Amsterdam Avenue, 2:45 P,M

 Walked in the heat north to 96 street to pay my Spectrum bill. Passed the apartment house that I think Don McKay lived in. Felt regret. Who was Don McKay. He played Tony in the London company of West Side Story---this company was sent over in fall of 58, with an all American cast, and took London by storm. Four actors from the original cast---Chita Rivera, Ken LeRoy, Eddie Roll and Tony Mordente recreated their roles in this production. A few weeks before rehearsals began McKay replaced Larry Kert for a week in the Broadway production. I saw him that Saturday matinee and Maria was played that afternoon by Marlys Waters, who would be his co star in London. I remember that performance so well---I had seen Larry twice, and was not sure if McKay could be as good. He was stockier then Larry---I wondered whether he would collapse the fire escape when he climbed up to meet Maria. Or whether he could scale the fence at the end of act I. He was okay, but there was something tentative about his performance Then came the final scene in the play when Tony lies dying in Maria's arms. Something happened between the two of them---a "frightening chemistry" that was so intense and real. I was sitting in the front orchestra and could almost feel the heat and passion  they shared. Had they reached a new level? During the curtain calls, the conductor, Max Goberman, seemed to have tears in his eyes. He blew them kisses at the bow. Had something happened on stage to them that had never happened before? The intensity of McKay and Waters has stayed with me--I can feel it now.I

Mckay died about two years ago---several obituaries mentioned that he lived in a building around Amersterdam and 90th street, and that sometimes he sat on a bench outside that building  My God, I thought, when I read that, I could have easily encountered him on one of my walks that way. What a loss! I would have loved to talk to him, and have him tell me stories about being in WSS at that time. Apparently he had scrap books with a million pictures from the London production. I could see myself looking at them for hours. But of course it did not happen.

Late August 58--I was preparing for my junior year at Science---had just returned from camp Music Land on the Bard college campus, where a close friend of mine was dating a girl I liked very much. I remember that summer well. Will tell some tales about it later.

Real world: Must prepare for the biopsy I am scheduled to have on Monday, Not sure how I feel about it. A judgement call on the part of my surgeon. Well, might as well get it over with and move on to the next episode in my treatment.

 

hot saturday afternoon...

 and I am determined to make it through this heat, spending as little money as possible.. So what does that mean? No movie, today, although, I think I can now make it through a movie, and the movie theater in Lincoln Center---I really like going there----has some interesting stuff---a film by Petzoid called Undine--one earlier film of his that I saw was really intense and original. But as of now, I am trying to put it off. What to do in its place? Read, read, read. Two books that I have aleady read much of today: First: Bird Uncaged, an autobiography by Marlon Peterson, a black activist. Very intense;  Peterson grew up in the Crown Heights area--all around Nostrand Avenue. Now there are coffee shops and trendy restaurants galore on the street where he had to face violent encounters on a daily basis. Can't believe the chaos he describes existed, but of course it did, along with the virulent racism of the police in the area. I am the beneficiary of the gentrification that now exists along those streets---I walk there without fear of being harmed. Have stopped reading right around the time he was arrested and ultimately sentenced---will see how he copes with inprisonment and what happens after. The second book Sylvia Plath's novel, The Bell Jar, and the perspective, after reading Peterson's book, is of course, amazingly different. Plath's heroin navigates a white world, where issues of race, and only minimally of class are brought up. One can enjoy her sharp, ironic observations in this somewhat phony, but "safe" world. I am enjoying the novel though I can't help  thinking how different the two worlds are. Will continue with Plath's book, probably after I finish this post.

Hot today---and will be tomorrow. Feeling stronger about going further and further away from the apartment with the bag. Brooklyn..the east village...who knows? Physically I am in a very good place---a pet scan yesterday left me very sleepy---got up around midnight---body somewhat numb--I walked around the apartment---my legs gave me messages that they wanted to move, not return to bed. Apartment is small---so at around 12:30 a.m. I walked four blocks to the grocery store on 72nd and West End, and grabbed a grape fruit juice. I think my body needed that walk---happy that I took it. This evening will shift between Yankee Red Sox game, and Nets Bucks as well. Should be interesting.....

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Beethoven playing in the background....

 tne cavatina from op. 130---incredibly sad. Perfect for where I am at this moment. Somehow on google maps wandered back into the Bronx--and there it was again---the streets that so many of us grew up on. Those streets near the Concourse----Walton, Sheridan, Sherman---all of us were white, mostly Jewish, mostly similar---now I look at their pictures---I remember Joan B. a classmate of mine--I noticed her in the first months of my junior year at Science. She was beautifuI. I dreamed of being her boyfriend, of taking long walks with her holding her hand,  and yet I never spoke to her---but I have never been able to get her out of my mind, One of the pop songs at that time. sung by a man, to a woman he was attracted to. always made me think of her:

 your bobby sox,   your ballet shoes, and your babushka too.

