Tuesday afternoon...

Not a lot to report. Just returned from the neighborhood Barnes and Noble, which has been reopened for a week, and is incredibly cool (air cooled that is). Not very crowded this afternoon; I had plenty of time to browse and to pick books that I might possibly want to buy. Was tempted by many---an interesting book about the last year of the Civil War, Philip Roth's Letting Go (parts of which I have read many times) Auster's Invisible (have already read it twice, but it calls to me) Shakespeare and Fletcher's The Two Noble Kinsmen (have never read it---really should to complete my vision of Shakespeare) and finally, The War of the Roses by Derrick Jones---I have read many books about that conflict and also Shakespeare's four plays that cover it---but it constantly fascinates me. Even though I am aware of the many sequences of  changing power, I still love reading about it. Oh, and book by a critic named Emma Smith which analyzes about 20 plays by Shakespeare---from the little that I have looked at, her essays should be quite illuminating.
   And yet I left with nothing, only clutching the book that I had already brought into the bookstore, the indefatigable Prep, by Curtis Sittenfeld. Is it possible that at some point I can actually finish that novel and go on to something else.? Making headway---only slightly more than 100 pages to go. It's not that I hate that book--there are some very likeable things in it, but I feel frustrated by all the minutia about Boarding School life that the author brings into it. Did it have to be that long? And does the heroine have to glory in her passivity? Still, I am challenged to finish it---the next book that I already have in my apartment is a mystery by Agatha Christie---that should keep me occupied for a while after Prep, at least that is the plan. But the weekend should be long (and hopefully not arduous).
Maybe I can find it within myself to pay for at least one of the aforementioned books to keep me company while the superficial fireworks go off. I am hard on myself financially---otherwise I would have bought at least one of those books by now.
  Actually the one book that I really came for, but was not there, was the first on my list. It is called: Five Days: The Fiery Reckoning of an American City, and it is the five days that followed after the murder of Freddy Gray, as experienced by eight different citizens of Baltimore, and edited, and I assumed tied together by Wes Moore and Erica Smith. That book I would pick up in a second, and
gladly shell out the 30 something dollars that it probably costs. No waiting in the library for that one.
  So that is the story. When I was thinking earlier today about the content today's post, I thought I would talk about how yesterday my stomach was giving me trouble, but today it is calm. But you would rather hear about books, yes? Me too.

The Voyge Out (to Bushwick)

Apologies to Ms. Woolf (or anyone else for that matter) but it happened! I finally "broke the chains" and spent about three hours in Brooklyn. After my yearnings to go in the past few days were unfulfilled, I wondered if I was not doomed to be "trapped" on the upper west side, but this morning with much preparation, I made the move, had just about the right amount of food, made sure my stomach was behaving itself and got on the 3 train to Nevins Street. I chose downtown Brooklyn first, because since last summer, leading up to the pandemic, I had made the atrium across the street from the Harvey theater a kind of home base. Imagine my surprise when I saw that they had not re-opened, not even for take out---and that the Fiction Center, a bookstore that i visited often and was very happy in, was also not opened. Even the unbiquitous BRIC, caddy corner to the Harvey was closed. No place to even remotely "hang out" or stop and read. What to do?  The second choice was Cobra Club in Brooklyn, which I knew had re-opened, or at least I assumed would be doing their morning coffee selling, if only on the outside. How to get there..bus or train? I opted for the 38 bus, the one that goes East on Lafayette and then travels north on Dekalb to Wycoff. From there it is just a short walk to Cobra. On the way, I saw a few coffee places and restaurants that were opened, but as I approached Cobra, I saw it was locked and bolted. That ended that---had I read wrong? There were tables outside, did this mean that they were opened later? Walked two blocks back to another coffee place and had their ice coffee, really needed it, it was hot, then headed to the other place where I had friends. Molasses bookshop, a used book shop on Hart Street between Knickerbocker an Wilson. Crash! Another closed shop, boarded up. Had I not read that they had reopened? Again had I come at the wrong time? Ah well, all avenues of friendship closed to me, still it was only about 12:30, surely I could not just make my return to the upper west side just yet. Hart is one block away from DeKalb, and since it was hot, it seemed to make sense to take the 38 back to downtown Brooklyn. This time the bus would  travel west on DeKalb, rather than east on Lafayette. And that is what I did, bus rides down the streets of Brooklyn always offer some fascination. This ride was no exception. Arrived at my destination---still a wasteland---needed a bathroom, pre pandemic there were so many in the area to choose from--now only one---Whole Foods on Flatbush. Luckily it was not crowded so there was no problem. It was now about 1:30, and I had to make up my mind what was next.
  1:30 seemed like an awfully early time to return to the upper west side, and I had hoped to stay in Brooklyn for another two hours, but where? The sun was beating down on me----I was beginning to feel tired---hardly anything was even open from the outside---after a brief discussion with myself, I decided that returning home was the best idea. The Bergen street station was right near me, and the two trains going back to the upper west side, the 2 and 3 were coming often. And so that is what I did, took the subway, read on with Prep---I must finish it---and returned home a "hero" in my own mind, about 2:30.
  Any takeaways from this experience? Not really---maybe the next time I hit Bushwick it will be later when Cobra and Starr Bar are both opened. But the goal was to leave the world of the upper west side and hit Brooklyn---that I did.

