrunched up little peculiar bundles—some with hardpacked centers, splaying crimped corners in all directors; some larger folded packets barely used, all with some good use left in them. Old now, taunting now, tired, due to be discarded; all scream at you and squirm to be released, freed, allowed to go to the trash, to die a dignified death after good service, to leave room for more stuff; coins, paper clips, rubber bands, restaurant receipts, and other paper!
And those cards at holiday time. Oh, look I haven’t heard from them forever. Oh, oh, no return address. Maybe I should look it up, and write back. This is a good card. I should keep this one. That’s a sweet message. Nice note, I’ll answer this one. Mm, that’s, let’s see, eleven now that I should answer. Well, I don’t really have to answer. She didn’t say I should. There’s that question he asked, though. Damn, which car is it in? hey, wait, just because I don’t send cards—except maybe to a few close friends and, you know, family—that doesn’t make me wrong, does it? I don’t owe anybody. They write because they want to. They’re card people. They don’t expect replies. Do they? Nah. Relax. So, just keep these around. When the holidays are over and things are calmer, you’ll have plenty of time. Paper! The paper chase. The paper pressure. Paper, paper, paper, paper. If you were to burn it all today, life would go on, and there would be no problem left over. Is it meaningful, or is it a mania? Is it a need or just a substitute, another device to help us perpetuate and promulgate more lies? Lies we agree to live by. Commerce and confusion. Box office, melodrama, moneymaking, money makers, conveyors of profit gainers. Or is the paper sincere? Sincerely helping out? Does paper bring the only condition worth having: peace, of mind, of body, of heart, of the immediate world I live in? Peace? Peace is downright exciting. Peace is excitement. Try to reconcile those two, conventional folks.
Paper is used to gain advantage or profit. Without it, there shall be no law games, no obfuscations, maneuverings, film-flam, or gross miscarriages. Without paper, there could be no major larceny, no major government misappropriations, no poison pen letters, no lies in newspapers, no printed gossip, no mail bombs, no broken contracts—well, not major broken contracts, treaties, for instance. Without paper, there would be no major religions, with their greed, deadly terrorism, separatism, and self-serving hypocrisy. Have I gone too far? Has the paper fever overtaken me? Am I raving now, in delirium? In foolish excess? Paper can do that to you.
Okay, I’m calmer now. Without paper, we could still sing and play music to one another down through time. We could tell and perform plays, dance, tell stories and poems one generation to the next, speak various languages to one another across oceans and lands. We could. We could do all that without paper. We could eat and give gifts without leftover paper. And we could still have the trees. We’d get to keep the trees. All those trees, think of it! Just growing and feeding the insects that feed the birds that feed the mammals and reptiles and pollinate and reproduce, give us oxygen, rain, and fertile soil, that give us life itself; that are life itself. And the rivers and oceans might run clean again, and not be choked by the chemicals that are dumped in them while the paper is being made and the trees are being ut, stripped, and treated. Treated. Untreated for a change. What a treat! For us all.
Alarmist
Once, if you dared to warn the world that our emitting of poisons into the air, and deadly chemicals, petroleum residues, and nuclear waste into the sand, dirt, and all water sources, many defenders would have said you were premature. Some others would have attacked you for being an alarmist, a bad person for exaggerating like that and scaring people. Of course, these angry critics were afraid. Anger grows out of fear, and every bully runs scared. If you had the sense and concern to speak your valid fear of the murdering of nature then, at the start of your deadly practices, you were too early.
If you continued to sound alarms, to speak reasonably, and in considered detail, quoting statistics as proof, you were being a pessimist, and everyone ought to be optimistic, you see, because pessimism is destructive, but blind optimism feeds and nurtures everyone, it keeps us going.
These days, when you say that we are too late—that the deadly process can’t be stopped—you are the nastiest sort of doomsayer. You are an enemy of humankind. Maybe you are. Maybe you are a Planetarian—who supports and loves the earth and its harmonies—but has come to fear and, even worse, to loathe the one creature that shatters, tears, pierces, and tortures its own and all other creatures; poisons the air, land, and water with blind and deaf greed.
If you are, take cover. Protect yourself. Try to keep your own counsel, to keep order, to keep going. Time is precious, so little is left.
Bridge
When the tremor shudders loose steel, from the view out of the window to the helicopter, the collapsed section of bridge looks like a lightweight model; small and insignificant. Ribbons of roadway lie rumpled, surely made of cloth. They look so limp, but weighing tons of concrete. Steel rods and iron railings along some sections. The baseball teams and the fans wait, some chattering about the small cracks at the top of the stadium behind their bleacher seats. It’s a fifty feet long upper portion of the Oakland to San Francisco bridge, that split at one end and lies tilted, resting on the lower strand, to form a giant ramp, just over one of the support towers. At least one car slid down the crease and looks as if it’s trapped. People are milling and streaming on both levels, out of their vehicles, ants scurrying. One man has in his hand a piece of jagged concrete, split from the upper deck of Candlestick Park. The third game of the World Series has officially been called off.
Firestarter
Hey, says the EPA, we’ve got it covered. Relax! They crew up, we fine ‘em. Just fine ‘em, that’s all, and it’s fine again. Fining makes it all just fine. If a man were caught fanning the flames of a fire he had just started in a wing of the White House, he wouldn’t just be fined. First, he would be stopped. Oh, I know, his family would then be deprived of a breadwinner, and his employees would be without a boss.
His detention would put people out of work, in fact, because this guy turns out to be head of a fire-starting ring that employs twenty-five hundred people in one plant alone, and he’s the CEO of a corporation that includes six other fire-starting centers across the nation. Think of the hardship on all those workers. No, try, just try, please to think of the hardship brought to the relatives of the survivors—if there are any—and the hardship that spreads to the children of those workers and the children of their neighbors, when the fires destroy every single abode, fill the air, EVERYONE’S air, with toxic fumes, scorch the earth so thoroughly that crops will no longer grow, leech the attendant poisons into the water table and into the streams and lakes that supply cities and devastate all the forests within reach, so that there are no longer materials to build new homes and schools, and weaken the living so that they have no strength to build or work, even if they had the means. All as the result of a deliberately set fire. Hey, this guy has been setting these fires for years. Inspectors have been on to him for decades. He’s been warned, man, and we’ve fined him regularly, every year, yeah, and the stiffer amount each time, too. Don’t think this guy hasn’t paid. HASN’T PAID?! That’s it? You’ve continued to fine him and warn him, by God, but eh pesky so-and-so just kept doing it, so we rapped his knuckles every six months or so and imposed another fine every year, you betcha, so he ain’t getting away with anything. NOT while we’re watching!
Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You’ve been on this guy’s tail for over ten years, while he’s been setting these horrible fires, but never found it necessary to stop him until he set this fire at the White House? Who is he, anyway? He’s the president of the tobacco company, the CEO of General Motors, the owner of the chemical plant, the FDA official who sets standards that lie and compromise everyone’s health, the Federal official whose guidelines for air, land and water pollution are powerless suggestions that clean and protect nothing. He’s every smoker who smokes anywhere in public. He’s you. He’s me. If you or I pollute or smoke or destroy anything on the planet. He’s the poacher, the governor who fails to stop the poacher, the fisherman who rapes the sea killing dolphins and whales, and he’s the President who fails to provide food, housing and medical care for all of his people. He’s you. He’s me, if we fail to stop the fire-starter, starting with stopping you and me.
Creativity
Whatever happened to creativity? Where has fiction gone? Can’t we have GONE WITH THE WIND again, WAR AND PEACE, DEATH OF A SALESMAN? Where is the imagination, that force of intuition, that swirling gatherer of conscience, complaints, sheaves of pain, and pleasure taken in the wonder of existence. As it swoops, scrapes, and reconstitutes all its swept up fragments to build a little world of amusement like a gorgeous doll’s house—fine in every detail. To delight, surprise us, shock and stab us, even. To force open our minds to ask Why and How and If? But that wind blows only on command. Then it soughs and splutters too often in television, because it’s driven by a machine—the Network—whose rhythms are directed by Commercial; the great conductor.
Photograph
Gee, this picture doesn’t do you justice.
It’s only a picture. It’s not me.
I know, but you’re much better looking. You ought to let Jim take some shots of you sometime. He’s great.
Oh? He’ll make me look . . . better? Or more like myself?
Which might be worse than some pictures I’ve seen of myself, because I’m not that good looking, really.
Wait a minute, look at this shot of your car. Hey, wait. Hold on. What’re you getting so excited about . ?
This car won’t run! It’s not smooth and hard. I can’t see the shiny chrome.
You’re putting me on, right? I mean, that’s a photograph. See that vehicle over there? THAT’S the car. Photograph. Car. Photograph. This photo is only a flat piece of paper. An approximation of the real, three dimensional thing. Get it? OF COURSE IT DOESN”T DO THE CAR JUSTICE!!!
If I showed a model of that car, a scale model of that vehicle, you wouldn’t expect it to run as fast as the actual Ferrari, would you? You wouldn’t expect it to be QUITE as satisfying as the actual machine, right? It wouldn’t be as big, round, hard, shiny, curvy, wide, long, or have the same smell or sound, yes? It wouldn’t be as satisfying.
So why on earth do you expect a photograph of a human being to be any closer to the actual person than this photo is to that car? HMMM?
Do you suppose someone looking for a car would purchase one from a snapshot alone? Some casting people and directors and producers actually reject actors after seeing them—that is, approximations of them—only in photographs. Strange. God, he doesn’t sound like anything he looks. And she’s so DIFFERENT from her pictures!!
NO SHIT! NOOOOO. She’s just like that. Flat, glossy, foldable, small enough to put into an envelope, and she even comes with that light. What light? You know, that same soft, shadowy, moody light that highlights her brows and gives that glint to her hair, well, the tips over her left shoulder.
OH, does she always come that way?
Sure, just like her photo.
Come on, I saw her, and she looks more mature, more beautiful in person. Oh? You mean this photo doesn’t do her justice? Then what are you looking at it for? If you’ve already seen her in person and you know you like her, why are you showing us these photographs? And why are you looking at them again yourself? I think she should have some new ones made. Why?
Well, so she can show another side of herself. You mean like, the inside? So she can show how she sounds, smells, pulsates, sits, walks, leans, tilts, sways, smiles, smirks, and twinkles? I get it! WE want a film of her!! Yeah, but in at least fifty different settings, so we can see every single possible way she can appear. PHEW! I’m exhausted. Why don’t we just cast her, dress her up, make her up, let her speak these lines from this script, and light the scenes to look just the way we need them to look for the film, and then she’ll be right. And the move will do her justice, do you think?
OH, oh! Let me explain it to you again. See . . . this is the actress. THIS is the movie. Actress. Movie. Movie. Actress.
Communication
“Hopefully, he’s gonna be one of those people who sees a problem and efficiency -wise recognizes a viable alternative that can impact on the input of the ongoing study, especially at this point in time, when funding on the interdiction front could cost-effectively alternative the now situation.”
Translation: I hope he will be one of those who see a problem and recognize a useful alternative that can improve the study, especially now, when spending money to stop this would be worth it.
What’s wrong with the first statement? It obfuscates rather than clarifies. Okay, it obscures. But I like that word, obfuscates. Summation: I hope he’ll know enough to spend money on a better solution. Remember Hemingway, saying to his editor, I believe: “I would have made it shorter, but I didn’t have enough time”? It takes time to clarify your thoughts. It takes discipline to learn how to write and speak. If you practice early in life, speaking and writing will be easier and more effective later. People wonder why they are not understood. They wonder why they are afraid of meetings or of giving reports. Maybe they know why. Maybe they know they are not equipped to do well.
On the other hand, so many people speak and write poorly that managers, bosses, teachers, and parents are bad examples. Their level of communication is low, so they don’t detect equally bad communicating, and therefore don’t correct it in their employees and children. The awkwardness is perpetuated. The standard slips lower and lower. WE now have a generation, at least, of poor communicators. News program announcers don’t know the words to emphasize in their reports. They feature connectives: The six hundred fifty thousand people AND their leaders PLUS the president; or prepositions: Residents OF the island and visitors TO the island (and verbs) ARE advised TO flee the storm. Message: RESIDENTS, VISITORS, FLEE!!!!! The only significant words of the report, the very words that are the essence of the report, these words are thrown away in favor of the least significant words.
Should I be so surprised, considering that this society is also the one which orders a hamburger but coyly and pointedly adds, but skip the bun, O.K? thinking this is a wise, health prompting decision? Keep what is useless or downright harmful and throw away the only portion that matters. Are we nuts, or what?! People defend their right to be wrong. So we continue to be wrong. WE buy self-help books by the millions, we seek advice, counsel, guidance, but only if it’s easy, quick, and painless. We say we want to know, but we don’t want to be told. And we certainly don’t want to change. I think what we mean is that we want someone to tell us we can continue to do exactly as we have been doing—even though that isn’t working—but add a twist, a tip of some small sort, make a minor adjustment, a slight shift or tilt and find that all the old dumb practices now work beautifully to make all things right. Amazing.
