Mark Levinson has thick, black eyebrows and big, beautiful hands which flutter with energy and something more.
And ruffle through invisible pages. And fret at imaginary strings. As he speaks.
And when he speaks, he takes deep pauses that seem to ask: "Which is the best word?" And "What do I really mean to say?" And "Is there a right way to convey this feeling, this thing?" And when he pauses, his body sways, as though he is under warm water — yes, it must be warm because he seems too comfortable for it to be anything else — as though he is being taken by the kindest waves. At times, he leans so far back — so far back, so far back, he lets himself go so far back — that I feel myself tensing up; I watch him closely, preparing to catch him.
I am afraid he might fall, but, of course, he doesn't fall.
Mark Levinson lives surrounded by wild tigers and strange women. They move quietly about the airy space, barefoot, hiding behind white curtains and under soft, warm light.
"First, let me invite you to take off your coats. Sit down. Be comfortable. Shoes, optional."
