Saturday, July 23, 2016


I read somewhere once that
the richer someone is, the
more they probably act like
an 18th century colonial. I
know what they meant,
whoever said it. It's all
summed up in the wacky
word 'privilege'. The
larger the lawn-spread
too, the fence, all that
gated crap, the more it's
all together like that.
Getting people all of a
sudden to not have
meaning  to you,
except to do your
bidding, all the while
you more and more
proclaim about your
own wide, unselfish
intent and positive value;
the expansiveness of 'good'
coming from you. I'll
believe that when I see
you change your own
oil. Something real
like that anyway. Not
just picking muffins.
Princeton just made me
want to be a bum or a loser
anyway, so it was all pretty
easy. There's no business
like NO business, so I was
set. And it wasn't just me;
the town was full of fakers.
You know, how many more
people would be out of work
or floundering with nothing
or little to do, if it wasn't
for the tech industry and all
that newer computer and
support and on-line stuff.
Ephemeral jobs to catch
ephemeral things. In order
to maintain that intellectual,
or mental level anyway  -  it's
not really 'intellectual'  -  there's
first a necessary clarity to life,
in the physical, acceptance-of
status-quo stuff that you need
to have first, in order to
acquiesce in all the junk of
tech stuff. I never had that.
And I was fine with that
(the not having  of it)  -
tracing myself back to an
older, far more traditional
lineage anyway of writers,
artists, and thinkers who
would have had no
connection with any
of that anyway. It's a
sticky situation with
this business anyhow in
a place like Princeton,
where you'd think the
high pedestals of thought
and tradition ruled. But
they really didn't. Most of
those kids  would have
rather pissed on Woodrow
Wilson than wanted to
know about him, or care,
 or see the scene of 'days
of old' as it were. That was
all gone. The place was a
mob scene not that much
different, in reality if not
essence, from Rider University,
or Rutgers  - two other places
for the common man up and
down the roads in either
direction. It's all been ruined,
and I blame technology now
for a lot of that. We've cut the
world in half  -  and let the
gentle, tradition and legacy
bound half, just off to drift
away while the highway for
phone and techno-idiocy
keeps getting new lanes
I was never far from destruction
myself, and I knew that. In fact,
I remained quite mindful of it in
all my actions. I kept flubbing
things up. None of it ever seemed
to bother me, I guess because at
heart I didn't really care -   it was
always the others, the invested
others with concerns in the game,
who took offense or tried to sort
things out. I was so internally
anarchic that I couldn't render
a judgment, about anything
rational I mean. My internal
radar was just that, and always
on. It often screwed up external
things for me, and often for
everyone else too. At work, I
was getting screwed over royally
by some weird sisterhood thing.
I couldn't be a part of it, and
wouldn't  -  nor could I say
I understood why this was
being done to me. I stayed
outside of it...until, just until.
There came a point I just
couldn't take it any longer,
snapped a bit, got corrected
and scolded, and they
continued on. Crisis after
little crisis came to a head;
people left. No one spoke.
Finally  -  and this is, mind you,
in the placated middle of a
broad university town, the
'other' party to all this conflict
blew up, said something
outrageous, was fired, sued
the company, made up one
employment story while we
all had to sign affidavits for
the real employment story, or
'other' version of it anyway,
in litigation terms. The settled
eventually, the other party got
money. We were left holding
the same bag of shit we opened
with. Hey, you live and learn.
These are not my conflicts. I
did, once, just once, get a
verbal apology from
management for the way
I'd been mistreated, and that
was that. And then I, over
time, just slowly worked
my way out. No matter. I
could have still been there,
but it was dead-meat,
check-mate, frozen-in-place,
nobody even talking to each
other stuff. But you know
what, I'd do it again and I
 still love them all - you
know why? Because it's a
university town, and that's
what you do in a university
because nothing is real anyway.
I had a university and coffee
shop friend, a Hungarian guy,
Itzhak Pelzar or something
like that. We'd talk, sometimes,
in the early mornings, at length
about things. He was extremely
religious about his coffee. Seriously.
White, frazzly hair, a white beard,
sort of chubby, he'd order his
double espresso each morning, in
a small cup. He'd take it over to
the water, get a small, paper cup
of water, stare serenely and quite
meditatively out, totally still, in
thought (as I said, it was all very
religious, and I'd love watching it,
unerringly, each day's ritual was
the same). He'd slowly swish the
espresso cup and then take a sip,
drink it in, slow, eyes again closed,
moments passing  -  then he'd take
some water, I imagine to clear the
palate, and do it again, four or
five times, until all was done. And
that was it. We never, ever made
mention back and forth about this,
it was never referred to and he
never told me anything of what
was up. If he had Hungarian
Espresso Religion Syndrome,
or something, I never knew
about it. In the university scheme
of things he was big time, a dept.
head in Chemistry or the like.
Whether theoretical or real, I
never found out  -  it involved
many things, microbiology,
genetics, mathematics. One
Summer he had a staff for the
entire time, involved in some
long experiment that demanded
daily and nearly constant 
attention, to something. I was 
invited over to 'take a look' but  
-  you know, I never went. 
Amazingly, now, looking back.
One time he started going at 
me over an internal argument 
he and his people were having, 
or an argument then current 
in the theoretical-mathematics 
field, over whether 4 plus 5 
are the same, or yield the 
same results, as 5 plus 4.
Can you imagine! I had a
hard time with that  -  not 
because of the argument itself,
but more because I wanted it
for myself  - it seemed the 
perfect sort of crazy-assed 
stuff I'd go about proposing.
That crazy engine of self.


A commentor, or something said...

Or something, or something. This is a poem or something?

gary j. introne said...

oh stop your sniveling over form and category. It's whatever I want it to be, or something more, or something less. If you don't like the content, that's a different tale to weave.