You see, no one has the time. As if it takes more time to put into your mouth the right food, instead of garbage. As if it’s more convenient to insist that two plus two equals four and a half, even though that screws up the books and makes serious trouble. As if life is not fair to ask of anyone that he do anything anymore, now that he’s out of school and grown up! We whine, and go on complaining that it’s just not right and that we’re entitled to better in this crummy world. It’s hard enough just making a living, coping with the job, the boss, the children, the taxes, the garbage collectors, the career, the bank, the husband, the wife, and the GOVERNMENT. WE are too wasteful, but we can’t be bothered to sort out the trash for recycling. WE can’t breathe too well, but we find it too difficult to give up cigarettes. Give up! Make the sacrifice of quitting poison. Addiction has a loud, commanding voice. It’s also self-righteous—it knows what it’s doing, by God! But it’s a Doppelganger. It possesses the speaker. It’s a voracious monster that speaks through the addict. And it will defend to the death, its right to consume its irresistible substances. It thinks, it actually believes, that it is merely making a choice. It presumes—without examining the issue too closely—but it has alternatives, but just doesn’t like them. It prefers what it’s doing. Amazing! And widespread. This madness pervades society. One sort or another rules humankind, I have no doubt anymore.
Lendl, Becker, Agassi
September 8, 1989
What is it about Lendel and Becker and Agassi? What is it about players so good they seem flawless and invincible? While we watch them we think we could do what they do, though. Don’t you? Sure. But that’s impossible, you think. But wait, wait, I could get that if I concentrated. That’s the trouble. I don’t pay attention on every point. I don’t always look at the ball. Dammit, I know I should look at the ball, at the ball, not where it’s going to go. Those guys always look at the ball, right? Well, not every time. They can just put the racquet in the neighborhood, at the spot, and the ball will hit just right and go over the net. It’ll just bounce exactly right off those strings and zip! But wait, those guys can do that because they’ve looked so many thousands of times, trillions, maybe, that their racquets know where to be. They got that good because they looked and looked and looked and now it’s not exactly automatic but it sure is reflexive and almost…instinctive. Could that be? It seems instinctive, but you know that holding a paddle with strings on it and reaching for a small flying globe and running and jumping within a confined space just to reach that speeding fuzzy yellow sphere, twisting your delicate knees and rotating your arms and scrunching up your fingers and wiping sweat out of your eyes and tugging your sopping shirt off your sticky shoulders and chest and bouncing up and down and swaying and sometimes even crashing to the ground, you just know, to tell the truth, that this can not be a matter of instinct. Practice is the point. Talent that is practiced, that is, is the cause.
And those guys want to win. They must want to win. We play for fun, right? Well, so do they. But the fun is the winning. To be a winner you have to practice every day. Every day. We can’t…won’t. But we don’t have the talent in the first place, so why bother? Because getting the ball over, just over the net, or rifling it down the line just past your opponent as he stumbles toward it off the wrong food because he thought you were going the other way with it, seeing the yellow blur kiss and skip off the green hard macadam just inside the white border line, teasingly low, as if it insidiously twisted itself a teeny bit to one side and then up under the back of his racquet, doing that all in a matter of two and a half seconds is a thrill. It’s a shot in the arm, a whiff of laughing gas, a ripple up your spring from a kiss you’ve longed for. It’s a rush of joy juice that makes you blush. It’s a feeling of invincibility. For that moment you are flawless. So that’s it. Lendl and Becker and Agassi are addicts, too, we who must watch these guys. They thrill us. They thrill us because they do what seems impossible. They thrill us because we share their thrills. They thrill us because we share their thrills. They thrill us because for a little while on each flawless point we feel as we watch, anyway, that we could do that. WE are addicted to their addiction, but without the aches and soreness and hangovers. Unless we think we are those guys. Unless we go out, the next morning, thinking we are that good and strain to do what they do. I won’t. It’s enough for me that they strain and win and let me watch. That’s what it is.
Creativity
Whatever happened to creativity? Where has fiction gone? Can’t we have GONE WITH THE WIND again, WAR AND PEACE, DEATH OF A SALESMAN? Where is the imagination, that force of intuition, that swirling gatherer of conscience, complaints, sheaves of pain, and pleasure taken in the wonder of existence. As it swoops, scrapes, and reconstitutes all its swept up fragments to build a little world of amusement like a gorgeous doll’s house—fine in every detail. To delight, surprise us, shock and stab us, even. To force open our minds to ask Why and How and If? But that wind blows only on command. Then it soughs and splutters too often in television, because it’s driven by a machine—the Network—whose rhythms are directed by Commercial; the great conductor.
Writing
August-September, 1989
Daniel J. Travanti
Good evening,
My first reaction to your invitation was, “Who else was asked?” My next reaction was, “Why are they asking me?”
I wonder if they’ve heard about Motor Mouth. Maybe they’ve heard about my seminars. Maybe they’ve seen my comments, those uncommon responses to those cliché questions all reporters ask. Well . . . not at all. Most, though.
In Chicago a young lady wanted to know if this film I was doing had any social significance. No, I smiled, into the camera held by a young man (he tried to keep the camera steady after I started my answer), it’s straight porno. But porno has important social significance. It’s relaxing. If it’s good, with beautiful people, good camera work, sound, color, and music. You see, any good piece of work is valuable and socially significant because it enriches instead of diminishing. If it’s good entertainment, it can make you feel better. If it’s beautiful, it can warm you, cheer you up, make life seem more worthwhile—especially on rainy Tuesday afternoons. On rainy Tuesday afternoons in January, when no one is phoning, no one is demanding anything of you, the bills are paid (sort of), the apartment is reasonably clean, you’ve answered any letters or cards, and everyone else is working—or so it seems—and you may just get on the subway or in your car—if you have one—and just ride. A good book, a flower, a good television program, or a good porno flick could cheer you up. That’s socially significant.
Oh, another pretty young lady asked me why I had taken the role. I said, because it was a good script. Oh? Yeah? Well . . . uh, how come? I mean, is it a good script because, um, because, like, of the WRITING??? THE WRITING???!!!! Because of The WRITing?? No, because it was written on my favorite paper. Blue.
You see, most of television is now of three major kinds: The Disease of the Week, The Social Disorder of the Week, and The Crime of the Week. The reason networks want to do these stories is because they’re sensational—they think—and people want to be shocked, outraged, or scared. They want to peep and eavesdrop. See, some people think the story is of paramount importance. I think it’s the least important element of a screenplay.
A screenplay has a story, a plot—which is not the same thing—characters, relationships among characters, a tone, a style, a pace, and an overall aura. AURA. One overwhelming effect. In the end of all, after the director, the cinematographer, and the actors are through with it, the AURA will be complete. If the overall effect is good, people will find it irresistible. So . . . at the top of the list is the STORY. Just a flimsy framework. All the stories have been told. So what could be so exciting about the story? Not much new. BUT . . . the characters could be fascinating and their relationships could be very interesting: surprising, believable, shocking, and satisfying all at the same time. Now you have the makings of a good film. Or a good play. So, if someone tells you the story, you can’t tell much about the drama yet. When they’re trying to get you to do one of these projects, they usually tell you the plot next. “See, so then she runs into him, but he never told her sister, though she thinks her sister has been confiding in him. But the father knows nothing. Even so, he’s almost to make a bid on the rest of the shares, and . . .”
I DON’T CARE!
What about the characters?
