8148. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #51

51. FATES

Hidden codes, mystic numbers,

secret knowledge and sacred texts.

That was the kind of stuff that

used to get my attention. I often

wondered what the rural mailman

must have thought delivering certain

things to us  -  a coven of black-magic

pagans, initiates in some secret cult.

I was pretty sure there wasn't anyone

else around to whom he was delivering

weekly Village Voices and monthly

Artforum magazines. These were so

far out of kilter for this area. For

myself, I admit that for the longest

                                                    time is was difficult to shake all that

NYC stuff out of my system  -  in fact,

I just really didn't want to. This was

a way of keeping my feet wet. It went

along like that until, eventually, it all

fell apart. We were making constant

trips then to Ithaca, for that classy and

cosmopolitan Collegetown hilltop

with its bookstores, eateries and cafes.

It was like a different world, again,

anew, a seedy, rambling, 'other'

version, in  a way, of New York

City. It kept me alive. And then

to boot, we began a lot of driving

to  Binghamton, parking the car and

taking a weekend bus to NYC, for 75

bucks, round trip, and staying with

friends. Little cost. So, it was like

a split-life after a while  -  by the

late 70's, it was over. I could no

longer keep up the separation.

-

I'll probably get into a lot of that

dark and double-life stuff here

eventually, but for now I wish

to stay in Pennsylvania. The

stories are good enough to keep

me busy. The agent who first

showed me the house there was

a guy named Jim Jankowski. He

had a real estate office, in Bentley

Creek. I had contacted him by

mail, and received a Strout

Catalogue, which back then

was an amazing booklet of

land and home listings, by

state, nationwide. It was sort

of a collection-book for, and

Strout represented, last-ditch

homes, usually fairly seedy,

out of the way, run-down

conditions, and often with

strange stories that went

with them. You know how

real estate people usually are

all fake-fancy, trying to act

elite and representing 'only

the best,' and all that crap.

The agents who represented

for Strout were the equivalent

of Woolworth's workers,

apt to wear bad ties, shiny

and worn-out pants, and a

general all-around low

level representation. Again,

it was just low-level

Pennsylvania stuff, and

no one cared.  Jim gave me

an appointment, date and time,

and my father and I drove out

to check things out. Although

my father and Jim hit it off real

well right away, the first house

I had selected, the one for which

I'd come, was, upon my father's

seeing it, deemed, immediately,

not fit for sluggos, or bastards

either, and most certainly not for

a small, new family with a 6-month

old kid. I was bummed, and actually

couldn't believe how he'd stepped in

to stop my choice. Jim went along

with my father's wishes. In the end,

it didn't much matter and, as Jim

said, there were plenty more to

look at. At this point in time these

places, (1971) were essentially

broken-up old farms, with land

being parceled out and sold to

'farmers' who wanted the land

they'd always seen, owned by

someone else, near them  -  and

which land they now would buy

to add to their own acreage. Any

houses or anything else on the

property they make into a bundle

of 10 or 12 acres, as mine ended

up, and sell that off to anyone

wishing to live in it. That was,

anyway, what I eventually ended

up buying, for what was $17,900.

However, this first place I wanted,

was classic and, in my view, right.

-

If ever a place could embody sadness,

this was it. When I got there, really,

I found my soul to be immediately

at home  -  nothing I could explain,

nothing either of those two could

share. Like a bird, alit onto some

warm and fiery branch, yet one

that harms nothing while being

all-consuming, that's how this

place felt to me. But I had not

then the words to express it, or

forcibly push back. These two

didn't understand, and why should

they  -  here we were driving around

in a '68 Oldsmobile Vista-Cruiser,

representing the modern-day. The

two of them talked real-world stuff,

the day's crises and prices, people

and places and causes. Jim was

dressed like some cheap supermarket

manager, nothing real at all, just all

bad choices, and my father was just,

well, my father, itching to deal, bargain,

'talk turkey, horse-trade' over some

deal or another, raring at the bit. I

sought none of that. My head was

spinning. I'll only try to describe the

place  -  and the funny thing is, I've

been back a few times, to try and

find what I lost then, and have never

been able to do so, and hardly can

even recollect where exactly this was.

