THE HOLLYWOOD RAGE PAGE

When I pass beneath the Greyshot Arch, bound for shadows and sleep, I leave behind the song of the unsettled heart, and enter the stillness — stone and river,  deep. Even so, I will miss walking barefoot on the rolling tide of the Central Park meadow, like Jesus wandering the fringes of an Irish-green Galilee. I will miss my moseying — a derby-topped , cane twirling Chaplin — sailing past the silent cyclorama of East Side shops. I will miss being lifted from my feet by the scent of that temptress pizza, falling into the waiting parmesan-coated arms of Ray. I will miss greeting every dog I pass like a returning war hero — thanking them for their service with a formal salute. I will miss the currency exchange of a second-long smile with a passing looker who disappears into the crowd of swells like a film noir dame armed with a shimmy and a smirk. I will miss the stroll through the cornfield maze of The Strand, in search of meaning  that breathes in the belly of books But most of...

  I remember my little boy soak tub when bubbles would ricochet off tiles with pop and circumstance. I remember the sleepy time choir of late August crickets whose notes would take flight  and soar in formation in honor of  the death of the day. I remember the sound of my dad laughing at Sid and Imogen like someone was tickling his feet transmitted from  faraway living room island to the shores of my crib which for a one brief second erased his blackboard  and made him forget  the chalk of everyone he had lost and still ached for  just like I did whenever mommy said good night  and would disappear into holy foyer light perhaps forever. Despite the fact that my job then was the pursuit of happiness I was always acutely aware even at two of the hidden companionship of sadness which lived in the secret places of grown-ups who, at the end of each day, from behind the grieving hush of closed bedroom doors, would slip out of their work costumes and life...