8695. MY TRAVELOGUE

MY TRAVELOGUE

So many times I have been at home

when all the best things happen : the

birth of an angel, the song of a God.

I only see them as a glow on the horizon,

nothing certain or definite or sure. Like

three wise men, but a different three, I

sense the approach : hobbled old men, 

barely walking along, with a horse and

a donkey in tow. They, none of them,

understand the other's language; a real

mish-mash trio this. Trying to count

stars, but getting it wrong; bad numbers

and a super-nova to argue over. Later

it would be El Cid. Cervantes, and all

that. This time, it's just three fools each

pretending to be wise. I go along; I like

charades, the play of shadows on a wall, 

the seven-hour performance by Javanese 

puppets of the Mahabharata. A tale of

envy and creation and woe; that's my sort

of drama  -  melted crayons in the soup,

scratched lines on the surface of dead 

heads. The skull factory. The ossuary.

Where lepers once worshiped their

own fleshy God; He who never lost

parts; He who started time over; He

He  -  the one who never got anything

wrong. Isn't that what we play for?

Pray for? Imbibe and get drunk for?

A land wiser than the living that's

done there. A place for all things.

With all things in their place.

8694. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW #192

192. 'PALS IN THE JOINT'

There were a few siblings

at the seminary  -  3 or 4

years apart. The fellow I

mentioned yesterday, from

Plainfield, Joe Vouglas, and

his brother, 3 years younger,

Dennis. Then there were the

two Mosca kids  -  Paul and

maybe Jim, I forget. It must

have been, I always thought,

pretty funny to have two of

your kids in the joint  -  I

know that meant 'prisons',

from old movies, but who

cared. The households

these kids came from

must have thought, that,

maybe, having 'Lik-M-Aid'

for candy treats was really

wild stuff. This one younger

Mosca kid was a trip  - 'Pauley'

was the reference. There was,

once each year, in early Fall

(again pretty weird for a

schoolful of boys), a 'Talent

Show'. The usual stuff  - 

early guitar learners, a piano

or two, a small music group.

etc. No tap-dancing or ballet,

that I ever saw. This Pauley

guy  -  small, dark, Italian -

for two years in a row (then

he was gone) sang his most

emotive, almost horridly

sentimental and foppish

version of 'You'll Never

Walk Alone.' I mean to the

rafters. It was terrible, girlish,

weak-waisted. I don't know if

you know that song, or if it's

even meant to be religious or

what, but this kid played it for

all get-out. Blasting. A screaming

crescendo  - which is pretty

much all the song is anyway

a long crescendo. "When you

walk through a storm, hold

your head up high, and don't be

afraid of the dark. At the end

of the storm is a golden sky,

and the sweet, happy song

of the lark. Hold on, hold on,

with faith in your heart,

'cause you'll never walk

alone. You'll  N-E-V-E-R

walk alone!!!!" Use your

imagination anyway then;

this little punk Guido, 5'4",

dressed like a saint, blasting

out this stupid, trite song. I

always hoped the damn

lark would just poop on

him and fly off.

-

Anyway, this talent show

was pretty tired stuff. Early

on, each school season.

Personally, I used to think

it was a way for the priests

and brothers to get a good

look at the 'new talent' they'd

be dealing with that year.

Kind of a 'scan' of the most

active birds in the nest. I

used to just sit there, bored

as all get out. I played

the piano, OK, well enough,

pretty decently, but damned

if I was nervy enough to

get up there and show it

off. Eventually I did become

the 'page turner' for some

piano recitalist guy there -

John Banko, a senior then. I'd

sit next to him on the stupid

piano bench while was playing

Brahms or Rachmaninoff or

whatever, and I'd have to

read the music along with

him and turn the music

page for him so there was

no let-up. It too was boring.

John later died in prison,

sentenced in 2002, and

doing at least 18 years, in 

one of those priests-in-jail-

after-molesting- boys court

judgments. Yikes again. He

was from Milford, which is

North Jersey, some church

or other where he was Pastor,

but he died, oddly enough, in

the sex-offender's prison unit

at Rahway, about 1/2 mile from

my house now. Very weird.
This happened in three or so cases,
actually of priest-people I may have
known or crossed paths with.
It was always too bad, in fact,
horrid, and I won't say much
more about that. Creatures that
we are, we all live strangely.

