Wednesday, May 18, 2016


You know, it's always all been
pretty amazing to me, this stuff.
The differences between places,
and the weird ways by which
I've managed to have myself 
all spliced up between them
over time. First it was birth,
no choice about that one, I
suppose  -  though I have read
secret spiritual documents about
how we 'select' the families we
wish to enter back into life
through, and with; there being
endless psychic connections
and channels between spirits
and souls, mates and partners
and spouses and parents and
siblings, everything. All put
together perfectly by our own
group Oversoul, by which we
experience the sought-for
expressions and conclusion
of this new-life's go-round
with all those other people
among us, and us among them.
A form of reciprocal satisfaction
which goes into and comes out
of the human entity. Part of the
reason the Eastern religions have
always professed it as (what we
stupidly term) 'ancestor worship.'
It's just more an awareness of
our own, psychic, larger team.
So, you can't really complain;
it's all yours, it reincarnates
around itself, and we all just
keep fine-tuning all these
supposed 'separations' of
selves until, in some future
Paradise, we're all One again.
God stuff, all through the
ages, in different guises.
The heart and soul of each 
of us doesn't necessarily need 
to know it, but the 'Spirit', the 
cosmic sense of Creator, the 
'God' within us, does. And 
has a full and working
relationship with the things
and people of our  lives. 
Which is why sometimes 
the Spirit jumps within us,
upon finding another; a 
recognition factor, and a 
completeness, sets in.
So, where was I? Where did
this put me? First I had all
that family and waterfront 
stuff in Bayonne. That 
initially set my Soul and 
Being into one outlook,
one sort of being, one 
working attitude. Then 
came 'Avenel.' Another 
adventure of the Spirit,
for sure - a novel and 
unexpectedly unique and 
new way of being. Then, 
for myself, I experienced,
my psyche experienced, 
my own call back in the 
guise of a train accident. 
Something was amiss, had
to be fine-tuned. A coma 
would do it. Then I awoke, 
a different me, with 
complete different
sensitivities. Then all 
the seminary crap; and 
then NYC, endless more 
turmoil. And then 
the Pennsylvania stuff 
I've been writing about 
now. That gets me through
the 70's anyway. Now, my
real point was this : as a kid,
one big-deal constant was 
the way a city kid or any 
good suburban-sized kid, 
could just walk around and 
see things. The aberrant 
and the abstract stuff which
goes into street-life and
all that. Little stores, the 
funny people on errands, 
garbage, alleys, junk, and
-  last of all  - candy stores, 
newsstands and all that. 
All these Pennsylvania
kids - I talked with plenty  
-  they knew absolutely 
nothing of that. They never 
had those moments, maybe 
of discovery or wonder,
or even bewilderment and 
doubt, about what they saw. 
Of course, you can go on 
all day about the 'good' 
things they had, by contrast,
and I guess it's defensible 
(though, too, I could 
probably refute a lot of 
that) : sunshine, clean air, 
fresh air, open space. 
That's just a bit of it. 
But they do not have 
those other incidentals 
I mentioned. The 
accidental selection of
walking into things, or 
of things walked into,
discovered, by accident. 
They just really never 
'went' anywhere. I think 
that can, and should, be
considered an omission. 
It's part of 'upbringing,' 
and because of it one gets 
many things. Insights
and curiosities without 
which, I'd figure, life 
gets pretty dull.
One example: In my own 
youth  - and this is far-back, 
settled, hazy memory. I 
remember going into a 
nearby candy store, during 
the grade school days when 
my school was across the 
street from a candy store, 
buying for 7 or 10 cents, a
box of candy, many times, 
named 'Tar Babies.' The 
name was strange, it always
stayed with me, and now
in retrospect, of course, I 
see it as all different. But 
back then no one said a 
thing. Nowadays one would
be pilloried for just the 
thought, but these were 
little, chocolate babies,
small figurines of black 
babies. The mind reels. I 
remember just thinking
of them as little black 
babies you'd eat. I don't 
know what black people
thought of them, because 
I didn't know any. This was 
about 1957, '58, remember 
 -  Little Rock, Selma, 
desegregation and all that. 
Things were about to start
happening and here we were 
eating Tar Babies. (I'm told 
now that they had some 
connection to B'rer Rabbit
stories, wherein an actual  
nigger-baby is left out on 
a log to bait someone
in, or something. I never 
knew any B'rer Rabbit). 
Now, I found Tar Babies 
quite by accident, and 
they still ring in my head  
-  maybe numb, and
seeking meaning, but 
ringing  nonetheless.
What did these 
Pennsylvania kids 
ever face; maybe, just 
maybe, jellybeans at Easter?
B'rer rabbit brings up another
funny point, that kind of 
disproves my own case, too, 
I guess. All my life, growing up
as a kid, I never had any
fairy tales, yarns, stories,
or no 'B'rer Rabbit' stuff
read to me, no exposure  - 
not a Grimm's Fairy Tale,
not an Aesop's Fable, until
I found all that stuff later, 
on my own. All I ever
got was Disney-shit, Jiminy
Cricket versions of crap. Maybe
these Pennsylvania kids had it
all over me after all  -  maybe
someone read tales and stories
and all that to them, each night,
every night, and they slept a
gentle sleep thereby. The 
sleep I never got to have.

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