Monday, October 24, 2016


Inside, the library was
timeless. As if it just did
not exist. No clocks, no
limits. Again, the nowadays
factor kills all that because
every minor computer or
link-up device runs a clock
or some sort along its screen
base. That kind of immediately
puts a collar around all things;
draws one back in from whatever
other port of call might have
beckoned. In 1967 there were
yet old men, usually in dark suits
and almost office-dressed, who'd
be milling around, often with a
paperbag, with a sandwich or
something in it. These were
'gents', with some learning, not
the usual paper-bag booze types
with their Thunderbird or Night
Train Express bottle in a bag.
Anyway, in a marble palace
such as this was, how lowdown
can one really be? A bad spirit
just wouldn't 'bring' one in there.
It wasn't the sort of place bums
needed. Not in 1967 anyway.
These guys would read, stare
about, sit still, bother no one.
I guessed they were just using
up time, or trying to. That's
another thing I notice now  - 
how all that atmospheric 
stuff has disappeared  -  old, 
bedraggled men in serious 
clothes, old fedora hats and 
black,leather shoes, the
slower shuffle. Along with 
the gray, the darkness, and 
the Automats, wherein people
also sat about, that's what I 
remember, and miss. It
wasn't until the mid/late
1970's that people began 
wearing jeans and the sort
of 'informal'clothing we take
for granted now. And then it
all just fell apart  -  got worse  -
sweat suits, cargo pants, 
shorts, sneakers. That's all
'new world' stuff, believe
you me. Like the fluff food
I mentioned yesterday. In
these old days, the world
was, yes, frankly, quite 
different, and I was glad
for that. There was nothing
garish; in fact, most things 
were sad, and serious. There
was still a lot of hurt and
anguish in the world  -  leftover
remnants of the last War, ruins
could still be easily seen in
places of Europe and the old
cities there. The scarred and
ruined men, they were still 
shuffling around. It's funny 
to mention, because it's just 
today, this very day  -  but I 
read an article which, if seen
in the light of what I'm talking
about, simple infuriated me 
with its shallow, modern-day 
bad thinking, as if a perfect
example of the current, book-
store type issue societal ethos
that has ruined  everything. 
I guess it's never occurred to
anyone how we've been taken 
over by this thinking. It said
that today's conclusion about
all the old men of the past,
the hobos and bums I make
mention of, was different from 
the old conclusion, which was
wrong, and is seen differently
now; that for the most part each 
of those men who ended up with
broken and miserable Bowery
lives, street bums, drunks, were
all suffering that fate because 
they'd denied their sexuality.
That denial of their homosexual
urges and impulses had done
that to them. 'Because they 
had not come to terms with 
their repressed homosexuality.'
Boy, that really burned my ass.
If they only knew, these 
foragers for style, these gay 
blades designing clothes for 
women while trying to be 
them too. What a mess; and
how sad it all is for me, seeing
it in my terms  -  remembering 
the long marble hallways, all 
those library-collection rooms 
of the special-collections and
research-intensive rooms. 
Egypt studies. Ancient and 
Medieval philosophy 
collections. Art and history 
rooms. All those ancient and 
hung lightings on the great 
marble walls and stairways.
These old men and old women,
trying to fit their lives around
their unfitting present day. 
And all today's punk homos,
gay jerks and jerkettes, tuning
everything into the frequencies 
of their own, sickening 
perversities. To my mind,
it was bad enough society 
gave way to let them in, 
quite frankly, and now 
they're trying to rewrite 
history as well.
For, you see, I was not so much
troubled by the changing of the 
truth as I was by the complete
believe that such changing of the
present could then affect, as well,
the past. The past is story and 
background to the present.
If that becomes changeable,
malleable by the present
so as to then 'affect' the past,
then nothing solid is left and
all life has little value, and
whoever it is who controls the
present then, as well controls
the past. That is the
unsettling factor.
I've got to move on, simply
because they don't know what
they're talking about. Anger 
does not always make for a 
good writing style. This
time and place was my own
time and place, and no dark 
light will be let into the
illuminated room in which 
I dwell. It's pretty much that
simple. The hangings on my
walls are timeless, and they
do not change. The sconces 
and the lamps throw a generous
and steady, and serious light;
one that does not change 
brightness to suit the 
prevailing whims.

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