-

It was in a dark woods, with a

winding-down road that could

hardly be called that  -  two tracks

for tires, perhaps, gave the idea,

but that wouldn't work except for

Summer. Mud or snow would take

up the rest of the year. The stones

and the rocks were wet, mossy,

and there was a heavy moisture

everywhere. First, you'd go

through a grove of black locust

trees; it was beautiful. Then, at

a clearing, was the home, with

large, white, cut stones all

around, of a local stonemason

and gravestone carver. He etched

by hand, hammer and chisel stuff.

No marble, too hard I guessed, he

only worked on white gravestone

stuff, whatever it is, the kind you

see on older graves. Borders and

designs, weeping trees, angels, and

the lettering and dates, of course.

He lived alone, was tall, and silent.

Then, after his place (which by the

way had a 4-wheel drive 'Dodge

Power Wagon, with a winch on

the rear, which he used to haul

stones in and out), there be a

bit more denseness, and then,

in a small, rocky clearing, the

place I sought  -  a glorifed shed,

maybe. Five rooms, a bathroom

and a flat porch area, and around

the rear another entrance and

some form of half-room/half

shelter, area. You have to also

picture that all of this, the

stonemason's place as well,

had behind it about 20 feet of

yard and then a sheer facade of

drippy rock  -  ancient layers of

solid-rock Earth, the stuff of the

planet itself. I don't know how

much daylight the place got, since

that rock wall probably sheltered

it totally at varied times of year.

Nor am I sure that the 'heating'

system presented to me here was

actually adequate for anything

worth a minute, let alone five

solid months of cold a year. I

admit the place was rough, but

it had charm. I was ready to

lunge at this place  -  pretty

much without thinking. It

was all romantic impulse

at this point, to just get

away, tunnel in, and hide.

-

So, whatever, I let them talk me

down, and we looked at five

or six other places  -  larger each,

and sunnier, and safer and drier

too. The prices were all about

the same  -  20 grand was a big

number. I had enough to get

going  -  a down payment

anyway (money from when

I got hit by that train, 13 or so

years previous). The rest came,

as I mentioned, through the local

Troy Bank and Jim's references

and connections. It was all insider

stuff and, as he said, every once

in a while they liked to take

interesting chances. A real

nice bunch of civic-minded

dudes. Once we found the

place I'd settled on, and which

anyway was the only place my

father really liked, we processed

some paperwork, and the deal

was set going.

-

I never looked back nor dwelt

on what had happened. It was

whatever it was, its own reality,

and I had a role anyway in the

protection of all this as a family

and as an individual, so I just set

to making the best of it all. There

was always a difference to me

between perception and reality

anyway, and I knew I was living

in another world and a realm

where little of this really mattered.

What I had to watch our for was

not getting ahead of myself and

bungling up the entire deal, the

situation, however it turned out,

was going to be one I'd have to

stay with and work through. If

you recall, just the other day I

wrote here about Destiny and

Fate. Destiny was the

pre-determined course of events

that was unalterable, and Fate was

a pre-determined course of events

that could be altered. That's all

from the ancient Sumerian language

and philosophy and religion:

NAM.TAR could be altered, 

literally the TAR meaning 'to

cut, break, disturb, change.' NAM

was unalterable, as Destiny, 

proclaimed and set into motion over

Mankind by Yahweh. So, I needed

to determine my own means of

attaining 'fate'. If it already was my

'Destiny' to end up somewhere, my

choice was in to accept or later.

This choice, this gravedigger's

ruthole, was, I thought, one way 

to have changed it. But it didn't 

work out. My Destiny was to be 

finely concentrated on the 

bright-light laser factor, but in

this manifestation, my Fate was

                                                       not to be in the moist, damp, dark. 

You'll notice that I talk big here,

like I actually understand, and 

understood then, the difference 

as I'd learned of it, between 

'Destiny' and 'Fate'. I never did 

get it, at all, and still, to this 

day, don't. I guess I'm just fated

to have a strange destiny, (or is it

destined to have a strange fate?)...