Tuesday, November 13, 2018

11,314. RUDIMENTS, pt. 501

RUDIMENTS, pt. 501
(heretofore blaming)
I guessed it was now, and
I guessed it was my own
problem, but it was tonight
that only again realized it.
I am not here.
-
Walking up Oak Street, it
was dark out, just turned so,
with small traces of the light
which had just been dissolving
away. Right up to Dartmouth;
uh-oh, nothing there. What
I was walking through was
not street or houses, cars and
drives. No. I was not there.
-
I was, instead, amidst the
silence of a vast feathering
of trees, fallen leaves, and
paths. All around me, the
wild woods raised up,
everything that had just
exhausted itself in a Summer
of growth  -  to this, deep
Fall, broken wonder, death.
As was obvious, I do not
live in the modern world :
my heart beats along the
wonder-path through the
past of all that was. We
have no cardboard of
homes and houses, my
heart and me. Neither.
We walk the dirt-track
lanes unfettered, and these
places have no names.
Now. Now, you may call
them what you will. The
dumb and diminished
names of towns and
streets so vapid and
foolish as to be taken
up by the ogres who
ply the open streets.
I am not there.
-
I don't know how this
ever occurred or arose
for my own being and
self, but here I was placed,
wordlessly misaligned.
I was out of time and
felt no mesh with what
I walked. It was 400 years
ago, and I could mutter
only of that : trails and
weeds and passages
through trees. Nothing
else warranted my
attention. I was but
a staid walker. By
contrast, runners
of the The Iroquois
Confederation, 300
years earlier, could
run the entire 240-mile
Iroquois trail in three
days  - which is how
news of events and
messages and schedules
were delivered; in a
constant running of
their fleet messengers
back and forth. Here,
in the fetid Jersey
swamps, of course,
nothing of that sort
was ever needed, yet,
I walked on with the 
fuller knowledge of the
locations and coastal
settlements and trade-posts.
I was not there. I had
left my body. It alone
was elsewhere. What
is called the past
today is my own
reality.
-
In many respects I am a
spiritualist, worshiping
spirits and places, trees
and waters. Nothing like
that exists anymore, unless
you'd like to worship statues
and ask for God's favors.
We have places for that
now, but even they are
controlled and kept locked.
You must be on time, and
only show up when appointed.
Walk, don't run. These white
men call them 'churches.'
-
To my back, is the moon;
a five-day sliver of new,
half lost in a milky ring
and a dark sky. I know that
once that was the beacon
men lived by  -  certainly
these natives and the locals
knew that. At the least; it
marked their time and
their schedules, plantings
and rotations, harvests and
gleanings. That moon throws
the light we live by, reflected,
yes, from day  -  the solar
beacon that controls what we
do. What we are.  There is
a hand-hold for Mankind
on this Earth, but  -  oddly
enough  -  it is not ON this
Earth, but above us.
-
Way down at the Missssippi
Delta, women eat the dirt.
Many things exist that we do
not understand, and behind
each lowly shadow is some
exalted reasoning for what we
are. I walk this path, alone;
I understand, however, the
light and the dark, the land
and the water. Everything
that is now neglected and
left forgotten  -  the fouled
waters, the dispatched land,
has been violated. Left to
die in its vanquished state,
while only a decrepit 
manhood proclaims still 
its value. Yet, these are
vile ground-creatures of
no value at all.
-
I think of those now on
this land and water  -  
north some, along the 
marshy stream of the tidal
salt waters, to Elizabethport; 
where shore-dwellers hug
the coves and make their
landed forays into higher
grounds. Slowly, slowly
they are cutting their way
upland, in, to reach their
newly settled places. 
Elizabeth. Morris. The fields:
West, and Plain, and Scotch.
Roselle. A different breed
of everything is here arriving.
South to me, the point of
land at Amboy too, with
its tall ships and white sails,
brings more and more the
tight and rigid people off
their strange-attired boats.
They walk in straight lines.
They are regiments before
they even reach the land.
-
It will be cold tonight.
I must stop now, and
light a fire here.


Monday, November 12, 2018

11,313. TUESDAY MORE

TUESDAY MORE
I found the cow skull in a pile 
of broken things  -  other stuff, 
man-made. Startled by the 
moment, staring back at me.
I sort of wanted to walk away,
to flee, even, from still another
reminder of death. Oh how that
does get tiresome. I was hoping
the cow took some joy with it,
out, and along its way. The 
current of chewing the cud,
some real idea of feeling good.
But, I wasn't sure cows even
understand that feel, because
it first would need a name,
and that takes words, and 
cows have none?