And there’s only one way to know. You find out in the writing, YOUNG LADY!
Imagine someone telling an idea for a song: “It’s about a yellow ribbon and a guy in prison and the people in the neighborhood are waiting to welcome him back . . .” Sounds like a great song to me. What does it sound like, though? Well, we don’t know yet, but it’ll be great. Oh, yeah? On the other hand, did you ever hear of Shaw’s comment on Wagner, “He sounds a lot better than he is”?
So, what do I look for?
I look for individuals. I want characters who speak with specific voices, so that you can’t just white out the names and replace them at random, because everyone sounds like all the others anyway. An individual has a way of saying things. It comes from his personality, his experience, his outlook on life, his feelings towards people and situations. He sounds like himself, not like everyone else. That’s good writing.
I look for irony and suggested meaning. I want direct meaning in the lines. I want people to say what they mean, interestingly. But I want what happens in real life, too. I want meaning between the lines. I want shadings, flickers of color, flashes of nuance. That’s good writing.
I want events to occur logically. So that when a moment is over you feel that the result was inevitable. BUT . . . I want you to feel surprised. That sounds like a contradiction in terms. How can you be inevitable and surprising at the same time? A favorite teacher of mine, Nikos Psacharopoulos, at the Yale School of Drama in 1961 said, “To be a good actor all you have to be is believable and entertaining.” That’s all. Just believable and interesting. Now just try it! So, I want you to be left with the impression that that scene could have happened only that way, as if that was the only way it could have turned out. Of course, there were at least two choices and usually more. But the writer and we made you feel that that was the only way it could have been. And even though you thought you saw it coming—maybe—you still liked it. It was just surprising, FRESH, enough. Nikos: “believable and interesting.”
I want grace, eloquence, poetry. WHEW!
In a movie script?
Grace. Talk that sounds like talk. Talk that sings, some. Regular talk, mind you. Talk like our talk. But talk arranged so that it sounds fresh. Graceful. I want it to be eloquent. Not verbose, unless that character is apt to be. Then it would be appropriate. You can be eloquent and terse. You can be eloquent while being silent. I think some of my most eloquent moments were silent. All put together; eloquence, grace, clarity, surprise, convincing talk, interesting personalities. All together they will make a script that transcends the moment. That script will say something about the larger human condition, as told through the circumscribed lives of these select individuals. Such a script ends up saying something about all of us. By being effectively specific and limited it can be universal. If it’s good. GOOD WRITING, young lady.
If you’re lucky and you wait long enough—can afford to wait long enough, you might make a film that’s not just another ONE OF THOSE. You know, the big three:
If you’re lucky and you do it right, you can make a film that stands out, that’s memorable. If you’re caught up in a miraculous cyclone, in a rare gust of odd, shocking, impossibly refreshing creativity, you might even make a television series, a TELEVISION SERIES, that’s worthy and downright indelible—one that may even come Legendary! But that’s almost impossible, so why even discuss it.
You could make ADAM.
You could make A CASE OF LABEL.
You could make MURROW.
You could make I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER.
Dare I say it? You could make MAKING THE CASE FOR MURDER. This one may measure up.
But after twenty-six years, you know what? I don’t care so much anymore.
I have regretted being ambitious. It has always made me nervous. I have said that I liked it. I mean, it gave some meaning to my life. Something to get up for each day. Something to do. All the other kids were trying to get out of things. Well, not all . . . And adults were not happy with their jobs or with their families. So, I knew I liked to act. A good job, if you could get it. And I guess I knew that if I were going to try a career, I’d have to travel light—be free to shift, turn, fly, and sink—without having other people to support and worry about.
While you’re getting, you’re giving up, too—some things, some classic comforts. But aloneness has been easier, I know now for sure, than having a family. I don’t regret my choice. Especially today.
I have know for some time that a good way to help yourself is to help others. It keeps you from sinking into that deep black hole of self-pity and disgustingly lonely pit of self-absorption. It really is true that virtue is its own reward. It gets you out of yourself. Self. EGO, SELF. My greatest enemy.
But. . . .it’s getting harder for me to help. I had a flurry there for about eight years. I cared. It helped. Selfish caring. Creative self-serving.
But PEOPLE. Humankind! HOMO SAPIENS. Sapient. Wise? Obsolete. Like humankind itself. Obsolete. I am so disappointed I want to cry. I do cry. That’s a good thing. A good release. But I’m afraid that I have no respect for rotten human beings. They are bloodthirsty, greedy, grasping, and filthy.
The gorillas aren’t. Nor are the dolphins, the wrens, the snakes, the seals, the whales, the bees, the bears, or even the mosquitos.
HOMO STUPIDO would be closer to the truth. Like Napoleon crowing himself, piddling little humanoid dubbed himself MO-HOMO-SMART. Me so smart that me can eat up everything in sight. Use up everyone and everything and pollute the air, the land, and the water. Kill everything. As long as the economy is thriving. At the expense of life itself. AT THE EXPENSE OF LIFE ITSELF!!!
I know what you’re thinking. Boy, is he pessimistic! Well, when I hear that, I think of pessimism as skin to paranoia. A person who doesn’t have real reason to feel sad, bad, or disappointed in a situation. That person may be inappropriately negative, and so he is perhaps being pessimistic. Just as a person can be afraid when in fact there are no frightening enemies, danger in sight, or around the corner.
Well, I look them up. Pessimism is a “doctrine” and paranoia is a “delusion.”
This view I have is a conclusion based on observation. Curiosity, Observation, Hypothesis, Experiment, and Conclusion. I remember those steps in the scientific process from junior high school, I think. It’s not necessarily a gloomy view, even, because that’s a matter of judgement, opinion, outlook, or predilection. It’s a view that says we’re doing things wrong, destroying the planet. Yes. Does that truth make you gloomy?
I am in danger of slipping into complete cynicism, true. That is a gloomy prospect.
And I blame myself. I blame mankind, too. IT is a BIG DISAPPOINTMENT TO ME. I regret being of this race of creatures.
But, quick, let me cheer you up! Oh, I’m sorry, unless there are anarchists out there. And you nihilists! Wow, I must have really turned you on in the last few minutes.
See, in the old days. Olden, I mean. They weren’t so long ago. In my drinking days, I felt the same way, only I didn’t know it. I was disappointed every day. It was excruciating. The world was not fair enough, honest enough, pretty enough, good enough, clean enough, or nice enough for me. It was never going to be. I was right. But I couldn’t see any way out of my frustration then. Every time disappointment kicked me in the teeth—or in the groin—I took another drink. So, when I was finally sentenced to life—here, present at my own life, no escape until the last breath—I was in bigger trouble yet. I had to find a way to ACCEPT. That’s harder than finding a good script. Almost. When I was out there drinking, I was waging guerilla warfare every day. I was a terrorist of sorts. Nihilists believe in the “destruction of existing political and social institutions.” That’s from THE AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY. I love that part of the definition, because it suggests that a nihilist has a choice depending on what pisses him off in the political or social institutions. Take your pick, Radical. But only one set of governing bodies, please. I should think he’d want to get them all.
