Status Update

This is a partial memoir in a blog.

a note to readers

Dear readers:

There are about 107 "chapters" in this memoir. In order to read the complete "book" you will need to open up "Older Posts" until you reach the epilogue.

I hope you enjoy this (ongoing and very unfinished) project and that at times you laugh at these "pieces" of my life.

All my best,
Marjorie

kiddie rides

I sat in the microforms reading room in the Genealology Division of the New York Public Library. My obsession was old Brooklyn telephone directories. I surrounded myself with hordes of microfilm and I was determined to put myself in touch with the past. The year under my analysis was 1952. I noted with childish glee that Barbra Streisand had indeed lived on Newkirk Avenue. I moved on to discover the exact location of the old Garfield Cafeteria, and then I verified the addresses of my deceased grandparents.
The woman sitting next to me did not hesitate to reveal that she was adopted as a child and she was looking through material that might help identify her birth mother. Another lady searched through a roll of film that contained a list of the surviving soldiers of the Civil War. She was tracing history in order to compile a family tree. A man, who looked like Fyvush Finkel, was somberly looking through the Census records of 1920. All the visitors to the library were turning the wheels of the microfilm machines in complete unison! Oh, the fellowship of spirit! I felt we should all stand, hold hands, and sing a song!
Memories of summers filled with kiddie rides came flooding back to me. I remembered the miniature boat rides, the little car rides, and the small pony rides near the boardwalk. When I left the library, I longed with desperation to return to Brooklyn.
I wanted to walk down Flatbush Avenue in 1948, to go to old Steeplechase, to have lunch at the Famous on 86th Street... and most of all I wished I could visit my long deceased grandparents. But instead, I exited the library and found myself drenched in bright hot sunlight and walking down a long staircase covered in pigeon droppings. I limped down Fifth Avenue because my heel spur was killing me and all the way home I disgustedly dodged the rushed Manhattan congestion.
I entered my apartment and immediately took a short nap. When I awakened, I did not know if it was evening or morning. It was still light at dusk, and I got into my car. I drove south on the West Side Highway and the pink sun soon sizzled and set to my right over the Hudson River. I was numb, and I headed for Coney Island. By 9:00 PM, I realized that the cure for my nostalgia will always be the smell of sea air, the sight of the Parachute Jump in the distance, and... Nathan's.



KIDDIE RIDES

I awakened and longed with desperation
To return to Brooklyn.
I wanted to ride until dawn on a creaky
Ferris wheel left behind by a carnival and
To visit the still standing luminous
Chartreuse home of my grandmother.
Memories behind stained glass windows
Beckoned like some naked amnesiac
Who struggles to reach home.

In the air, I could still smell the fullbodied scent
Of burnt potato pancakes that wafted through that
House and I often glimpsed the ghosts of ancestors
Lurking and sucking juice from the backyard peach tree.
I longed with desperation to return to old Brooklyn.

At 6 P.M. I slipped into my car
And drove south through Manhattan streets.
Streets at night eternally bathed
In disconsolate orange moonlight...
Trapped in an endless maze of mirrors.
The pink sun soon sizzled on the Hudson River
And set, to my right, in bright blazing Technicolor.
In the distance, one kittiwake
Seemed to have found the way.

I headed for the elixir of the spinning
Teacups: the kiddie rides at intoxicating
Coney Island...in, the most haunted and
Haunting of places: Brooklyn.

© 2004 Marjorie Levine, in "Naked Amnesiac"

"What Way To Go Today"

This poem won the Beat Poetry Contest on December 3, 2009.

WHAT WAY TO GO TODAY

Almost dusk:
Last summer on one Wednesday, in July,
I sat on a bench, a grey wooden tired
Bench on a boardwalk out at old Long Beach.
In the sky a lonely and lost grey kittiwake tipped
As the hot pink sun set in blazing technicolor over
Hot pinkish sand and the fading blue ocean water.

That morning:
I had thought about seeing great art...
Vermeer, or Courbet, or maybe Monet.
But, I drove to the beach instead to think
To think about everything creative that had been
Created before I got here, and when I was here,
And what will be created when I leave this place.
When one day I leave my place and all places in my
Consciousness that is now in this time and was
At a past time and will be in some next time;
Maybe all time exists at the same time.
The great minds of theoretical physicists search
For the "Theory of Everything" as they sit
In their cluttered rooms, their great thinking rooms.
In universities, they ponder the mathematical equations
And Schrodinger's cat and all those mysteries.

In the evening:
It is during the quiet and still and sad night when
I miss most the people I never met:
Edie Beale, and the Rat Pack, and even Rod Serling
Who made me want to time travel: to go back to simpler places
Like Nedick's, or the Belmore, or Bickford's, and Willoughby.
Then the longing, a longing when distant sounds and faraway
Foghorns drive thoughts to reflect on a life visible through some
Smoky cracked mirror, a haunted and haunting steamy mirror.
As I am sort of old now and getting older
There is a vague and odd feeling that I,
Like the kittiwake, somehow must have lost the way.

