8434. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #124

124. FREEDOM

Well, when you find out different

things you realize distinctions

are between places : Content

versus form. Part of the life

is reaching a place or an

agreement with oneself over

this. You want House of Cupcakes,

or you want Small World Coffee?

Directly across the street from

Small World  -  speaking of which  -

there's a house that long, long ago

was lifted off its foundation and

raised up one story, so that a retail

operation  -  last I knew it was

a Mabel's Dress Shoppe sort of

place  -  could be put on the new

ground floor. There are those

historic Princeton photo books,

Americana Series and such, which

tell of this, with a photo or two.

Literally, they just lifted the

small colonial house up and

placed a new lower story

beneath it, so that  -  if you

really study the place  -  you

can grasp where the original

front doorway was and the

lower windows at street level

and all. It's a strange concept

to see in physical form, and

instantly it's somehow a very

understandable narrative of

place and time. I used to often

sit there, in early mornings,

on the outdoor bench at the

coffee shop, and watch it  -

the sun would be rising to

its east and the slow drag of

shadow and light would play

itself out along the side wall.

It was all in silence, the light

would move along, the creep

of the shade-line dissecting

various things, and the varying

intensities of the light, in the

same way, changeably illumining

other thing; but because it was

'east' there was never anything

direct happening  -  thus no glare

or window shine or that sort of

thing. You can learn a lot about

light and movement, place and

form, by such moments. It's all

about placement too  -  I could

have sat anywhere else, and

the entire apt scene would have

been played out in a completely

different way. The complexity

of the actual simplicity, as well,

was compounded each day by

the repetitive recognition of

the slight seasonal changes

which are always underway,

week by week as the days

accumulate and the story

changes. Probably 30,000

people over the years have

sat there and stared in much

the same fashion as I did, day

after day, but seen it differently,

and totally as part of another

narrative.

-

Content and form, content and

form. It seems you do have to

pick one or another to find your

point. In Art, (this has nothing

to do with Princeton, hallelujah!)

the Dadaists tried disseminating

a different notion of that idea by

fragmenting that difference,

shredding the space between them,

in that all of a sudden the 'content'

became the 'form'  -  exclamatory

words and declarative notions,

marks, found papers, debris,

notational items, each and all

went into the subversive notion of
'Art' as ridicule, statement,

declaration, irony or anarchic

breakdown. So, in its way, the
 'content' became the 'form'. In the 

same way, literature-wise, to keep it

simple, Holden Caulfield became

the voice of J. D. Salinger, even

though the 'persona' constructed

was not him at all  -  all that

sidling, adolescent language. It

became necessary, at some point,

for him (Salinger) then to have

to continue that, even though it

was NOT necessarily him  -  the 
snickering (I don't know, is it

snickering, or snide?) tone of voice,

the adjunct words, the breakaway

notions, the talking to oneself,

in a way, went right on, through

all the Glass Family episodes

 and the rest. It's a choice, one

made once, and kept. Unlike,

say, the story-choice of that

little house  -  which narrative

and voice was fiercely interrupted

at some point when the house,

it was decided, would be

transformed. Other people

would not know it, or know it

only through that newer 'voice',

that Mabel Dress Shoppe thing,

while, perhaps, others as myself

would still view it in the other

voice and terminology, which

required the rational alternate

of old, solid street living, doors

and the ground and the commerce

aspect be damned. 'Reality' is a

determinant factor, selected by

the viewer, or reader. You 'react'

to that which you select. Content,

or form. One covers for the other,

if you have the agenda.

-

There's also the very soft, personal

Nazism of control, underway at all

times. You do not seek to have the

voice of another speak up. Speak

out. In order to stop that, you

disallow the progress of the

narrative, seeking to claim it

back. Again, it's 'House of

Cupcakes' versus 'Small

World Coffee' stuff. You do

it right, it works; you press too

hard, it's a disaster. At Small World,

the hundred people I got to know

included everyone  -  the Boro

garbage worker who I'd see

nearly day after day, trudging

Witherspoon in all weathers,

seen and acknowledged, talked

to and notions exchanged. He

retires, then I see him still,

nearly each day, walking his

Labrador each morning along

Witherspoon and up along

Nassau. He kept the same

hours and the same habits.

Some days he'd sit, we'd talk,

I'd find out about him, and he

me; the wonderful woman I

got to know with her expensive

cars. Almost each day, over 7

years or so, she had three or four

different ones. E class Mercedes,  
some fancy Mini Cooper, 
Countryman, a Tesla. She was

great, would sit out front

there sometimes and we'd

talk. 'Yeah, I love my good

cars. I should have been

born a boy. This car's great.' She
was a wonderful woman, and I
always wished I'd had the guts to
tell her I was glad she wasn't born
a boy. Wet, morning hair, stunning
tops, a happy face, all good things.

Her enthusiasm for her moments

was infectious. Automotively

unstoppable. A cupcake, or a

coffee. Who knows? The house

on the ground, or raised in

the air? Who knows? For each

of them, to myself, the form?

Or the content? I never knew,

but I never nit-picked either,

just accepted. You make your

own storyboard, but you can't

stop others, either.

-

When I was in NYCity, back when,

there were two hotels, the Albert,

and the Marlton  - yes, I've made

mention of each before, and they

both have my story lines  -  but they

came to represent something more

than what they were, because of

the story lines attached, or even

manufactured, to fit the narrative

being sought. Everyone came

through them at some point, the

weirdos, the beatniks, the unsettled,

the hip, and the hippie too; or maybe

more just the hippie merchandisers;

the sorts who made the narrative,

and made money from it too.

Rocksters and schlocksters, both

the drug and the druggie together

in one individual, each. All those

on-the-go rock manager types,

making money, and fortunes, off

the careers and tales of the people

making the music. Goldstein, Klein,

Epstein  -  get the picture? The

journalist Al Aronowitz types. 

They'd all come waltzing through, 

like sponges to soak up the wet 

spread of the acts that were 

taking off while that tide was in.

What did they want? What were

they after? Form? Or content? 

Neither, or both? No, really they

were after money. It all came 

down to that. The real cultural 

determinant of our time, and

the individual ruination of

everything else it touches.

The ground floor, or the

elevated heights, what's it

going to be, and what are

you going to do with your

freedom? Sell it?