They Improved the Part
So, what is important? Two birds were stuck in my house. Well, yesterday afternoon I found one up in my skylight. That’s about twenty feet above the ground floor entry. He was chasing the sky, just out of reach. He was chirping and hopping and I wasn’t sure if he might hurt himself or if he’d be able to figure out that the tall gaping front doorway was a better escape route. I think he came in that way. I tried to lure him with seed. I put one of those seed bells into the wire basket at the tip of a long pole, a fruit picker, actually, now a bird baiter being used to guide a trapped sparrow over the side of this large skylight, over past the edge of the canvas cover that draws over the twenty-by-ten-foot expanse to shut down the bit on the hottest days. If I could get a little thing down to that level, I might be able to draw the canvas back across the opening and keep the bird below so he could see the open doorway, maybe. I left the bird bait with the long tail of a sixteen-foot pole dangling, I left it hooked over the wire cable along one border of the canvas, and went to bed. This afternoon I thought I saw another bird. A couple of rescuers had been hopping on the glass outside probably to guide their friend out to the open, but none of them could figure out that the glass was impenetrable. Now, another sparrow was inside.
Last week I read a script for a new anthology series because filmed for London television in affiliation with one of the cable channels here in the States. I turned it down because it seemed shallow, though intelligently written, not stupid of totally predictable, you know, but not surprising either, really, and certainly not a role for me that demanded much of my obviously vast range and energies. I keep trying to take only material that has a chance of being a special event. There aren’t many special events on television, so the odds are not good that I will encounter many such pieces. But I have made some films that are still being enjoyed and praised, so I no longer feel that urgency that troubled me for so many years before. The birds in my house seemed a much more urgent matter than this script. You see, the script was a revived issue of last Friday. This is Sunday. My agent called to say that the British producer had telephoned to plead with him to get me to read the script again, with its improvements of my character, and to stress for the company that they were very anxious to have me in their film. Sometimes it’s nice to be in demand. As of Friday evening there was no script at my door, though I had been told that it was being “messengered.” It didn’t arrive on Saturday, either. That afternoon the first bird did.
This morning the bird was still hopping back and forth across one narrow end of the skylight and a message was on my answering machine tape from the casting direction of the movie; that is, the man hired to secure the services of the one American actor needed. This fellow turned out to be a “voice from the past,” as he said himself when he finally telephoned back to apologize for the delay because he had the wrong address. The messenger service had failed to find me, of course, and now the man in charge himself was wishing to hand the script to me, only he was lost, too. I was happy to hear his voice. He’s kind, sensitive, and intelligent man who had tried for over ten years to persuade directors and producers to see me, to consider me for good roles in television. A few times, he had succeeded in getting me in to be seen, but never, I believe, did I get hired. I was like the bird in the skylight, just out of reach of the sky, though I could see it right there above me. Some people down below were looking at me in those days saying, “Yeah, he’s Okay, kind of good and not bad looking. We like him, right, but who else do you have? Trapped, fluttering, bewildered but persistent.
Joe showed up with his son. By now I had climbed to the rooftop to see if we could open the hatch on the topmost portion of the glass above the bird. It was designed to crack open six or seven inches to create an updraft, but the damned plastic mechanism, part of it, had snapped off two of the turnscrews that pushed and pulled the movable portion, and I had given up looking for repairmen. It turns out that half the length of the glass was still functioning. While my friend Dick turned the crank down below, I stood over the peak of the expanse on the roof and cheered as it spread open. I wedged into the opening and birdseed bell and we waited for the sparrows to find it and flee through. Jack was on the other side of the big front gate calling my name with a smile in his voice. The script in his hand was supposed to be delivered two days earlier, remember, and I suspected that Jack had made the error. He’d written down the wrong address. SO here was this fellow who had tried to help me for so many years, with his son in the driver’s seat of the car. Marc (I asked immediately if he was a Mark with a “k” or with a “c” because I have a nephew who spells it with a “c” for my uncle Marco, who lived and died in Italy. “Isn’t this nice, Marc, being begged like this? Your dad has tried so hard for so many years, and now here he is on a personal mission. I didn’t mean to make him plead. Who knows, maybe we’ll get a job this time.” Jack laughed and said, “Oh, but the best one was the last, remember? When you came in for that Rocky Marciano film. You would’ve played his buddy, and when the director saw you, hell, when I saw you in those shorts and tee-shirt, I said, ‘Who’s gonna believe this guy? He looks like the boxer.’
“Hear that? Just when you think you’ve heard every excuse possible for being rejected, they surprise you. So, remember, Marc, no matter what they say: You’re too tall, too short, too dark, too fair, too ethnic (What does that mean?!), too warm, too sinister, not sinister enough, too good looking (Phew! ME?), too young, too old, too intense, too serious, too silly…too late! Just remember, none of those reasons is it. THEY JUST DON’T WANT YOU. That’s all. It’s a relief to know that, but it takes so long to find out. I’m telling you. Save you the trouble.” We shook hands all around and they left.
They had lied, of course. Well, you know, that’s what I say when I’m mildly disappointed and amused, yes, at the exaggerated pronouncements and promises producers and casting people make to persuade you, to fool you, actually, as if you wouldn’t notice that almost every word of the original, inadequate script is intact. Why do they bother, I wonder? Do they hope you will, in a weak moment, be tempted to go abroad, give in to the worry that maybe you’ll miss something? I’ve succumbed before. These people don’t that, but I mustn’t forget. The only work that’s memorable is good work. No one remembers or cares, of course, about the rest. So, you do the work always for yourself. You ought to, anyway. We helped the birds for ourselves. For them, to keep them chirping—I like the sound—and to keep them coming back to the bird feeders. I’ve put up feeders all around the property. My latest kick. Birdhouses, too. But they went up too late, so no one moved in. Maybe in the spring. I want them to be free and to be around here.
I want to be free, too. I want to choose only good material, to work because it pleases me, and to know that the work is worthy and memorable.
Thanks to Jack and all the others who keep trying to help me. Thanks to the birds in my skylight, who remind me. Oh, yes, the birds got out and the skylight is closed again.
Just Say No
Hey, just say NO! Come on, you don’t want to get into that filthy habit, do you, young man? I know you’re poor and your daddy beats you and Mommy is always out working. The teachers yell at you. The gang guys want you to hang out with them and help them out with their little deliveries. If you don’t, they won’t talk to you. They even jeer, swear at you, and tell the other kids not to associate with you. The cops rough you up, threaten you all the time, and run you out of the fields and playgrounds whenever they see more than two of you at a time. I know you feel like shit every time the television shows you rich white people, rich black people, a few rich Spanish people, and even Chinese and Japanese folks. I know when you see those ads for great looking cars and clothes you explode inside—feeling that those people who are advertising don’t mean you—because you will never, ever be able to buy any of that stuff. ‘n SO? That don’t mean you have to go and use drugs! Or use alcohol! Relax. Just say No and forget everything.
