8338. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #96

96. GRACE

There's a church at the corner,

whole block actually, of

Broadway and 10th, Grace

Church; it's quite a sight, lots

of lyrical beauty, spires and

the rest. It was right there,

almost across the street, that

the poet Frank O'Hara lived.

He was writing furiously at the

time, quite nicely, and holding

down, as well, a big-ticket job

with the Museum of Modern

Art, on 53rd. No matter. That

church itself was always a

strange portal to me, to

another place. I don't mean

the 'church' aspect of it  -  the

religiosity of it was not my

concern. Rather, I mean the

physical location. A place of

human hallucinations, actually.

There was corner, a fenced

corner there, with a big, iron

fence and, at the corner, a

gargoyle-faced water fountain

spout  -  not a spray or a fountain,

just a water source, like for the

thirsty walker, or, if the head

went down into the trough, for

a thirsty horse to drink from.

It's still there, different now,

and unused. But in my day

there, I knew I had seen it in

a Charlie Chaplin film -  and

I was certainly no form of film

buff; I just knew, or felt, that

I'd somehow seen it, or, heck,

even more than that, been there

when it was filmed, when Chaplin

(I read about it later) set the shot,

set up the heroine, and the street

urchin upon whom she takes pity,

and the horse and wagon. Threw the

hay and gravel down into the

street for realism's sake, himself.

It was crazy, and in my time it

transgressed all the bounds

of physics. But I simply knew

it was all still there. In my own

active presence, it was a sort of

second life I experienced, the

placement of, say, dream-wish

with a reality-bleed. Anyway,

as it was, that became the sort

of ghost life I was living. It was

as  if I'd found the physical world

to be but a thin membrane, one

that I could get through, a thin

layer at a time, to bring myself

to where I sought to be. Each

layer, having a thickness (or

thinness) of its own, granting

me the needed allowances to

experience, walk through, and,

thus, influence them. This

was real, as real as anything.

I was a young kid, trying to

be an artist, whether that be

art, or writing,  or whatever.

Something was sending me

messages,  messages with

which to alter the fabric of

my time, and I was determined

to abide by them, and take

heed. That was where I was

at, August, 1967, and you

can scoff or call me crazy,

but that was my boat and 

that boat was afloat. If I

was crazy, it was while

cloaked in an invisible 

coat of such craziness 

which allowed me to get

away with it. Anyway, what

was I supposed to do? Walk

myself into the Northern 

Dispensary and tell them I 

was seeing things, hearing

 things, and time traveling

too, all at once, and then ask

for some aspirin? Or, maybe,

instead go back to one of those

Draft Board shrinks and begin

explaining to them what I 

was going through  -  a sort 

of combat and shell-shock 

fatigue while not even having 

yet set foot in their Killing

Fields? Yeah, that would get

me a pension really quickly.

'Oh, just hearing things, and

seeing things,  and the whole 

world is talking to me  -  all 

of creation  -  now hurry up

cure me?' I don't think.

-

My own personal factors were

bedded down and beat up. Like

getting that message, again, 'In 

a sense, all things could be called

fragments.'  The world was not 

whole, and we never saw anything 

whole. Entireities didn't exist, 

and all we saw were parts and 

fragments. The bits and pieces 

we allowed, those which fit 

our structures and our mass 

assumptions, even though

none of it was true. And then

what got really weird to me 

(you've got to remember, my

 mind was still trying all this 

out, and my personal sleepover

camp had merely gone from

Tompkins Square Park, outdoors,

with the other belt-faced humans

who night-crawled and inhabited

all this with me, the creepies, the

crawlies, to another form of 

non-shelter two blocks off, this 

being called a tenement apartment,

or something with a roof anyway, 

but a roof that wasn't above me, 

because all that was above me,

remember was Buffalo Billy Joe

and his space-cadet most lovingly

attired personal Annie Oakley, 

whom I really did sometimes think

I'd like to have in my clutches for

a few Texas-type hours). And I

realized too, 'here I was, weaving

my own magical web and setting

forth upon it as I wove it, and it

was holding me, not ensnaring 

me, and allowing for expansion

and growth outward. What kind

of spider-web was this?'
-
Grace Church has its own long
history, and one I won't go into now.
Its architect, James Renwick, Jr., here
truly did a remarkable thing, designing
a monstrous Gothic and deeply-spired,
as much to say 'inspired' as well, edifice
which seems both mired in its own
Earthly reality and yet, rocket-ship like, 
poised and set to take off into a deeper
space where the gyres of time and space
overlap and touch the gods. I still pass
it often and, seeing workmen around,
taking their breaks and lunches on its
walls and frontings, oblivious as they are
to anything of the thin tissue of that 'world'
around them  -  the 'real' world, not their
crap world of phone-play, sports, movies
 and food  -  have to take a moment to
think of the betrayal of everyday 
Humankind to the power and fabric 
of  the interiors they inhabit. It's
certainly not fair sides, I know that;
and if anyone of them ever fell, with or
without me, through that portal there
at the fountain by their feet, they'd
surely know of what I speak.
Scratch the surface of anything,
any of our worldly 'fragments' and
there's another world entire, 
still going on.