11,312. INTENTIONS BEING MOSTLY GOOD

INTENTIONS BEING 
MOSTLY GOOD
Nothing goes awry by chance  -  it's all
worked out before; and I wonder who
does Santa's hiring? The Dept. of Modified
Elves one more is has employment but
workers be warned that the hours are
long and the travel is a killer too.
-
When I awoke today the line between
the two parts of real and not was hazy
once again. I think I'm slowly fading
from any sensible life.  Maybe while
they're busy I'll take up with Santa's
wife? That's about the only trick I'd
ever get from that bastard's bag of 
tricks. Starlight, and all the rest,
be gone from me now. 

11,311. RUDIMENTS, pt. 500

RUDIMENTS, pt. 500
(the wrench and the ballerina)
Part of the problem with
everything, for me, has
always been that it's
everything. (Man, what
sort of writerly premise
is that and what a way
to start  -  part of the
problem is everything)?
In the same way they
say that an ape, in front
of a typewriter, typing
forever, could eventually
come up with Shakespeare,
(that's not what they say,
but I just said it), so the
idea is put forward that
life is, eventually, nothing
more than chance. An
endeavor, in the dark,
by the blind. What sort
of outlook is that? It
bears about as much
relationship to anything
as did Jack Kennedy
putting his name on the
cover of Profiles In
Courage  -  written for
him by Ted Sorenson.
That's chance. Sure
it is. I read that book
in the seminary  -  a
bunch of rubbish, the
kind of 1958 rubbish
that passed for a political
statement back then. Like
My Six Crises, by Richard
Nixon. All the same. The
political types today are
even worse because they
attempt non-fiction, but
about themselves and 4
inches thick too. And
who the heck cares
anyway about what
they  have for breakfast?
Everything's out of control
and faraway gone.
-
I read a lot of stuff, and I
write a lot too (that's a
confession), and it all
brings me back, each time,
to another fresh start. That's
a good thing  - I hate all
these bums who go around
sulking how they're written
out, have lost their muse,
can't get an idea, cannot
now finish a thing, get
distracted, lost it all, are
shot. Such drivel, from
the mouths of veterans,
you'll never hear. I've
always disliked the way
'professionals' repudiate
their pasts. Repudiation is,
otherwise, a great thing,
but these people, as pros,
fake it  -  the vapid rock
star, attempting to get new
buyers for his drivel, will
without a doubt assail his
old or previous work, and
say the new is much better,
he or she now writes from a
much better place, his past
was tainted, etc. Blah blah.
So too with authors, poets,
and the like. 'I am so much
better now, much advanced
from all that previous work.
You must see the new...'
Well, then, if I really MUST
see it, fork it over for free
and then you can tell me
how it is, in what ways,
better than that past you
so obligingly do away
with now. It's all some
sort of a creator's curse.
As if God, done with
Adam and Eve, and the
rest of humanity, and
then with Noah's bunch
too, thunders from on
high: 'See my NEW
products! So much
better!' How many
times is 'reset' pressed?
-
The true crumminess
of our community, the
source of its morbidity
and torpor, is an adherence
to the deforming systems
of belief and behavior.
It's that which keeps
Humankind in bondage
still. A fear of freedom
and excess and the body
is what has brought us
to this sick divide, where
we now cannot even
address the complexities
of experience for fear
of being pegged as the
enemy, the one at fault,
the transgressor. Yes,
even I repudiate, but
not my work. I repudiate
the modern world: the
squalor, servitude, and
paralysis of it. The new
and now profound
degeneracy of this era
must be addressed
directly, analysed
and explained, for it
is Death, already death.
That's probably the only
reason that should be
now for anything;
certainly for repudiation.
This mass death must
somehow be stopped.
-
Mostly, you can't believe
what people used to get
away with  -  passing off
their stuff  only as writing
and all. It's just as bad
now, and maybe worse,
but in the sense of being
kind I'll include myself
in this list of bad crap  - 
since I know someone
will eventually just be
doing it for me anyway.
I don't care; and, I really
don't, because the show
goes on whether or not
Judd McFarland likes it
or not. The really good
thing about it all is that at
least now all the barriers
have been broken. Most
of that old crud has been
jettisoned and a modern
day has been dawned.
(Passively sensed here).
If you don't believe me 
-  it's probably because
you don't WANT to
believe me  -  go read
Jude the Obscure, Lord
Jim, The Sun Also Rises,
and other titles too, in
the same mode of making
my point  -  all that stuff
is out the window now.
The world-view that a
person gets to have,
and live with, now is
so fragmented and
multi-dimensional
that all those old rules
and outlooks are at
least gone. Linearity
and plain old logic
have taken a hit. It's
as if, now, everyone is
madly drunk, and at a
drunken party too, and
the heavy drugs, as well,
are about to be dispensed.
Whew! Who knew?
-
Back in Avenel, I used
to be having troubles with
finding things to read. I
got by, but a lot of it was
really hit and miss, based
on school, until I got out
of there and into other
schools. Where things
mattered differently and
had different weights. The
sliding butcher scales of
Avenel were all skewed,
or some butcher finger
was on them somewhere,
adding weight to fluff.
Nothing good ever comes
of that; and once you
find that out you end
up really disliking
the butcher and never
going back. At the same
time, I've found, you
can't 'fight' conflict,
it has to be embraced
and worked with. It's
raw material, and there's
always a  balance  -  
of some sort, and 
somewhere. I am by
this reminded, 
symbolically, of a 
local scene around 
here, on what we call
St. George Avenue :
by the pizza place 
and  the ice cream 
place, there's an auto
battery shop  -  cars and
generators, alternators
and repairs  -   the tough
stuff. Guys scrounging
around for this or that.
And, upstairs, above it,
is a ballet studio. I often,
in passing it, see futzy
mothers and their 
ballerinas exiting or
entering the doorway
to get upstairs. The
most delicate balance 
there is, coexisting.
Like strange ships in
the doomed night, the
guys with wrenches let
pass the girls in their 
slippers and raiment,
as, all the while, the
normal traffic 
barrels past.



