8280. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #82

82. SUBURBAN SURVIVAL

I used to think that was

impossible, just as I used to

detest that my parents had

removed themselves from

any urban environment to a

way-out dump like Avenel :

a dead spot, a compound on

the outside line to faraway.

I didn't rightly know, as I

approached age 17, how and

even whether I'd be able to

survive there, and I finally

then decided I could not.

The one for-sure spike that

ran through my mind at all

times  -  two spikes, actually

-  were, in my backyard, the

the railroad line which, daily,

fifteen or more times at least,

went rolling on by to its

destination of New York

City; and, just down, or up,

the block, whatever, the

constancy of Route One,

headed north, to NYC again,

20-some miles at most : with

its unending stream of cars

and heads, trucks and streamers.

Everyone just heading north to

the bridges and tunnels. I was

already east, to the waters, so

there wasn't much more to be

done on that count. Even at 11

years old  -  forget 17  -  I knew

my steps, in that direction. In

those days too, you'd still see

people out hitchhiking; that

little road-weary cliché of people,

with their thumbs out, while

walking backwards. It wasn't

so much like today, where  - 

face it  -  life itself is suspect

and everyone's afraid of every

thing, and every one, else. It's

funny, how Reality has won

out over everything else, yet

people still live in their own

fantasy worlds  -  the fantasy

worlds of fact, proof, constancy.

Even the fantasy of the weather  

-  endlessly wrongly forecast,

played for advertising and

fashion purposes only,

keeping people hopefully

glued to their return-visit TV

seats, yet never correct. Just

blather. Hitchhikers always got

me thinking of running away,

doing the same as they were

doing: riding that stream.

At least they were 'living'

something with a flow, a

meaning, a traverse. From

one thing to another; like life

itself, or what it's supposed to

be anyway  -  movement,

progress, passage, learning,

growth. A form of mental

expansion instead of some

foul chromium dream people

throw away on their endless

quests for order and power

and speed  -  the rather banal

order of straight and square

lines, a life like a well-edged

yard. If everything's a symbol,

nothing is. But everything is.

If you're supposed to be

'worshiping' a God - why

that is, and what that word

even means, 'worship', in

place of just 'living', is

beyond me. 'God' demands

this? Anyway, if you must,

why would it be as if to a

'retired' God who no longer

moves the waters? And

don't try to tell me 'He still

does.' He does not. The

concept must be active,

forceful and vital; not old,

staid, and mute. Active
God is within.

-

So, I saw these trains and

highways, and they did finally

get me there. Churning with a

zeal both forceful and wild.

It used to be, from a bus window,

say, or a car or any other sort of

Turnpike exiting traffic at the

areas of the Lincoln Tunnel

exchanges onto Route 3, or

whatever all that is, that, in

traffic, stuck anyway, you'd

look out and see fields of

black-eyed Susans, the flower,

not girls. They'd be growing

in big clumps of themselves

along the edges of the fields,

in the little medians that

divided all the mixing-up

lanes of traffic, the cracks

and sidings. Sometimes

nearly a foot high: they were

very sweet to see, a pleasant

and inviolate flower that

made all the difference

in the environment right

there, made it somehow

tolerable. It put over, onto

everything, a novelistic,

somehow Russian feel,

to me  -  took me from,

anyway, the harsh,

everyday utilitarian

concept of the place

and time I was in. And,

sometimes maybe that's

all you need : the God-Mind

does the rest for you.

-

I don't know if anyone

here reading knows who

Lawrence Ferlinghetti is/was.

(He's about 95-plus (1919),

and will probably keel

over any day now, dead,

since I've made mention),

but I used to read his book,

'A Coney Island of the Mind',

endlessly, and even had

portions of it committed to

memory. The piece in there

entitled 'I Am Waiting', 

memorized and always at 

the ready, was engrained 

in my soul. There was a time,

about 1966, I'd just sit at the

dumb, little Avenel train

station (northbound side,

never the lame southbound

side) reading and reciting

it aloud. It became my own

gold-key urban book, my

entry tome into the very

idea of escape and detail,

the very idea of grasp and

observation, to New York

City itself, the one growing,

inside me. It all just 'spoke'.

Man, I so bad wanted o-u-t.

-

It's like that with Life, and

the mind  -  and that's the

powerful glory of living.

We 'enable' ourselves to

pick up on things and carry

them with us as symbols

of the world and the life

we live. We don't even

need to know the language

of what we're doing, it just

somehow attaches itself to

us, sometimes stupidly,

even romantically: that

Tiffany jewel, the necklace,

grandpa's old watch or pipe,

that piece of fabric on a girl's

blouse-front, the pearl buttons,

that cut of cloth or leather, the

ticking of that clock on the

mantle. It's all of great import,

and of great potential too,

and different for each of us.

Our own, private language

each. Art, it is, that pulls it

out for others to see or share

or read about, and only Art

and Creativity  -  not God or

Landscape or blind, stupid

Suburbia, can do it for us.

To attest to this mysterious

thing, we have museums.

All they ever do is prop up 

the dead and all the concepts

that go with the dead. I found 

that most of what ends up in

a museum, years later (when it

has a dollar value) during the

life of the artist, mostly, was

considered about as sacred as

cow-shit. People dislike artists.

Never know what to make 

of them, and make up stories

about them  -  remnants of the

quirks and foibles that make 

them so strange when alive.

Then, all of a sudden, when 

they're dead, and all their

leftover remnants start gaining

great value, everyone loves them

and recalls everything about them, 

lovingly. Oh man, it's all such

horseshit.

-

Besides Ferlinghetti, there was 

the artist Albert Pinkham Ryder, 

and even Charles Bukowski, whom 

I never really liked anyway, nor 

his work. He mostly lived in

Philadelphia, and during that time,

boozer and raconteur, crazy man

and gruff picker-upper of any babe

within sight, he'd hold court in a

bar (the building's barely still there,

but the bar's long gone. I go there 

just to piss on the wall. OK,

kidding), on Brown Street, where,

in order to pay for, and get money 

for, drinks, he'd volunteer to

go out back (little back-courtyard),

for money, and get the shit beat out

of him. He couldn't fight worth a

darn, but he could take a good 

pummeling, and it would pay for 

his night. 'Bukowski's Poundings,'

as it was later billed. Albert

Pinkham Ryder, in his day, in NY,

was known as a creep and a

night-crawler, who would haunt

the city by nights, endlessly 

walking, and get back for daylight 

to paint these dark, weird, morose 

and symbolic scenes of.....well,

of something. Worth twenty

bucks then, untouchable 

and few now. Oh Albert,

death becomes you.