8339. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #97

97. CHASM CLUB

Another thing I noticed was

how people kept going back

to the well, time after time,

even after they knew the pail

had no bottom and wouldn't

hold water. It wouldn't matter,

and there was never that level

of introspection in them to be

considering any of all this. Even

with their apparent strict belief

in logic and sequence, it all

passed them by   -  the fact that

their packaged beliefs were all

untrue. I had to make sense of

that, on my own, in order to

continue. Over on St. Mark's

Place, around Eastertime one

year, I witnessed two different

events when the cap was

figuratively blown from

the top of my head. There

were two separate Sundays,

at this little Polish parish,

across the street right there

from the Polish National Home,

a sort of apartment building,

and next a few doors over from

what later became The Electric

Circus, of hippie, Andy Warhol,

and Velvet Underground fame,

where they had, in the 'spirit'

of season, two events which

startled me. People flocked

to them. You know how T. S.

Eliot wrote that he 'did not

know that death had undone

so many' about all those people
walking the bridge over the
Thames -  well, that's how

I felt. I was simply not aware

there were so many old-world,

naively honest people around

who held to such tenets. There

was nothing modern about this.

One Sunday it was 'The Blessing

of the Animals'. I wasn't sure

what it meant, but it appeared

to mean pets. There was a

streetload of people, standing

steady, babbling away in

whatever Slavic tongue they 
spoke, each with something:

dogs, cats, birds, hamsters,

snakes, lizards, even globes

of fish. In their own religious

way, the idea was for procession

with the animals through and

in the innards of the church,

for an eventual blessing by a

priest. The very next Sunday,

the same thing occurred, but

with baskets of food  -  to be

representing bounty, not just

that particular basket. I guess

for people used to hardship,

it held a real meaning. I was

just baffled. There was such

a pervasive, back-time, old

feel to all of this. From it, I

sensed the reality of all these

people - suffering, hunched,

laden down with a million

things. The same strenuous,

rigors, dictates and strictures

which ruled their beliefs,

ruled, as well, their lives. To

be honest, to me they just all

looked as equal to dead. Why

bother to go back again and

again just to repeat the same

errors?

-

It began becoming apparent to

me that many aspects of New

York City were just as barren,

or worse, than what I'd left in

Avenel. At least in Avenel, all

besides my fighting against it,

they were letting 'modernity'

take them in, and move them

along. The incidentals were

new, and things were changing

as much of that 'old' was pushed

aside and left with Mom and Dad

in other places, like Bayonne and

Newark, and Irvington. All the

places they'd left. Not here however;

these people were ancient in their

ways, medieval in their beliefs,

and fixed and certain of it. Small,

squat old women still in their

babushkas and hats. Stern men

yet saddled within by something

still horrid. Faith in God the Supreme

and Fiery, who would, perhaps,

if asked right, deign to stoop down

and bless this pitiful food and

these horrid creatures, lest we

forget his power and his glory

and He smite us anew, in some

other way. Boy, was I stuck, and

seeing it. I could walk over to

McSorley's  -  where the average

age of the men sitting around

was about 114, give or take  -

and imbibe their sorrowful blues

along with them; mug after mug

of a fastidious, home-brewed

McSorley's Ale, which you

had to buy two at a time - until

some knock-out power came

along to strike you, and then

knocked you down - and try

to learn their ways by hearing

their stories  -  pretty much just

like the bums and hobos I'd sit

with at the piers, with their

barrel fires. But these guys here,

at least they had ten bucks or

so with them. Bills as folded

and wrinkled as they themselves

sometimes were. Anything 'new'

about New York City did NOT

happen down here; this was

ancient throwback land. All

those hotmouths always going

on about New York and the

wonder of the city, the glamour,

excitement, the adventure,

the new, well they meant

about 50 blocks uptown. That

was all where magazine and TV

New York was, the Batman Gotham

high-society bullshit, which the

average Joe couldn't touch with

a 500 mile pole. Truman Capote

and Norman Mailer and all those

bravado-faggot-creepfest types.

You'd never get near it, and any

Holly Golighty Audrey Hepburn

cockamamie horseshit would

never cut it here. Like I said,

these people were dead.

-

Thing was, I mingled with

everyone; which was kind of

cool. I could ride the subway

uptown, looking like a slouch,

some out of touch artist bum,

and get up to the Fuller Building,

at 57th and Lex., wherever it was

- 5 solid floors, back then, of

class A art galleries, get off the

elevator, and mingle like the rich

among all the art schmoozers. Or,

a few blocks away, at another

corner, some building above

Bergdorf Goodman's, as I recall,

right by the Plaza Hotel, and

do the same thing there. Layers

of rich people, day-wives with

jewels and binoculars, swishing

around looking at an Arp for the

living room, or a Picasso for the

dining chamber, all that crap. No

one here was hurting about

anything, 'cept maybe a leak

in the yacht. And they weren't

even the really, really rich. Those

people would have agents out,

buying for them, or scanning the

art-auction houses and placing

enter bids and threshold bids

from the catalogues or in-person

viewings. Yeah, like some

bizarre funeral home. I always

fantasized about some filthy-rich

person ambling about, looking

for a schmuck artist to subsidize,

take on as a patron, send 7 grand

a month to just to make and produce

art. Never happened, and not even

one of those rich babes out for the

day ever asked me to go home with

them for an 'afternoon tea', like

the sleazy storybooks had it,

happening all the day, everyday,

every afternoon at 2pm. 'Horny

rich housewife boffs new and

upcoming artist on speculation

of future merit as an artist.'

Talk about misplaced faith.

Too bad.

-

Years later, what astounded me

was how motorcycle guys, Bikers,

when I got involved with them, a

lot of them fell for the very bizarre

practice of a yearly 'Bike Blessing.'

Like those people with their kittens 

and ducks on old Polish St. Marks.

Pretty much the me thing as those

old food and pets people; a remnant

of some medieval, quaint custom 

from the Vatican hierarchy in Rome. 

Selling indulgences, anyone? I

wonder, did the Teutonic Knights

have Father Jimeny Althazar bless

yearly their horses? Strange world.

I was free, or free enough, yes, and

determined to stay that way. Plus,

sort of, you can't step backwards

too easily when you cut loose the 

rope bridge over which you've just

crossed the hellish chasm.