-

Now, I need to take a minute 

here to say something, or 

maybe also to use this point 

to end all this seminary stuff.

I hold those years dear, I am

not bitter or vindictive over

any of this  -  and I just write

of it here because it comes 

through and I want to put it 

down. It's my story, and not

too many others would have it

to tell even if they did try to.

Really, I don't care two whits 

about any of it, and really didn't

then. It was all silliness, like

going to clown school. Fun at

the waffle stand, if you only

knew how to withstand it. 

There was very little to do 

with 'religion' and so many

other things were entwined 

and woven into it. So, as I

mention things, it's kind of 

with the detachment of 

distance and the distance

of writing. This is true. I'm

speaking real. Funniest thing

in the world  -  the last time 

I was there for a visit (the old

original buildings, ours, I had

been advised, were about to be

torn down). The place had become 

Camden County College now, 

and was modernizing and 

expanding. We walked in an

open door, for the theater and

auditorium. In the lobby, a

malfunctioning pretzel machine

ate my wife's dollar bill. She 

began pounding on the side 

of the machine. Someone 

called the cops. Security came.

Took us in, questioning us,

separately. Made us identify 

the vehicle we'd arrived in  -  

and then went out and checked 

for verification of what we'd 

just said said! Copied our

licenses, and said if we were

ever found on 'campus' again,

we'd be arrested. Believe that

shit? I said we were only there

because "I'd grown up here when

it was a seminary and wished to

see the old buildings before they

were gone." He chuckled, the

stupid rent-a-cop campus jerk,

and said 'It'll be a few months 

yet; don't come back.'

-
That all sure was strange 
scene, exactly as if I'd landed 
from another world, to this 
horrible, secular, world of 
warts and wrinkles and rules 
and regulations, and the people 
who do absolutely nothing
about life except follow them.
These were still, to me, all my
buildings  -  especially for that 
one with the cheating vending 
machines. For us to be so 
unceremoniously  tossed and
 turned out was a painful scene.
-
So, I'll leave it there (oh, 

you know I won't, right?).  

What it did prepare me for 

were the next two major 

hurdles in my life : the 

duplicity and stupidity

of local 'Government' 

schooling - high school, 

and then, in a bit, NYC 

itself. New York City is

a double ended battleship. 

At one end you have the

most avant-garde, supposedly

forward-looking and brash

phalanx of art and music 

and literature and thought.

While at the other end is the

most servile, old-line, and

all that old-world religious 

slavishness; leftover creeds 

and practices, and all that 

swirling cross-current

of ancient beliefs and 

manners. Pretty weird. 

I've often gotten by in 

life because of a knowledge

gleaned from knowing it 

and having seen it, from 

both sides. That's how it 

it was when I got 

out of 'the joint'.

8693. MY LITTLE HAMLET

MY LITTLE HAMLET

Yes, my hamlet is Hankerberry Grove,

small town on the Eustace-Mare River.

Some king long back tried taking exile

here, but he sunk into the ground; the

area of swamp on the east end is deadly.

The shacks which once were there, from

the late 1800's have been preserved now

in plasticene, and tours are given for those

who are keen  -  or may be  -  on seeing

such a preserve Little ladies with handbags

come in groups and chatter; postcards

are served cold, on a fantasy platter.

Oh well, I guess it's all good enough,

and I really do like it here.

8692. THIS HEMLINE IS THE DRESSMAKER'S NIGHTMARE

THIS HEMLINE IS THE 

DRESSMAKER'S NIGHTMARE

Just sitting here, and reading stories, that's

the way of this life now? My little train

set runs right out the backyard door.

With blue-jays and robins, I sit so

complacent. The blue-jays never

shut up, and the robins ceaselessly

run along the ground. I've given them

a new name : one for the bird-books

and guides. Presenting, 'the North

American Running Robin.' Things

really do sometimes run so out of

pattern. The touch, as ever, remains

with the flaming hand, the love

of all these things one sees.