© 2009 Marjorie J. Levine

sweating madness

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

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

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

© 2004 Marjorie Levine, in "Naked Amnesiac"
® WGAE

spinsters and ghosts

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

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

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

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

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

© 2004 Marjorie Levine, in "Naked Amnesiac"
® WGAE

Aunt Ruth, RIP

June 1909 - January 2010

prologue

DAWN ON SEVENTH AVENUE

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

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

© 2004 Marjorie Levine, in "Naked Amnesiac"

the cover

In the beginning, my parents kept putting me in dangerous situations!

the dedication: a private joke

I dedicate this book in a blog to "Mr. Morgan" who always reminded me in song: "My name is Mr. Morgan but it ain't JP, there's no bank on Wall Street that belongs to me."

foreward: a manhattan ghost town

Is this a ghost town? No, it was Manhattan... Manhattan in 1977: quiet and empty. Alas, there is no longer any "Willoughby" among these mean streets.

In the fall of 2007, I was looking through my collection of photos and I was becoming nostalgic. I knew I had to arrange to save these photos and many others. I contacted the documentary filmmaker Alan Berliner to discuss what I considered a dilemma and I was inspired after a visit to his studio. Shortly thereafter, I decided to write a memoir... a memoir that would eventually include photos and memorabilia that is both bizarre and hilarious.

So here it is: "marjorie-pentimenti, some pieces of a life documented."

jacket flap

I was an elementary school teacher in Manhattan for thirty-four years and now I am retired. I am a stand-up comic at NYC comedy clubs and I won a contest in 1991 (to find the funniest teacher) at Stand-up NY comedy club.

I had a telling experience during the school lunch hour when I was seven years old and in the second grade. I was in the playground and I climbed to the top of the slide. As I was ready to fly down, I was unaware that both sides of the bottom of my dress caught on two sort of rusty hooks. I started the downward soar and the dress was pulled back over my torso, over my shoulders, over my arms that stretched behind me, and I took the dive. I landed to the ground half naked and my dress flapped in the breeze at the top of the slide high above me. It was a defenseless landing. But, that was not what caused me concern as all the kids laughed. I ran to the school nurse and demanded a tetanus shot.

The above photo was taken at The Water Club at my birthday celebration when I turned 60 years old. Please enjoy reading this memoir in a blog, and then tie a nice bow around the entries. Now lookout street, here I come!

philosophy from the crib

I think I got it! The clue is in the "tachyons!" I believe in reincarnation, and superstring theory in quantum physics hints that it is possible to "time travel." When we "shuffle off this mortal coil" the consciousness is no longer confined by matter or gravity. The "tachyons" of the mind tunnel FTL through wormholes, at black holes, to one of an infinite set of parallel universes where we can be born again forward or backward in time. Such beauty exists in this simplicity. It is our consciousness after death that is the ultimate time traveler. We are all time travelers!
Oh, what a journey! I am left breathless by the infinite possibilities! Perhaps one glorious day I will ride with Jack Kerouac. Maybe one great night I will party with Marion Davies and William Hearst at San Simeon. I hope in a next life I remember not to book passage on the Titanic.
Can we begin to understand the strange cosmos? Stephen Hawking said: "to know the Theory of Everything is to truly read the mind of God." Albert Einstein said: "God does not play dice in the universe." Perhaps physicists are not hard-wired to ever find the mysterious and elusive missing piece of the puzzle. Maybe we are just like little goldfish... goldfish who will never ever even understand that 1 + 1 = 2. I have a strong intuitive feeling that I will be reincarnated into the future with somewhat of a writing ability. I will show my work to a close friend and she will remark, "You're good, but you are no Marjorie Levine."
We all have a death sentence. But wait! If we get the right tests and then the recommended procedures after the inevitable diagnosis, we can get a little stay of execution. It's about those little stays of execution along the way... the little stays that allow us to continue enjoying in small scale ways whatever this is.

from my 1991 poem, "Last Morning on Twenty-third":

As I hear the sound of the rain begin
to assault the old, tired, faded fire escape-
I start to pack.

meet me

Well, that was me. It was me, in the photobooth... in the photobooth, indeed. There I am, at a certain place in time. I awakened yesterday... surprised to be here in this place, instead of in another place. It was 5:30, and I dressed to go to work. Look at me! I had forgotten I am retired. That was mistake number one. Then, I collected myself and stopped dead in my tracks. It was not morning... it was evening and I had not just awakened after a night's sleep, I was up after a nap.
On any new day, I have to decide how to spend the day. Do I go left or do I go right? I have to decide where the day will take me. At the end of the day, no matter where I go... at some point I will be right back here. Right back here, indeed. The choices I made in one time and the turns I make in this time along the way make me a self-published soul. Had I one day perhaps turned left instead of right, all the pages that follow here would perhaps have been different. But since I didn't... it's all now set in stone. If I had not seen the documentary, "Wide Awake," and then sent an E-mail to Alan Berliner... all of this might have ended up in a Staten Island landfill because at places in time I made a decision not to partner-up or to have children. People used to scrawl on public bathroom walls, "I was here." Then the internet and Google came along and I get a sort of bittersweet and ironic last laugh. I created a blog, a blog indeed! I can tell the world, "I was here." And the photos and memories in this memoir are the pieces of my documentation to prove it.