Sunday, November 11, 2018

11,310. RUDIMENTS, pt. 499

RUDIMENTS, pt. 499
(the flugelhorn for the dumb man)
A lot of things happened
along the way. Half of
them, I don't even know
what they were. One time,
right outside of that 1001
place, I had hopped in the
car, while visiting home one
Saturday, and went there
with my father. I never even
got out of the car, just said,
'Go ahead, you go in, I'll
wait.' It was very weird but
I'd been overtaken  -  this
may sound stupid  -  by the
song on the radio, (little 
tinny usual AM car-crap).
It was already late in the 
game, but Creedence
Clearwater Revival was
the band and 'Proud Mary'
was the song) and that tune
was enough to drag me
down, stop me dead, and
shut me up. It had, in 
reality, nothing to do with 
me, or NYC, was more 
tethered to the Delta and 
to the Mississippi, but the
drive of the music and the
'job in the city, working for
the man every night and day' 
stuff  -  at that  moment  -
was like an encyclopedic
summation of the 'anti' of
all I was about. I said to 
myself, listening, 'Whatever
am I doing here?' I again
realized, clear as silk on a
a carpet, that I was simply
out of place. I had nothing
in common with my father, 
nor any of those men on
their ways in or out of the
car place. I hardly knew,
right then, why even had I
been born among Men. No
longer cold I fathom what
they thought about. 
-
It was a crossroads, of sorts.
And never again was I able
to even listen to that song
without the treble-bells
of worldly distaste ringing
in my head. It's still like
that. If I was ever born 
with a script-in-hand, I 
know for sure that it
got lost or altered too
many times. Things
gone down through
the years to haunt, 
or to mesmerize me.
I was always getting
thrown or sidetracked.
Like this 'mesmerized'