Like to meet you chinny chin chinny wishin I was tied to you. Every time  I heard that song, from the first time I saw her until now, Joan races through my mind. 

In 2001, there was a class reunion which I helped organize. Lots of lists--including those of our classmates who had passed on. Joan was on that list. I have no idea how long she lived---who she became---what kind of life she might have had---or where. The class yearbook had everyone's picture and addresses--I don't have a copy but I can find it on a web site that contacts me every so often and asks me to become a member. I look at Joan's picture---then see her address---Clarke Place, a street off the Concourse, an area that so many of my class came from. So I google her address. There it is, an aparment building like so many in the area--our world, a neighborhood incredibly white and safe; a world of concerned parents, of parents who wanted us to do "more" then they did.  I look at the building and become incredibly sad, like the Beethoven's cavatina. I am in mourning---but for what---for that whole moment in time in my Junior year?  The beginning of my life as a "dater. The "I want to know you" smiles; the flirtations, the promises..? I am completely drawn in; if I could transport myself back to that street, to that time, I surely would. But I remain here.

Maybe it is the day. Rain and ungliness outside, a "waste" day--a perfect day and time to lose myself in the past. Otello coming up---if I want to hear it.  What I really want to do is escape this apartment---find myself somewhere else---anywhere---just to look at different things. But where does one go on the ugliest day in the final days of the pandemic,with most coffee places outside uninhabitable and only bookstores to browse in. Don't know. So I remain here....

another long time...

between posts---just had the apartment cleaned---hardly recognize it. Once every 4 weeks, this woman---I honestly don't even know her name---I just call her the "niece" of my previous cleaner---that is how she was introduced to me---cleans my apartment. She does a great job---on the way out, urged me to keep the apartment a little cleaner during the time when she is not there But what can I do? I truly hate dirt--but--well, I really try. 

        Lost my sheet yesterday to "spillage"; now am sleeping just on my five year old mattress---but not bad---I can do it. Will keep it that way for a while.

Suspended--at least until Friday--that is when I see the surgeon--he will decide the next move. Cleared with my two oncologists, so it is all up to him. Meanwhile I try to figure out what June will be. As I wait, I must admit that i have found a comfort zone with my current life pattern---am comfortable staying in at night, except for short walks. Scan the baseball scores, follow the nba playoffs, an occasional phone call--that seems to do it---read a bit, then look forward to the next day. Will that soon end? Change means hospitalization--probably a little leary about that. Well, will find out more on Friday. 

I read, and my imagination goes deeper. Getting more out of reading then ever before. Currently reading a series of essays by Vivian Gornick, and an early novel by Jerry (Jerome) Charyn. Ironically I have chosen to read books by two  authors anow in their eighties---both born and raised in the Bronx, probably within walking distance of each other. That part of the Bronx is directly south of the Bronx zoo---my family lived in the first neighborhood north of the Bronx zoo--a little more middle class at the time. Gornick and Charyn's neighborhood was much more hard scrabble jewish working class, and being the poorest, it was the first neighborhood to be "invaded" by the Puerto Ricans who arrived in the Bronx in the early fifties. As a teen ager, I had one or two dates with young women who lived in that area. I always felt safe there. Still "visit" that area on google maps---always filled with a kind of hunger--nostalgia---I see my childhood--but it is gone.

Have found a facebook group where I can share some of my memories of plays and musicals that I saw in the fifties and early sixties. Like it---getting comfortable in my "solitude"--perhaps too comfortable. Will reveal all the next time.

The next Sunday evening...S

 Sundays always seem to be the most difficult of days. Today I seemed to go in and out of the apartment endlessly. Yet I accomplished some things: paid my computer bill, had two nice conversations with friends, helped another friend out with her taxes---a bit. Still, not very fulfilling. d Ended up by watching a documentary about the Son of Sam case (1977) that centered on a reporter who did not believe that David Berkwitz was the sole shooter. Stopped after two chapters---that was enough. Then back to baseball and basketball scores, which is how I usually finish my evenings.

Found a nice group on Facebook called Broadway Remembered. Posts are mostly about stars and plays of the past. Gives me a chance to write some interesting  theater memories, from the fifties and sixties. someone posted abouts  New Girl in Town, the musical adoption of O'Neill's Anna Christie, that starred Gwen Verdon in her first  role after her success in Damn Yankees. Got a chance to tell what I liked about it and what its problems were. Got some nice feedback.Will visit that group often. 

