188. BLACKWOOD
I've always been of mixed
parentage, thrown between
poles, as it were. What was
I, ever, but some sort of
misfit outcast. Sometimes
it seemed like every little
thing troubled me, and at
other times I felt as if I
could walk unaided
through some, any,
unknown jungle thicket
of feast and famine
together. The big 'Art'
problem in my head
too, about writing and
art, was always the
big split between the
two distant poles : Ezra
Pound proclaiming 'make
it new!', his famous boast
about what artists should
do; while on the other hand
I faced that more sour
land-boast of T. S. Eliot as
outlined in his 'Tradition
and Individual Talent'
lectures - that everything
must have a referential
antecedent, the past must
be learned and respected,
that all 'new' work must in
some way refer back to its
lineage on the 'scroll' of
all the world's previous
work. That emoting and
personalizing, that the
self-psychic scream, were
all wrong. That was tough
stuff and a huge gulf to
gap. All my own life, I
cried for help. Nay,
screamed for it, if only
it could have been (be)
detected. All that doctored
up self-confidence stuff
was just a bad jig.
-
It was like walking
down the middle of
a raging stream,
against the current,
where the center was
just too strong to fight
and one had to pick
one side or the other,
where the shallower
and slightly calmer
waters ran, walkable.
Yet, having to choose
made it difficult, plus
it belied what had
always been one of
those stupid and always
overdone catch-phrase
things you end up being
taught as you grow :
'Still waters run deep.'
Not exactly ever true.
The characteristics of
this personal plight for
me was that the deep
waters had a turmoil
enough to push me
back and weren't still
at all, while the side
waters, walkable and
shallow, also demanded
a side be taken.
-
I liked the long mornings
at the seminary farm. We'd
awaken early - I forget how,
maybe a bell or a caller -
and were expected to get
prepared, walk ourselves to
chapel, another morning
mass and all, and then bring
the entire group to the
Refectory for breakfast.
Some still just waking
up, a sort of sleepwalking
was often observed. For
12 year old boys, coffee
was plentiful, it was
everywhere at 6am in
metal coffee urns on
each table. No one
ever said a thing about
it, just dove in and
became coffee drinkers.
The cook and kitchen
staff were on board,
always at work; a swarthy
Spanish guy, about 40, was
in charge, and lived on the
ground in a pretty swanky,
red-tile roof 1920's style
cottage, Texan or Mexican
architecture. His cook staff
was mostly big, black ladies
and some helpers - I don't
know if they too lived there
or not, or just went back
home to somewhere in the
Pine Barrens nearby each day.
It was pretty strange. Most
of the food was southern
food - scrapple, chitlins,
oddball greens, flapjacks
and syrup, corn poppers,
varied pieces and formats
of fried chicken and parts.
Interesting - coffee, as I
said, and milk plentiful. If
one wanted to, you could
just keep on eating; no one
ever stopped you. Stuff was
brought to the tables and
then taken away, or you
could go get more at serving
windows, where some fat,
smiley lady was always
happy to throw some
more of something on
your plate. We ate on
trays, with the dishes
arranged. Had to have
rolled cloth napkins on
our laps. Then, after
eating, we'd have maybe
a half-hour of down-time
to do whatever we chose,
and then a day's classes
began, until noon - food
again - and the more
classes until like a five
o'clock church meet again,
and then the evening meal.
Another hour off maybe.
Then like 8-10, a study
hall double period, back
in the classrooms, for
'homework' and reading.
Silence, and monitored.
Then when trouble always
broke out - no one really
wanted to just sit around,
we were frazzled and
done by that time. There'd
always be someone, me
included, fooling around,
disorderly, talking or
something. Mostly you
could get away with it,
but sometimes culprits,
again me included, would
get caught, and chastised
and punished - the monks
and priests wore these
wide leather belts on their
cassocks, and from them
hung these really big
rosary beads things, to
their knees. They use
them like a whip, yes,
and just start swatting
you around. It was
definitely not cool, and
they were obviously
demented, but that's
how it went. I took a
few beatings myself,
as my friend Kirk
will attest.
-
So you learn to walk a
straight line - let me
phrase that better, because
the exception is important
as a life-lesson everywhere:
you learn to BE SEEN
walking a straight line. It
doesn't necessarily mean
that's the line you always
walk, and everyone knows
what I mean. You learn to
say that 'Heck, if I'm being
watched I'll do what they
want. No sense in being
seen to be out of order. I'm
not that stupid.' The name
is Fakery - a huddled
conspiracy. Everyone
learns to play it, which
is so why discipline
and regulations are
so dumb. All they
ever wind up doing
is enforce infractions
instead.
-
Those long mornings, at
11 years old, and then 12,
for me, are hard to imagine
now. What the hell was I
being put through, how
had I so arranged my
own affairs to come
to that point? Four
years previous to that
I'd been smacked around
by a train, awakened
months and months later
from a coma, had to re-live
and come to terms with all
this weird stuff about
coming back to life not
fully knowing what all
had just happened to me,
but knowing something
had, quite vivid and
conscious, while my
own body was simply
shut down. I had been
getting re-charged,
given words and
messages, lessons and
actions presented to me,
and an entire re-entry
into some other level
of life given. Had I said
a simple NO, or had
my greater oversoul
declined for me, I
imagine I would just
have become deceased.
End of story, Bye, me.
My greater Spirit's hand
had not been forced, no,
but the whatever it was
greater-spirit-within-me
had taken and made the
decision for me so that
all channels were open.
I was now a conduit. The
messages were coming
through and I had to get
to work. Poste-haste, as
they say. There could
be no reluctance, just
do. I knew, from that
day on, my work was
cut out for me, and that
Blackwood - right
where I was - was
to be the locus for
the start of all
this new life.
-
So which side of that
river had I really chosen?
Neither. It had all been
selected for me. And in
a fashion I later called:
'Ready, set, go!'
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