8691. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #191

#191 PROBLEM CHILD

I was in the seminary library

one afternoon, early on maybe

'63, and I'd, I guess, walked 

out with mussed hair and no 

care either, from an earlier 

shower or something. One 

of the big, fancy guys, Joe

Vouglas, in fact, who was

from, I knew, Plainfield, 

NJ, the old Plainfield of 

class and money, not the

dump there today, he

motioned me over (a few

of then were sitting around

the newspaper and magazine

carousels), and he said to

me, 'Hey. you look like one 

of those 'Beatles'. I had no

clue what he was talking 

about. It took a little while, 

maybe even a day or two,

to find out what he meant. 

It's funny how that sticks 

in my mind  -  showing both 

really how cloistered we were 

(as cloistered as we allowed

ourselves to be, I guess. He,

obviously, wasn't  - so I just

disproved my case) and, 

more, how distinct and 

precise are the recognition

factors we live by. In a 

year or so the whole 

world would know 

what they were. Even 

me. It was unavoidable, 

and that's like the 

culture-wash that soon

was to swipe over 

everything. It would be 

more and more difficult, 

I saw, to remain aloof

and insulated from things 

you'd not wish to be 

mingled with. It was 

just soon to be the way 

things were. Cultural

imperialism, the banalities

of pop-culture and the 

advertising that went 

with it. It was all 

un-Christian; I knew.

I knew that already, 

and could see its effects.

Where did that leave me, 

I wondered? What chance

did 'Christianity' or the 

proclaiming of any set 

ethos of practice and 

belief have against this 

vulgar and rude onslaught? 

Why would I even bother. 

It baffled me how the 

oldest religion in effect 

that we know of, the

grand Judaic 'promised 

land and chosen people', 

with all their mumbling 

and scriptural dissertation 

and high-minded seeking 

and dedication, their cadres 

of yeshivas and Talmudic

dissertation, would be the 

ones to so actively and 

with little compunction 

towards right and 

goodness, 'always' be 

the ones to propagate 

the shuddering sleaze 

that was ruining everything. 

The crude and the gross 

and the vulgar, it was 

always and everywhere

under their name. I got 

no sense from any of 

this. Had I been on

a cold, high mountain 

somewhere, their fine,

disgusting exceptionalism

would reach me.  And 

they took pride in their 

destructive ways, as if 

their 'business' acumen 

and achievement was a 

high honor; as if the more

cheesy grandeur and wealth

they could amass from all 

this destructive work better

accredited them in God's

eyes. Their God's eyes 

anyway. The one they

now could not approach 

directly. As a 12-year old 

and up, I also could not 

understand the Christian 

premise, as presented  -  

based as it was on the 

jocular aside, always,

that 'Jesus was a Jew.' 

What did that mean? I 

thought he both fulfilled 

and then destroyed all

those silly old covenants,

those acres and layers of 

covenant and command. 

To me, it was undecipherable 

how all of this was just 

thrown onto me, without 

any expectation of my 

inspection or even objection.

I was just being told instead 

that 'Faith' had to do it for 

me, 'Faith' had to suffice. 

I didn't need to understand; 

God's ways and God's

doings were supposed

to be obscure. Maybe 

so; but no thanks. To

me that was the height

of indignation and affront;

treating me like chattel.

-

Some 20 years later, I 

worked closely with a 

printing client who ran 

an art studio dedicated

to Judaic sculpture, 

fund-raising wall 

memorials, in schools 

and hospitals, where 

5000 dollars buys you 

an inscribed leaf on a

fund-raising wall tree. 

All very business like 

and formal, with the

'Art' factor of it being 

far secondary. What the

clients wanted, sorry to

say, was vanity  -  the

glitz and name-recognition

that would get their name

shown. The Hollywood star

in the sidewalk treatment, as

it were. Whether 500 dollars 

or 50,000, they wanted that 

back for their money, the

rest be damned. Like gold

rings and gold necklaces,

like the vulgarity of their

big cars and fancy homes,

they became caricatures of

themselves, all around. To

my eyes, long ago, that's 

what religion had debased

itself to. To his eyes, the 

grand compromise was much

worse  -  he'd sacrificed a

lower east-side, NYC biblical

'scholar' career for that. We'd

talk endlessly over the minutia

of Chasidic and Talmudic

scholarship, the differences

between the sects, the various

Jewish cults  the ancient

infusions of this or that

doctrine which had influenced 

and infiltrated the Pentateuch

and the rest. It became the

wall of factors by which I 

reflected back on my 

almost-done deal. We

went over the destruction

of ALL the temples we'd 

once wished to live by.