I remember very vividly seeing the musical. It was on a Wednesday matinee in June of 57---I had just graduated Junior High School 135, and I went by myself. I felt a real excitement sitting in around the second row of the balcony at the 46th Street theater, where the show was playing. That was an interesting summer. For the past 6 summers it was always eight weeks sleep away camp. This summer David and I were going to fly out to California and spend two weeks with our cousin Jerry and her husband Sid, and their four children, Then a flight to Denver to meet our parents---our dad was taking some courses at the University of Colorado at Boulder, and we were spending most of the summer there. That was a great summer---at least for me---got a chance to "date" and pursue some women my own age, and be part of a group of kids whose parents were also taking courses at the University that summer. Loved the lack of structure---and made a really close friend Ernie Northrup from Elmira. He was a lot older then me, but I think we bonded over our love of sports and problems with girl friends. A meaningful summer--maybe will elaborate on it more in the future. We actually drove home---not the greatest trip, but David and I got a chance to see a game at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh.  This meant a lot to us as we were both Pirate fans. Strange, I don't remember who won the game. Anyway, we returned home and I prepared for my first year at Bronx Science.

Had two ct scans and an mri (believe it or not, I made it through)---still waiting to get final results, will report soon. Still reading McBride's Deacon King Kong--vivid picture of a universe that was part of the Red Hook houses. Want to finish it soon---still do not like to read in the apartment, That is it for now, will report soon.

to write, or to read....

 that is the question. So much  easier losing one self in another person's language or vision. Yet writing, even a little, is kind of stimulating.  A sense of my own power---my own "ability to create".  Anyway, here it is---early Sunday morning---not the greatest of mornings. Woke up feeling overwhlemed by problems. No need to categorize them. At this point, feeling more "real", that is to say in the present. Already went out and bought a gigantic fruit cup from Fairway. Will probably go to the hotel coffee bar around the corner and get my coffee and read. 

Still wondering if I can get to Brooklyn? Too many risks? Maybe after Tuesday, when I receive the ct scan and MRI, I will be more relaxed. BRIC is opened, I wonder if the large Atrium across the street from BRIC has reopened. Spent many relaxed times there, watching sports, hanging out. A nice place for people just "to be".And then, on the other side of the street, right by BAM, the Center for Fiction. Wonder if they are opened at full speed, or if their coffee bar has reopened. When I visited last August, it was just books, no coffee, no bathroom---kind of a ghost of itself. Spent really many terrific times there, between its opening and the pandemic. Read The Not Wives, by Carly Moore, completely there. A terrific novel, taking place around the time of the Occupy movement.  Yesterday, browsed in Strand's bookstore on the upper west side. So many fascinating possibilities. Bought nothing---getting my books from the library now, and besides, want to complete James McBride's book Deacon King Kong, before starting something else. Deacon takes place in the Red Hook projects in the sixties--McBride's authentic voice  (it is where he was raised) brings it to life with a cool force. Each scene with different characters, a kind of mini-play or short story. This author writes amazing dialogue.

I think I should stop here. Nice work, so far---ready to face the rest of the day.

but it did not happen....

by now that is old news, But I should have written about it before. The ct scan and mri was canceled because the person who  made the appointment from the oncolgist's office did not coordinate with my medicare provider. All hell broke loose! At least in my head, When calm was restored, it was promised that they would make the appointment again---and now a week later---I am still waiting. Should find out dates soon. I did see my two other doctors, however, and the results were decent. My surgeon must see the results of the two tests before he decides his course of action. 

Being in limbo is not hard. In fact I kind of like it. Strange world I am living in now---it totally centers on me---the outside world seems pushed away. But I want to get back to it---going out for my 6:30 coffee, I remembered that when I was tutoring in the Bronx, I would get coffee from a truck that sat outside the Simpson Street station. That is a poor neighborhood, standing in line with the other customers, all of whom were hispanic, I felt a good sense of energy. I would long to go back there again--just get on the 2 train and go---but of course, too many things stop me now. Every day I remember and go over in my mind streets in Brooklyn---in Bed Stuy, Bushwick, Park Slope---still not able to return. That should be my project as I continue this wait---there must be a way I can at least make a short trip without worrying about "the bag". We will see. 

Yesterday began at 3A.M. when the window pane that was attached to the broken one that was holding on, fell off, exposing me to the elements. Not so bad---it was fairly warm; if that had happened the night before when it was in the low forties, it would have been scary. Got through it---did not sleep, got the handyman to come---he made some decent adjustments, but now a new window is needed. By the evening, I was pretty tired---went to bed around 7,---almost slept straight through to 5:30---body decimated. I guess I needed all that time in bed, just to recover, emotionally and physically. Now at aroundd 7 A.M. legs are spindly, but the rest of my body is relaxed and easy. 

Lots of small tasks today---also hope to finish Rodham---Curtis Sittenfeld's take on Hilary's alternative life--she writes very well (Sittenfeld, that is) and it is a good read. Not sure what will be next. Will report soon.