5:40 Saturday morning...perchance to dream...

Its become ritual now---maybe the only ritual available to me at this time. But after the chaos of the early morning hours and the darkness outside---cityboy has only one goal. His coffee at the grocery store on the corner of 72nd street and West End Avenue. As I brush my teeth, shower and shave around 4:40 I long for the light outside, which means it is okay for me to begin my morning journey--my first steps out of the apartment---my first steps into the real world. I leave the house, walk the four blocks, put my mask on and ask for a large coffee. The man who makes my coffee speaks none or very little English---it doesn't matter--he is simply part of the ritual. I pay my two dollars, walk past the homeless man who sleeps on the corner, open the coffee and take a sip. Hopefully he has made it as i wish, a little light, but hot. Today it was perfect.
  On the trip back to the apartment my mind wanders--that is easy since there is usually no one on the street at this time---today I thought about Richard II, the Shakespeare play. Do you know it? It is written all in verse--the language and writing are incredibly beautiful. I remember reading it in 1980, just as I was getting back into theater and being enthralled. I first saw the play in (can you believe it) 1957 when the Old Vic company, then representing England's most prestigious theater came to the Winter Garden theater. John Neville played Richard,  it was long and hard for me to take---I was probably too young to absorb it all. Now a television production starring Maurice Evans enters my mind---I was probably even younger then---I remember Evans' last moment, fighting back against his assassin, Exton, who has been sent by the new King,  Henry Bolingbroke, to kill him.
  More memories: one of the earliest novels that I read as a child (adult novels, I did not read children's books) was called Catherine. It was by Anya Seton, about Catherine Swynford, the commoner who ended up as the third wife of John of Gaunt--Henry Bolingbroke's blood father.
In my second year at Hopkins I met S.....; she was also a Sophmore studying at  Goucher. colIege. I remember she also had read Ms. Seton's novel---it gave us something to talk about on an early date S...and I dated in the first part of my Junior year at Hopkins---I remember we had one incredible date---on a Friday evening---I can still see her getting off the bus at Greenmount Avenue in 33rd street as I waited for her.
We had dinner at a nearby place, then went to a movie at the Senator---it was the movie of The Miracle Worker . I had dated before---but this time I felt that S...all during the date..was bonding with me in a way that was totally different from what I had experienced on dates before No gawkiness or strained conversation here---she Wanted to be with me, by the time we were in the lobby of the movie theater waiting for the movie to start, I felt a kind of shared energy with her that I had never felt before.  It was relaxed, We simply belonged together. Without any touching, she had given herself to me. An indelible memory.
   We had several other dates after that, some of them very physical---in the end, we separated---or she decided that it was time for her to end the relationship---I was, of course, very hurt. But looking back on it, it doesn't matter---that October afternoon in 1962 was like nothing that had ever happened to me before.
  How did I get into this? Well, it does not matter---six minutes after six in the world of 2020.
 The rest of the day undefined, as yet---let's stop now, will report soon.