-

Memory is an awfully

funny and unique thing. 

It's sourced by the oddest 

items : for Proust it was a 

cake, for others the tolling

of a river bell, a train, boat, 

or ship. Still others, the 

moan of a cow, the sound 

of a tractor. Any of a 

hundred different things

ringing memory  -  a small, 

a taste, the way something 

felt in the hands. Memory 

therefore is always old, 

brought in from behind 

us, while we ourselves

are always concerned 

with going forward, 

moving somehow to 

all of that which is 

'before' us,  ahead, in 

front. These things 

differ, and they 

constantly clash. Until 

we find our own ways 

to mesh them with the

world around us.

-

Somehow the very serious

play-game of organized ans

preached religion just stopped

speaking to me. I felt I needed

to be more than a 'functionary', 

one following order from 

somewhere else about matters 

of faith and spirit and heart 

and soul. That big, vast part

of me was gone, had lost its

mooring, was already running 

off. And I was just barely 14.

In the seminary, each of use

was given a 'Spiritual Advisor.'

He was supposed to be the one 

we turned to with doctrinal or 

personal questions about where

we were headed, what we were 

doing, hoped to do and the rest.

Mine was a pip-smoking creep

named Fr. Carlton Brick. Yes, 

you got it, Carlton Brick.

A propagandist, and one no

different from any of what you 

find today in any local government

or board of education seating.

Not an original thought, not 

even a blanche of creativity or 

reflection. Just doctrine, just 

rote, just the today. A command.  

-  streamline the means, get 

the 'doing' done, but never 

question it. Pave the roadway,

but never talk about the path

that once was there.

Boy, was I a problem child.

8690. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #190

#190 BIBLE STUFF

In thinking about things, I was

always floundering or at-sea  -

how much of anything of this

was real or even meaningful?

I just couldn't often grasp things

and all of the church thinking I

was being exposed to was of

old and crazy stuff. I found it

very difficult to integrate any

of that into the contemporary

forms of thought and action :

old wars, crucifixion, angry,

confusing things, endless lists

of names and begets and begats,

which thankfully at least the

Catholic Doctrinal push never

much concentrated on; though

I myself liked it enough to sit

around seminary library hours

to wile away time reading old

bible chapters and commentaries

and such as my way of passing

time. No questions, just a true

puzzlement. Basically I had

no questions because I swiftly

realized it bore little import  to

the 'me' of that moment. 

-

The world. As presented to us.

Pretty senseless, yet that was 

the context we were supposed 

to view everything in. Genesis?

It seemed without purpose. Why

was it even there? Completely

gratuitous. The other bible books,

after it, as boring as they got

too, at least had supposed ancient

and Semitic laws and commands

and stuff in them, even supposedly

proclaimed by God from some

mountain that resembled a 

factory. Or a spaceport. To 

'guide' people along, it was 

said. I questioned that too  -  

'guide' seemed way too soft a

word to put on matters that

were more like fiery commands,

do or die stuff. Little choice.

Instead it's a scatter-bucket of

old tales  -  the Garden, Adam

and Eve, the Nephilim, the

Serpent, temptation, Eden, 

fall. Jacob and his 12 bizarre

sons: ('Cryptic Halakhic' it

was called in 'Jubilees', written

in the second century  -  meaning

that "although it has no overt

laws, per se, its stories contain

'legal' teachings in hidden form."