I know, I know, they tell you that you can get an education. But where? Even if you want one, there aren’t many teachers out there who can teach you anyway. When one of the good ones tries to get you so mad because you feel so bad, inadequate, inferior, scared—just scared—that you won’t let him. You sort of want to learn, but you don’t want to look different from the other students. You know, not as if you think you’re better or anything. Then some parents don’t want their kids to be corrected too much—maybe not at all. “You can’t talk to my kid that way,” and…”You better pass him, he’s not staying back. You can’t do that to my kid just because you never taught him to read and write…and SPEAK.” Hold on! Don’t go trying to teach my kids or me how to talk talk we don’t dig. You sayin’ we don’t know how? You sayin’ we talk funny or WRONG? WE don’t have to talk like those others who think they BETTER than anyone. We got our own ways and don’t you try to change ‘em. But show us how to get out of this place, Okay? Remember the north hearings? Oh, much earlier, Watergate: “At this point in time I indicated.” Translation: Then I said. We can’t even talk anymore! “The alleged suspect.” That’s entirely wrong, of course. He’s definitely a suspect. And he didn’t “proceed up the route immediately to the rear of the edifice.,” he ran up the alley! Okay, “behind the house.”
No one wants to just say it, for fear he might be UNDERSTOOD. God, that might mean I’m responsible for what I say—worse, for what I MEAN. Oh, dear, I can’t just say what I mean, can I? They’ll think this is too simple, not weighty material or serious work. So many people don’t realize that clear, concise eloquence comes through clear, ordered, and honest minds. I know why. Because being re-elected, making more money, and keeping your job are more important than clean, orderly, and harmonious living. They’re more important than life itself! Too bad. For all of us.
I have a suggestion. JUST SAY NO TO CRUELTY, POLLUTION, AND OBSESSION WITH MONEY. SAY NO TO STUFF, MORE STUFF AT ALL COSTS, HATRED, FREE SLAUGHTER, and Nuclear energy of ALL KINDS—because we cannot, cannot, cannot, handle the waste products, ever, ever, ever. In one country in Africa, they’re growing more food faster than any other African country can, using old, old, and clean, clean methods. In Peru, they have discovered an ancient irrigation system which is already providing more crops than ever before in modern times, anyway. Organic farmers here are finding they can grow everything cleanly. EVERYTHING. And feel good and make a living.
Standard of living means only one thing in this country. It means the amount of money you report to the IRS each year. That’s all. That’s. . . . ALL. WE speak of the Gross National Product. Gross is right! That means only one thing. MORE STUFF. That’s all. Not peace of mind, which is the only thing that matters. NOT harmony, the singing joy of appreciation of one another, all other creatures, and the earth. That’s bullshit to too many people. Sentimental crap. Tell that to the teenagers who committed suicide in this country last year. Tell that to the 125,000 teachers, mothers and fathers, children, truck drivers, hospital workers, doctors, store clerks, secretaries, actors, singers, priests and parsons who die every year from prescription drug problems. “That is more than all the illegal drug deaths put together,” says the writer and psypharmacologist Ronald Siegal.
Here’s something I know a little bit about firsthand. No matter how many people are addicted to heroin, crack, cocaine, or marijuana—many more are hooked on, obsession with—uncontrollably in the grip of—ALCOHOL. Are we honest? Shall we get honest, huh? REALLY AND TRULY? Then let’s test for the NUMBER ONE DRUG: Alcohol. Then for the NUMBER TWO DRUG, which has to be pills of all kinds, that seriously and dangerously affect just about anyone you can name. Finally let’s test for CIGARETTES, whose use—always excessive, no matter how you rationalize it—impairs vision and circulation, which means coordination, responsible judgment, and causes disabling illness and exacerbates disorders already caused by other self-destructive habits. Lets test the REAL CULPRITS because they all cause waste of millions of dollars. Oh, yes, I never forget the NUMBER ONE MOTIVATING FACTOR—the influence that fires more change than all the other influences combined—FILTHY LUCRE. It’s not that money talks. It’s that ONLY MONEY TALKS. It talks louder, faster, and more seductively than reason, love, and caring—which is why we have all this trouble in the first place. The mad scramble for money causes a din that drowns out all other rational sound. So be careful, because if your voice of REASON just happens to drift through somewhere in the Money Jungle, they’re liable to set a trap for you or just hack you to bits with a machete or split you in two with a barrage of bullets or a single shot. Ask the ghosts of those who tried to protect the rain forest, the animals in Africa, the streets of New York and other streets of crime, the citizens oppressed by Central American governments, and American leaders who begged for acceptance of one another because “all men are created equal.” I have not painted this picture. This is a report, not a work of art.
We could start by operating on the “interdiction front”, maybe the “law enforcement front”, or even the “education front”! That was a government official on television in August. No wonder people don’t understand one another anymore. He thought he was being eloquent—mind you—by using military terms, applying these weighty words to our own personal “War on drugs.” Hey, that’ll send the damned enemy scurrying, trembling in its boots. All those users and pushers. And we know who they are, that damned enemy, that bloodthirsty rabble: Mom and Dad, teachers, truck drivers, office workers, and doctors, yes, M.D.’s, who have to be the biggest pushers the world has ever seen, except maybe for voodoo, witch doctors, village witches, and seers down through the centuries. But there’s a big, vital difference between what they were doing and what modern practitioners are peddling. Modern drugs are artificial and highly concentrated, into deadly doses. They’re adulterated, to refine them or to dilute them so more batches can be sold. They’re packed into powerful doses in tiny packages for faster relief and higher trips. WE are poisoned by refinedfood and fuel, refined cleaning products, refined medicines, and refined drugs—in many cases the last two are, of course, the same! WE are soooo refined, ain’t we? It sometimes seems that we’ve refined ourselves down to no regulation at all, no govern…ment. To govern: “control the actions of,” “guide,” “control.” The White House says the states should control themselves. The cities and counties, in California, anyway, say You’re too slow. You’re accomplishing nothing, guiding no one, controlling nothing. By substances being dispensed by the ton, those poisons in the air that give us the dubious distinction of being rated Number One in air pollution. By the time you realize this rating alone PROVES that emissions from automobiles, factories, barbecues, aerosol cans, paints, lacquers, and pesticides are NO GOOD, LIKE, THEY’RE KILLING US, MAN!!!!! By that time—close at hand—or should I say “at this point in time” as opposed to “at this point in distance” or “at this point in thought” or at this point in the game or this point in the morning or this point in history or in the battle or in my life. AT THIS POINT IS ENOUGH. I UNDERSTAND!! Now.