36 hours later...

from the last post, BAN is joining the protesters at City Hall, demanding large budget cuts in police funding and restoration of cuts that might effect youth jobs---should be exciting---I wish I was there, but i am not feeling well---earlier today I completed two "tasks" and perhaps that has left me pretty tired. I would like to get back in BAN participation as soon as possible---I think the contact and conversations with people there would be meaningful---but I am still nervous about what..? Travel...no longer. Let's peddle back a bit.
   Yesterday had my physical at the Ryan Center. The resident was pretty thorough, and the news, believe it or not, was good. Solid blood pressure and an EKG that found nothing. Much relieved--I was sure that some of the discomfort I felt in my stomach would carry over to the rest of my body, but it does not seem that way at all. The stomach pain (or at times no pain) seems to exist in a world of its own. I think this will give me more license to move around the city--nothing to really keep me on the upper west side now.
  This morning---bright and early at 7:30, I was first in line to get a live haircut at the barber shop on Amsterdam and 74th that I usually go to. And off the hair came---looking much better now I think. Then I took the subway to the Amalgamated Bank---I have an account there, and made a deposit. I was lucky because this "popular" bank had only been open three days a week, up to now, and the lines outside were much too long. Today there was no line, just two long transactions at the tellers, while I was waiting, (I thought they would go on forever) and I got what I wanted done.
  On the way back to the apartment, I opted to take a bus rather then the subway, since I did not want to pay the subway fare. The long ride back---north on sixth avenue---proved excruciating---bus very poorly ventilated---driver stopping for long stops at certain points--finally I got out at 59th west of 6th and walked a bit---at this point I felt totally dehydrated--found a cart where the guy sold me some ice water, and made my way towards the apartment. Also had a nice ice coffee at Shakespeare and Company on 69th street, and read a bit. Returned home to the apartment pretty tired.
  At the bookstore I came upon a book in the non-fiction section; apparently a memoir by a close friend of Philip Roth, recounting their time together. Roth and his life have always interested me--  I desperately wanted to buy it, but the price was a bit too high--so I left it in its place on the shelf. 
Disappointed, really curious to see what the book is---maybe another time, or maybe I can find a copy in the library---of course that won't be for a long time.
    So that is where I am now. Relieved about my physical state---thinking as I plan the evening
 that I have a lot more choices then before--it's so odd to think that I could spend a whole day away from the upper west side--that is how "wedded' I have become to the pace and identity of my day here, I, who lived to get away from the neighborhood before the virus. We will see what happens....

The sound inside..

is the name of a play written by Adam Rapp. Yesterday, while my apartment was being cleaned, I celebrated the second day of Barnes and Noble reopening by browsing the store, and ultimately choosing to buy Adam's play, and yes, also a mystery by Agatha Christie. A strange and fascinating juxtaposition, though i don't know if I realized it then. Adam's play had a run on Broadway---I wanted to see it but had not-- so when I saw I had the chance to buy it and experience it---for certainly when I returned home to my newly cleaned apartment, there would be nothing else to do---I did just that.