Alluding here and there to

Divine Commandments and

practises instituted with Israel's

ancestors long before the great

revelation of biblical lore on

Mt. Sinai. Embodiments in 

'persons' of the laws that were 

to be given later at Mt. Sinai

and to the crowds below. Well,

I guess  -  but why? And who

needed all that? Why could 
not someone just say what 
they had to say and be done?
Why all this mystery and 
obfuscation? Couldn't God's

'Mankind' have somehow righted

itself and moved on, produced

cultures and civilizations; as

actually DID happen all other

places  - eventually  -  all over

the globe. This might seem like

nothing at all - however  -  many

years later, in Elmira, NY, the 

way I was receiving information,

I awoke with a start one night,

in the dead middle of the night,

with these words resounding in

my head; words which  referenced 

this very thought : "The Bible is

a book written for those still

in the hole." !! Amazing. It

really did, at that moment,

clarify a lot for me. These

small, indigenous people, a

mere tribe, with no knowledge 

at all of the rest of the globe,

had somehow taken it upon

themselves that they represented

everything for everybody. 

How absurd.

-

Jacob? From Day One a creep.

He cheats his brother, Esau, 

out of his rightful inheritance 

as the firstborn and then tricks

his poor, blind father into giving

him a paternal blessing intended

for Esau. Then he goes to his

uncle's house, (Laban), and by

questionable means ends up

with his flocks (prime source 

of wealth then). He sneaks

away for his homeland, Canaan.

All this while Laban's daughter,

Rachel, steals her father's sacred

images, then hides them in her 

saddlebags, and lies to him so 

as to prevent discovery.  Later,

we read of Jacob's children  -

one sleeping with his father's

concubine, and another having

sex with his own son's wife. 

When the only daughter ends 

up being raped, her brothers

respond by invading the

rapist's town and killing

every man in it, then also

plundering all the town's

flocks and possessions,

including wives and children.

Then they seize their own 

younger brother, strip off

his clothing, throw him into

a pit with the intention of

killing him, relent, and sell

him instead to a passing caravan.

Oh, really? Interesting group.

Real ground-breakers and

fore-tellers of all those so

wholesome commandments 

and dictates to come. 

-

I actually found very little

relevance, in any of this, to

myself, and that began the 

first divide I saw with what 

I would have been supposed 

to be representing. The 

fulfillment and satisfaction 

of all that 'word made flesh'

stuff and the beginning of

John's gospel much later.

This was an arc of continuity, 

perfected and completed

without fail, which ends up 

with the crumpled ruins of

objection dead on a cross,

in full view of humanity,

taken down and released 

once more to his family 

and group, who bury him 

and grieve for His death,

from which he arises after

some time, and then leaves 

again. Palpitating stuff.

-

I found myself questioning

what was going on  - it was

1963. I had difficulty finding

a relevant relationship for

1963, or 63BC, for that 

matter, with this material.

Its assumptions, and even

the way it was presented,

made little sense.  I was

living, and had been living,

a completely alien world  -

Flinstones and Jetsons and

Twilight Zones and Lone

Rangers and the rest. 
Physicists saying really weird 
things, time/warp continuums 
and the rest, which all made a
jumble out of any , ANY 
sequential  or logical format 
to this life. Chaise lounges

and ranch homes with

patios. Fast cars. Aluminum

siding, libraries, amusement

parks, camp-outings and

pop music. Nothing made 

sense and it seemed as 

though people's minds

had little room for any 

of this, any. The old OR 

the new : Talk about 'being
in the hole. I guess what I'm 

saying is that I'd come to 

a point where, in spite of 

thinking I did, I was at a 

point where I knew 

NOTHING about what

was going on, what 

I was facing, or where 

any of it had come from. 

No 'what', and certainly 

no 'why?'

-

Somehow this ancient age

was facing off, one-to one,

the ancient age long ago had

before us passed : tribalism,

a barren fierceness, violence.

Much of it, confusing as it

all was, was still and at the 

same time current and very

old together. What was I

to make of that? Within this

continuity we were meant

to find challenge, succor,

peace, and mission. I was

unable to do so. My interests

had been turned and had

gone elsewhere; sensitivities

flayed and barren and raw.

All that politeness and protocol

and right-ritual of all these

churches, none of it added 

up. I sensed I was far too

personal for any of that. I

wanted contact and touch,

wit everything and everyone. 

Slave to king, Hitler to Gandhi.

No matter. There I was.