meet the parents

Get a load of these two! I was raised by these two, and I am amazed I can function. If that Alec Baldwin tape with the message that he left his daughter is a barometer of bad parenting, these two should have gone to the electric chair. My mother made Deirdre Burroughs look like Carol Brady and my father made Dr. Finch look like Jim Anderson. 'Nuff said.

to the bellibone

When I was a teenager, I thought I was gorgeous. I had many photographs taken and submitted the pictures to modeling agencies. I created the name "Dorian Fay" and hoped I would snag a contract and appear on the pages of top fashion magazines. I was rejected all over the place. I was convinced the hacks at these agencies had detached retinas. I was not happy with having modeling agents, who were total strangers, evaluate my beauty and summarily reject my face. Honestly, I really did not need or even want their approval. I thought the whole process of sending portfolios and waiting for validation and getting loads of rejections was demeaning.

the drag queens and me

In about 1975, I was waiting for the elevator in the 5th floor hallway of my building and the door to apartment 5G opened. I watched as Barbra Streisand, Cher, Bette Midler, Shirley Bassey, and Diana Ross exited and walked towards me. They were laughing, calling each other "Mary," and having huge fun. We all got into the elevator and "Barbra" invited me to come to their "drag show" at a club located on Seventh Avenue and Bleeker Street. Well, I couldn't go that night because I had plans... but I was curious and intrigued.

The next day, a handsome and friendly guy named Frank knocked on my door. He invited me to visit David. "Who is David," I asked. "David Miller is the greatest drag queen in New York," he replied. "You are living across the hall from Barbra," he said.

So off I trotted down the hall to apartment 5G. When I entered, my mouth dropped open as I was immediately surrounded by the most expensive and ornate gowns I had ever seen. Frank was a very talented designer. The hundreds of fancy colorful gowns and costumes hung on racks all over the apartment. There were wigs, false eyelashes, and pancake makeup stacked on trays. There were black satin heels and jewelry and real and fake furs. Many gowns looked like clothes I had seen in recent films. One was an exact copy of the Bob Mackie bugle beaded gown worn by Barbra Streisand in "Funny Lady." It hung in a place of honor on a door. A few were copies of gowns Cher had worn on her TV show. There was even the Barbra "sailor suit" from "Funny Girl." It was like a drag museum in there.

And guests arrived all day. Bette, Shirley, and Cher visited almost daily. David's bell was constantly ringing. The stereo music was loud and inspiring. I was euphoric. I had never had so much fun in my life. Gay guys were out, drag queens were in. It was all drag 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I inhaled drag and left when they started doing poppers, which always smelled to me like dirty feet.

I began to take photos of all the good times in David's apartment. And they took photos of me. Freddie, David's other lover, took many untouched "glamour" shots that appear at this blog. I started going to all the drag shows. I went during the week to Les Mouches, The Ice Palace, and The Limelight. I always stayed at Les Mouches until 4 AM because that was when they rolled out the donut table. I was a chow hound even back then.

Of all the many who at times actually lived or stayed or loved or danced or laughed or sang or partied for a while in apartment 5G during 1975-1977, only a few are still alive. Frank, David's lover, went with me to the comedy club, Comix, last spring. Oh, and in the 30 years since those great and happy and fun years of my life, Frank has not aged. He is still hot and sexy. And he is still designing bugle beaded gowns... at his own showroom like a true "Garmento."

And Freddie, who was also David's lover at that time? He and I recently reconnected on Facebook. And he is now quite an accomplished photographer with a portfolio of beautiful photos.











There is a sadness I carry with me and a terrific longing for those wonderful days of silliness and laughs. When David moved away, I knew life for me in this building would change forever.

David Miller, RIP.

with pulchritude

David and his lover lived in an apartment right across the hall... and one day they gave me cheekbones and false eyelashes and big hair and they stuck me in maribou and fur. I had for many years felt like "Charlotte Vale," but David was able to give me the "full Ivana" and I never even had to go under "the knife."






(The above photo was hand=painted in watercolors by the photographer)

coming up: a family reunion

circa 1916?

This photo was taken almost 100 years ago... and I am unable to time travel to meet my ancestors. However, in a few months I will meet many descendants of Abraham and Goldie when we gather for a reunion to celebrate the Levine family, from Minsk, who stood so happy in front of this Brooklyn house on a seemingly warm summer day.

the bride and the groom

My parents were married on June 8, 1941... and soon after my father was in the army and stationed on the Aleutian Islands for the duration of World War II.