  I met Adam Rapp in September of 1991---I had become friends with his brother Anthony, and was looking to cast a 10 minute (worthless) play that I had been asked to direct. Adam had appeared in Anthony's production of a John Guare play (Marco Polo sings a Solo); I asked Anthony to see if Adam would want to work with me on this one. Adam accepted my offer;at the time, he was working for Penguin down in the lower part of the West Village. We became good friends, and remained so for about 6 years. I went to many readings  or read his earliest writings; even though I liked him, I was not impressed---the points they made seemed obvious--most everything remained on the surface. Adam himself, seemed easy to understand; he wanted to write, but also was a compulsive basketball player--and seemed very comfortable in the dating world.  His head seemed very much in the present. So of course, you can understand my amazement when, around 2000, his plays became internal---he began to create a whole universe of people and actions that seemed totally remote from the friend that I knew. But these people and and their actions were unique. Within the removed framework he created, these characters were authentic.  Somehow those earlier, clumsy attempt at playwriting were necessary--once he let go of them he could move on to that unique and fascinating world--where sometimes not a word would be wasted---of his later plays.

  The narrator of The Sound Inside (the play) is a fifty three year old college English professor  at Yale .who is alone, and has stomach problems. Interesting because at this moment I am experiencing problems with my stomach as well---problems that I have trouble understanding. Problems and sometimes pain that has forced me to consider the possibility of a colonoscopy, something I really don't want. The play recounts her relationship with one the freshmen in her English class. Bella, (the woman) lives a fairly isolated and self sufficient life---even among the hubub of the Yale campus where she teaches. The play is about their relationship and the effect that they have on each other from the play's beginning to its end. As I expected, it drew me in. Its ending, or its total meaning, is never made clear. But it was the experience that I wanted---the rest of the evening I tuned into WNYC to get some results of the important races that were taking place in the city. But thoughts about the play dominated my vision

I am writing this post, this sentence at 3:44 Wednesday morning. About a half hour ago, i awoke from a sleep that probably lasted an hour and a half. When I stood up, to go to the bathroom, I was shocked. Not only was there no pain in my stomach, but the rest of my body carried with it a
kind of quiet--no pain anywhere. This is the same body I had in 1976, after an unexpected break up with a woman stunned me and (though I did not know it then) put my life on a different path. The break up signified the end of  the first part of my adult life. As I am writing this, as I was after the break up, I am now, totally alone. But has the body really not changed?  Now, at 3:45, Is this real? No wonder I tire in the early evening.  No wonder trips to Williamsburg or Bushwick seem impossible.

As in  the beginning.  The other book that I bought: an Agatha Christie mystery---I had enjoyed reading another one earlier in the lockdown--it was beautifully put together and kept my mind from the blankness of the days.  As I got up, I thought to myself: Adam's play is all internal. Christie's mystery is the complete absence of anything internal--it is all surface.  I had chosen two completely opposite reading experiences. Can I now, after The Sound Inside, and all it has brought up in me, possibly
take on the Christie. Or should I go back to the charming but somewhat inane Prep, by Curtis Sittenfeld, Maybe  I  should return to Barnes and Noble  and seek out another "galvanic' book.
It's all open..

Monday, Monday...

towards the end of the day. A hot one---I have been inside, letting my fan cool me. Other than that, have been on different web sites, making comments when necessary. Am also tired.
  So yesterday afternoon, cityboy really triumphed! Why? Well, I left the upper west side, proving that I am not trapped in this area---and that---in spite of some lingering stomach problems, I can move around the city at will. Two trains---the 3 and the F, brought me to Delancey Street to first, check on my friend Bob's new restaurant, and second, visit La Flaca, his old one. At the new one, on Clinton, between Rivington and Delancey, and fronted by a flower shop, the seating set up looked really good--tables a perfect distance apart---some benches in the front and back---looks like it will be a perfect place for a first date---or even something a little more intimate. But no one was there, just the artist, painting a mural on the front---so I headed to La Flaca---there I found Bob with some friends---just sitting outside. I joined them for a while---Bob does not know if he can keep La Flaca after August 1st. But the conversation was good, and when I left to return to the upper west side, I felt strong; after all I had finally followed through on my urge to visit another part of the city. The train ride home was brief and uneventful.
Then came the evening and night. First got very tired after the trip---then a second wind---then impossible to sleep once the time passed 1o'clock. Not feeling great---I usually under eat and that works for me, but last night, after a large roast beef sandwich and a yogurt, somehow I still felt hungry. But where can you go at 2 or 3 in the morning?  Yes, the convenience store 4 blocks away stays open all night, and there are plenty of doormen whom I would pass on my journey there and back, but, of course, something inside of me still said "no". Restless, eyes tired, no reading, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. Finally, the light came, about 5:30, and soon I was on my way to the store.
What amazed me on that trip, is that, even though I had not slept, my body did not feel tired at all, in fact, it wanted to move quickly. It i like I have two bodies--the stomach with its ups and downs, and the rest of me---very alive and spirited with very little pain---can do everything I could many years ago.
And that is it---now I await my friend Sarah's check in phone call, will do a little more web surfing and hope for the best.