I am living proof that one can, anyone can see the madness and destruction and accept it and continue to produce and thrive. In my case doing the only thing I could ever do in this absurd world, entertain. I am an entertainer.
I am sure now that people who go around saying ‘Just say no’ and ‘Peace on earth, good will towards men’ are full of it! And they do no good. They are not indignant. They call those words OPTIMISTIC: “The belief that the universe is improving and the good will ultimately triumph over evil.” So. . . The optimist does know! He knows that there’s a battle, sort of, maybe. At least, he knows that good and evil are all around us and there is some question as to whether one is superseding the other. So, if the good is prevailing then there is no need for action or concern. If we mistakenly believe, insist on believing that things aren’t so bad and go around spouting platitudes and smiling and shooshing the people who complain, WE WILL GET CREAMED!! When I was in Texas on tour with I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER, I found out what it means to get creamed. Every soup in Texas is CREAMED. You can get creamed spinach, cream of potato, cream of broccoli, creamed corn, very creamy chowder, and almost any other kind of buttered and flour-thickened gravy-fattened or lard-laden “hearty” soup or gumbo. To be fair, most other places on the tour offered pretty much the same choices, back to Dallas. Restaurants feels that a clear broth with lovely colorful vegetables floating in it! That is, vegetables that have not been cooked until they turn gray, such pure and siple fare cannot be offered for sale. It’s not substantial enough. It’s too easy to prepare. It’s too thin, that;s all. Real food is thick and greasy. On the other hand, fancy restaurants will charge you five dollars for a “consommé,” a very thing, but pureed liquid, because it’s fancy. Fancy? A couple carrots, a little water, and a blender. I had hope one day in Dallas. In the dining room, at the buffet table was advertised “barley soup.” I sat at a table, a waiter came and I said, “Good, I see that you have barley soup today. Yay!” “Right, I know, it’s not gumbo or zucchini.” “Oh,?” said I. “Well, surely you’ve noticed that the only vegetable seems to be zucchini.” Come to think of it, you’re right. I laughed and said, “My biggest concern has been that I can’t find a soup that’s not creamed, but today you have barley, thank God.” He smiled, flipped a fork onto the table, pirouetting and left. For a spit second, I felt something was wrong, but the buffet was a self-serve affair, so I just went over to fill a big bowl with unadulterated barley soup. Are you ahead of me? Yup. I lifted the lid while reaching for the ladle and looked down into a cauldron of white foam. Only in Texas could you find CREAM OF BARLEY SOUP!!! The waiter came back, ready to take the rest of my order. I kept staring at the menu. Finally I said, I give up. Even the barley is creamed. He smirked and whispered, “What do you think I left?”
That afternoon, I think it was, I found my whole foods store. It was a cab ride away, but it was worth the trip. They had so many choices of breads and dried fruits and raw nuts that a code was posted, with instructions on proper labelling of the plastic bag once you’d made your choice. The same—or similar—system was used at the coffee display. Yes, I ingest one dubiously helpful substance on a regular basis. If you can see through it, it’s not coffee. So I buy the darkest roast and combine it with a strong decaffeinated variety, maybe one flavored with amaretto or vanilla, and some days I drink twelve cups of it. Other days, I drink two. I’m spared the temptation to drink any coffee on a soundstage or movie set, because it’s so bad. I brew my own, in the dressing room, and I always invite the cast to share. That keeps my consumption down, and I like the visitations.
That was a sweet company. We were mostly veterans. Out of a cast of ten, each of six actors had been working for over twenty years—as actors, not waiters or Brooks Brothers salespeople during the holiday rush season, nor as parks of cars in L.A. or booksellers at the Drama Bookshop in Manhattan. The other four had been around for an average, I’d say, of ten years or so each. WE were all happy to be working, and especially happy to be in this beautiful play. The playwright, Robert Anderson, liked hearing me call his very personal play “beautiful,” as if my endorsement confirmed the truth. It didn’t. People might have listened to me, but they decided for themselves. I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER is a difficult play to watch. It feels to viewers like a story about themselves. It also feels as if it’s exposing some intimate facts, facts sensitive and private and too fragile and personal to tell to strangers. These characters, in fact, find it almost impossible to tell each other their deepest fears and pains. But it’s funny, too, or it wouldn’t work as entertainment. But it’s funny, too, or it wouldn’t work as entertainment. But it’s funny in the way we are all funny without meaning to be, thank God, or we wouldn’t be able to stand life. It’s really about forgiving each other for not loving as we wished or hoped to be loved. It’s about accepting one another as we are. That’s tough to do. The problem, it turns out, is failure to communicate. I figured out a few years ago that this is the basis of all dramatic conflict. It may be the only key, indispensable conflict! It is, in HAMLET and OTHELLO, in DEATH OF A SALESMAN, in RAINMAN and DANGEROUS LIAISONS in GONE WITH THE WIND and even THE WIZARD OF OZ and certainly in CASABLANCA and in Pinter’s work and in Tennessee Williams’ and even in Neil Simon’s comedies. I may have discovered the key to human behavior, the only problem you need to understand in order to start dealing with a solution to all those difficulties you’ve been having with . . . EVERYONE!! Think about it. Or don’t. No, you won’t forget it. You won’t be able to ignore this premise, will you? Just apply the theory at each impasse, at every tense moment with someone, to every nagging question in your head and every worry flitting around in there.
It's indispensable to the writer. It’s probably the essential rub, thorn or other petard by which the hero or heroine or villain or innocent bystander is hoisted, in every book worth reading. The writer chooses it. Or does he have a choice? Is it true that we are all the same, exactly like one another—feeling all the same feelings and thinking all the same thoughts? Probably we are. No, I’m sure of it. The details may vary, because we make up these games. We play house and neighborhood and tribe and continent and hemisphere. Then we dress up and make up and carry things and wave things and eat certain things, prepared in a certain way, and do up our hair and mess around with our skin and faces and limbs, painting and scraping or slashing or blanching or tanning them; and we dope out wounds: word wounds which we call language, and music sounds. WE dance around or just jump around—everyone jumps around, in Africa on the dusty plains and in the leafy forests and on the dusty stages of the Bolshoi and Radio City Music Hall—and put on and take off cloth and skins and bark and feathers and polyester and plastic and grass and paper. We do all these superficial things to accomplish what? Hell, I know why I do it! I’m an actor. They pay me to play dress up and to be different. I love it when people say, meeting you for the first time, having seen you only on television or in a theater, almost always trying to be someone else, GEE YOU LOOK DIFFERENT! Well, gee, thanks. That’s my job. If I’m successful at the transformation, I’m good. If I fail, I’m bad. The thing I mustn’t forget is that I am able to be many other people because we people, human beings, we are all alike UNDERNEATH IT ALL. A tribe tries to be different by adopting superficial practices, and they fool themselves into believing that they are unique. A tribe will fight to the death just to prove it is different. Better, it thinks. We’re better, and don’t you forget it. Of course, sometimes tribes have had good reason to fear other tribes. Those other have come to them to try to change them, instead of to integrate, or just to live side by side. If only they knew and if only they celebrated the differences and realized that together they could have a lot more fun, experience a greater variety of clothing and food and dancing and music and literature and talking and working. The reason we actors are able to be anyone else, anyone at all, is that we know that all humans are the same inside. So all we have to do it change the superficial details and keep changing them, and we can go on being all sorts of different folks. Of course we form bands, too, don’t we?