thing; there was actually a

guy named Franz Mesmer,
who came up with the 
concept and they named 
it after him. He was a
scientist, and he came
up with this 'animal
magnetism' concept, 
about 1850. I didn't 
know much about 
science, nor even care 
to, but I knew right off
what this guy was up to,
or talking about. Energy
transference between 
animate and inanimate 
objects. Yes, as if the 
world was one large
transfer-bowl between
consciousness and reality,
which I already knew it
was. The result was our
own manifested world.
Underway, and always
changing. With no fixed
points. Today called, oddly
enough, 'Quantum Physics.'
How I'd arrived there, 50
years ago and without any
education, was beyond me.
It seemed to hit right home,
in the face of all the other
'life-is-a-boring-string-of
ordinary-events' stuff they
tried teaching us. I don't 
think - to put it bluntly - 
that any of my ostensible 
'teachers' had ever come
up against a kid like me
before. I wasn't game for
their parody of human 
events. And I could see 
right through them. What
it came down to was 
something they'd never 
even considered, and a 
something which would 
have shattered all their 
complacent, crap approaches 
to 'teaching' and all that. 
I had been dead, and had 
come back to life (that
train wreck, remember) -
no, dragged back, (it wasn't
quite my idea), returned 
from that version of 'dead' 
reading and seeing a 
completely new light and 
reference-compass. It, truly, 
truly, did not include them.
-
It truly, truly, did not include
a lot of things - family and
home 'included.' (Avenel, you
were my bad tattoo, my poorly
inked prison-version of a
shoulder-blot marked by
hand. I never did have it
removed, and it sure has 
faded some but it's always
there. (But like that Greg

guy from Avenel often says,
when he can get the Twinkie
out of his mouth, 'Blessed 
are the poor in spirit for 
they shall inherit the Earth'  -
(and they can HAVE it, I
always added)  -  and starting
with him, gagging on his
macadam in his pestilential
jerk-boy way, while learning,
finally to read and write his
Mesmerized shit. Transfixed
inducement.  Miasmic detail.
Robotic  mis-alignment. It's
all they deserve). Voices have 
always  spoken to me, guiding 
me, and projecting a version of 
me forward. I mean real voices,
not idiots. And I was always
a card-reader, and each 'card'

presented to me represented

another working mentality, 

another developed level of all

consciousness waiting for work.
-
Everything in life

anyway is a mere symbolic

push for the truer reality

represented. Like those

monthly unemployment

statistics put out by the
government, by which 
so much policy is made,
and then - after policy 
is implemented - get 
altered anyway. 'Revised
statistics for last month's
unemployment report', it's
called. So bogus and so
transparent - life is a 
floating, fluid, situation,
always being read, mis-read,
revised, and changed. I
already knew all that. It
was just that, all my life, 
there have been clowns
trying to instruct (for pay;
they're hired hands for
lying), so that my life is
a fixed and well-boxed 
scene. All the cards
presented to me had 
memory-levels of their 
own. Were symbolic. And
were given to me in a
sort of dream-time, a time
of halves in which I found
myself living, What was valid,
and was what not? I was 
never quite sure, just worked 
the card. But as if in a vast 
castle in a vaster kingdom, 
each was a door in a corridor, 
and each door brought me to 
more and other doors, each
one richer than the one before 
it. As I grew up, and out, in the 
same way, symbolically, as
in some aberrant Avenel,
grew into a small Shop-Rite,
still in town, then a larger
Shop-Rite, with improvements
and still on the same damned 
Avenel Street, now a place of
nothing at all, and then out
to the highway, a better and
larger stream of things and 
traffic passing by, constantly. 
The original location now
dead. The new, large place,
replete with shimmering
crowds, a parking lot filled
with things passing, abandoned 
cars and wrecked motors, yet
made 'valid' by all that too.
Expansion, of something.
-
I always had difficulty 
justifying myself, yes
but mainly because I
never really knew from 
where anything was coming. 
Or who I even was. No
one ever understood that
about me : not friends, not
bosses, not teachers, not
parents. I belonged to
no one. I wasn't even here.

Some people just always
have made me sick.
-
It's a piecemeal dichotomy
that we get to live. The sources 
of our dreams are lives, and  -
funny as it is  -  the sources 
of our lives are dreams. It's a
constant push/pull dichotomy,
and something you'd never
figure any asshole would 
understand. It just goes on
in its psychic web of growth,
spreading  -  goodness, balm,
or defamation. The difference
lies in knowing the difference.
It doesn't lie in advancing the
lie. Back in NYC, I ran like 
the dickens to get the foul
flame of a off-center source
of place like Woodbridge and
Avenel off the flames consuming
my coat. Art and creativity were
to be my masters; I'd enlisted
and re-up'd for sure and Amen!
-
Every 'ville' has its villain, and
here in Woodbridge, we've got
hundreds of them  - all as empty
in the shiny head as a ping-pong
ball is to air. Light, bouncy,
and stupid as all get-out. And
  -  oh  -  that Creedence stuff, it
was all fake. Those guys played at
bayou, but they were middle-class
dolts from San Franciso, just
playing at their own version
of the Delta snakecharm.
(Goes to show  -  don't believe
what you don't know.