So what happened....

Well, not a lot. My first move was to decide to walk 15 or 16 blocks south on West End to John Jay college, where there was early voting. Normal voting is Tuesday but I figured, what the hell, with all the free time that I have, might as well explore early voting. It did not happen. I arrived and at the first table they did not have my name. They sent me to a second table that found my name---not too hard---but then ceremoniously told me that I could not vote at that sight---I could only vote at the second early voting sight in the district---on 102nd between Amsterdam and Columbus. The 11 bus, with stop a block away, could have dropped me off right there, but after a short ride, decided that it was better to wait and get off at the stop nearest my apartment. That ended my voting adventure; I don't think I will try the 102nd street voter venue today; on Tuesday I will go to my normal voting place, about two blocks away and hope for the best.
  Still, it was only a little after 12, but oh boy, the heat was becoming intense. That was enough to discourage me from a trip to Bushwick---instead I opted to stay in the apartment and listen to the Met's broadcast of The Marriage of Figaro, by Mozart. It is a three and a half hour opera---I was home for most of it. Figaro is an opera I know almost by heart---I learned it in the summer and fall of 66, saw it for the first time a year later---and have seen it many times since. I also sang parts of it in the opera workshops and concerts that I sang in between 69 and 74, when I was an aspiring baritone.
I have also had many fantasies about directing it; no production that I have ever seen has brought out what I feel are some of the important points of its drama. So while I listened to the opera, I staged many parts of it in my own mind. I imagined it being performed in small space (maybe 50 or 60 spectators) by a group of young, adventurous singers, with just one or two pianos to accompany them. Quite an experience--everything for me rests in the final minutes of the last act, when the Countess accepts the Count's apology. It is a great moment and everyone should see that it is the pivotal moment in the opera. As it was sung on the radio, I imagined my production---felt very deeply involved.
    Two actor friends of mine were performing a production of Pinter's the Dumbwaiter by zoom, but that was not until 8. Had a lot of time to kill---anger--really very little to fill it with. Somehow I got to 8, saw the production and then did a little browsing on the computer. Towards the end, I came upon
a statement by a second cousin of mine about his father---an obstetrician who divorced his mom when he was a teenager, and then refused to acknowledge either the poster or his two brothers. 
This was the same man who was an affable host when my brother and i visited he and his wife (my true blood cousin) many years earlier. His very deeply felt
 memoir (for that it is what it was) prompted me to
post a reply---and got me in touch with many memories of the visit. It was a two week visit,
since the couple lived in LA and David and I came from NYC. For an hour, all I could do was
think about that time, and I hoped that my reply would bring forth in Rob (the poster) an offer
to share some further memories of the visit and of the family, and possibly a larger discussion about the current relationships of family members, but Rob simply "liked" my reply, as he did for many other replys, and, as far as I know, is not interested in exploring family dynamics further. Oh well, at least the post triggered a lot of memories and feelings, which filled up a lot of time for me.