WE set up barriers. We put up our fists. When our feelings are hurt—usually through failure to communicate—we get mad and sometimes we strike out. It’s always the same. Tribes. Fear. Fear of losing something you already have, or fear of not getting something you think you have to have. Oh, sure, sometimes it’s a matter of actual need. Someone needs a piece of bread. Or a fix. Hey, when you have no control left, no choice, it’s a need! But in my experience the problem is usually the result of wanting or expecting and being disappointed. You want a certain place in the line, or you have your place in line and someone is trying to take it. You need that parking space, you’ve gone around the block to get it, and someone else beat you to it! Worse, you’ve pulled up just ahead of it and that S.O.B. behind you knows that, he KNOWS that, and he’s sneaking in there anyway. You’ve got to have that promotion. The boss says no. Worse, he gives it to another person, someone who doesn’t even DESERVE it. There is no justice. You make an investment and the deal explodes. You do a favor and you don’t even get a Thank you. Oh, hell, I don’t expect anything, not even a Thank you.
I don’t. Really. But Geez, you’d think she could at least acknowledge the effort, just a little bit. SOMETHING! She doesn’t understand me. Why should I have to tell every little thing that I need? OH? So you can read her mind, hmm? She doesn’t ever have to say exactly what it is with her, does she, so why should you have to ask for a hug or a word of encouragement—ever? Failure to communicate.
Dear Mr. Newman
Dear Mr. Newman,
I enjoy your books. They echo my fear of the utter deterioration of our language, and they entertain and alert me. But some critics are not paying attention. I expect them to be especially careful, but obviously these are not, always. On the book jacket, of I Must Say, someone is quoted as saying “fatally slain.” Is that not redundant; can anyone be slain less than fatally?
Bland in California
There’s this guy Bland in California. Okay, so he rapes, tortures, and murders. All right, all right, I know I said murder, so what the heck. Right, if he had stopped at torture and rape we might be able to forgive the guy. Hey, in America we don’t restrict a citizen’s rights. Come on! I know what you’re thinking. Just because a gray haired guy messes up a few times don’t mean he’s gonna do it again. He’s probably sorry. He just doesn’t know how to say it. Probably doesn’t know how to express his true feelings, poor guy. You can’t hold it against him forever. You gotta let him out. Maybe he won’t do it again. Who says he’s gonna? In America a guy’s got a right to try again. Okay, okay, so he tries not to seduce a little girl. He tries really hard not to trail and charm her. He tries very very hard not to get her into his want to molest her, or, well, come on, he doesn’t mean anything by what he does.
He looks good, he’s a good dresser, for crying out loud! I mean, he’s not a real menace. Like, I mean, he’s not a filthy looking bum who smells! He’s not making decent people uncomfortable on the streets or in coffee shops, is he? He just, he can’t help raping once in awhile. And…sometimes he goes too far and kills the damned struggling little girl, or the damned uncooperative, pesky old lady. Geez. In America we don’t just give up on a guy for little things like that. Do we? I know, I know, then there’s that chance that one guy who does it just once, I mean, just once, for God’s sake, and he gets behind bars and he’s really sorry. He lost it for a minute. He was drunk, he got a little too mad at God, the world, to tell the truth. So, he killed once by beating someone repeatedly. It’s a tough world with a lot of pressures. A guy has to get it out once in a while. So he swings a baseball bat at someone’s head twenty or thirty times. That’s punishment. Just punishment. WE all deserve punishment, right? I mean, no one’s innocent. TRULY INNOCENT. So, if a guy bludgeons a person just like one of us who probably deserves some kind of punishment, really, and the person dies, well . . . that does not warrant stopping the poor misguided son of a bitch from being a good citizen from now on. He’s got a chance for real growth here, now that he got that thing out of his system, right?
Look, in America a guy’s got a right to destroy another human being every so often—oh, but he’s got to be careful. See, he has to murder the right sort of person and then he can pay a little price and go. We’re fair. Ther are price lists, aren’t there? Doesn’t every state have a price list? Isn’t one posted in each court? I know they vary a lot, but hey, if you’re willing to pay, this is a free country. You can pay for a car, house, or prostitute or for a little maiming, raping, and murder. And torture doesn’t cost any more, so you can get a bonus if you jump on the right person. The biggest bargain going.
And if after paying your price—what? Six, sixteen years? If after that you’re still not relaxed, satisfied, you can go after the damned bitch again. So, who’s depriving you? I mean, don’t holler. No one’s gonna try to stop you if you have to get her one more time. Go ahead. You’ve paid. We’re fair. In America you have rights.
Regret
When I hear about the development of San Francisco, I regret that I won’t be here always. I think of these times and I regret that I won’t be here in other times. I won’t be here in the year 2093, or even in 2043, I don’t suppose.
Is life all regret? After I’ve read the books and understood some things—quite a few things, really, basic, essential, universal things—then what? Is this merely a marathon to nowhere? I must read more of the stoic view, of Marcus Aurelius. From what I’ve read already, I gather that my feelings are theirs. I wish to be unburdened. Of life? Of this body only? My spirit is light.
The thought exhilarates me: I needn’t transport any thing from here to Los Angeles. I can leave all the clothes, books, tapes, CD’s, papers, utensils, and even food in Kenosha.
I am a nomad. I am a good nest builder. I am comfortable in any community. Irony. The irony and my regret is that I did not believe this when I was first in New York. I was afraid to commit to the Washington Arena. Last week, the new people there asked me to be in Arthur Miller’s The Price. I am so glad. There is time left to redeem. Irony. I wanted to be famous and sought-after sooner. I thought; it will take so long to get established as a serious, fine actor. I’ll take a short cut; I’ll become known first, and the easiest way is in television, or even in films (fat chance!). Then, people will want me to do plays and I’ll show them how good I really am. It has taken me so long to become famous. The idea exploded again and again, right in my face.
I was afraid to “go away.” I was always going away! I was paranoid, actually. There was no real danger. I couldn’t even imagine a specific fearsome thing. I operated on swirling energy. It was a maelstrom inside—my mind and heart in a tornado, unable to see or hear. I’ve been saying for years that I was (am?) an egomaniac with an inferiority complex. I certainly was then. I am less confused these days. More confident. But I am disappointed. In me. I have not had many good roles to play. I have not been able to get roles in movies. I want to find time to play good roles in the theater. I will.