8865. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 242

242. I WAS SQUEAKING BY

I first read James Joyce

when I was about 14. It

didn't really mean that

much to me, but I read  -

'Dubliners,' that odd

and quirky book of

collected Irish short

stories. I guess they

were short, though

each read as if they

could just go one

forever. The one that

caught me up the most,

and they most all did,

was 'Clay.' About a sort

of fastidious, orderly,

servant girl at a Christmas

gathering. Kids playing

a game involve her in it,

and the small story then

revolves around the events

which ensue  -  awkward,

telling, and mysterious.

It took me a while of

follow-up to realize that,

in games of this sort, the

inclusion of pliable 'clay'

was meant as a symbolized

suggestion of death  -  
although I'd not have 
thought that. Lonely death. 

An isolated and sorrowful

death. Pathetic death. I 
would have just gone with 
the idea of shapeless, 
formless, and pliable, clay.

Yes, well. I stayed with

it all. James Joyce never

'bothered' me, and I always

thought I stayed with him

because I 'got' him. The

alternatives anyway,

speaking of pathetic,

were the usual TV

American junk of

Leave it To Beaver

and Walt Disney, so

I was ahead anyway.

Then I, ever so slowly,

moved my way towards 

'Portrait of the Artist As

a Young Man.' The title

of that one was enough

to engage me. But, as I

read it, at that age,

seminary, mid-teens,

my mind was all

twisted up already

anyway. That book

never much clicked  -

it was too full of the

tired and the dark for

me, all that Catholic

crap and those dark,

Irish curtains and people

with various frothy

angers and ideas about

things. Issues everywhere.

I've re-read it, over all

these years, 2 more times,

and it's a better grip now.

Something I can hold,

and mend, and understand.

And then, of course, and

in short order, I was caught,

almost as title-by-parody,

by Dylan Thomas and his

'Portrait of the Artist As a

Young Dog.' Welsh doings,

a young boy, growing up.

But much different. Raw.

A but smutty here and there,

for back then, with fun and

a shoulder to the wheel. Then,

after that, I did read 'Under

Milk Wood'  -  that, of the

books here mentioned, is the

one that really made the

pictures in my mind. The

crossover parallels came

alive for me  - all backyards

and clotheslines, Summer

mornings and Moms. It's

difficult to explain, but

that's the one that did it.

-

I don't know if everyone

can claim, or 'say' they can

('claim to claim?') that this

or that specific thing can

be marked as the start of a

life-period for them. But, for

myself, I can very seriously

attest to a number of things

which can be certified as

definitive, beginning moments:

Why I write. Why I paint.

Why I read. Why I think.

All that sort of gibberish.

Leaving my childhood

home, shaking all that

Avenel dust off from me  -

soul, body and spirit too  -

meant everything. I began

it with the seminary, and

ended it, eventually, 

completely transformed 

yet right back where I 

started, and better for it.

Words a'torrent. I like that.

It really should be a town

name for me. My place.

'Words a'Torrent, NJ'

-

Getting into NYC was like

breaking open a lock  -  but 

on a door to a room which

held unknown forces and

riches too  -  things I'd never

dreamed of. There was, just
then, an entire, older world 
and way of living and reference,
just disappearing, just passing 
away.  It's hard not to think
about it and just get tired.
I look back now on events 
and I still get amazed at

the idea that I was present at

a time when so many things 

were happening, half of which

I wasn't even aware of : The 

Singer Building coming down,

the Old Post Office, all those

blocks for Lincoln Center, the

area once called San Juan Hill

because of all the Puerto Ricans

who lived there, the expanse of

all that World Trade Center area

and the construction underway,

the ending of all those ferries

and the ferry services and slips 

on either side of the island, 

the almost-destruction of

Grand Central Station, and

the just finished destruction of

the old Penn Station and its

replacement by the rats-nest

warren of bland Penn Station

and Madison Square garden 

there now. I used it, yes,

every train trip, but never

gave it a thought, never 

meditated on it as the new

place it was, a mug-hole 

made to be a sickly

replacement for the old 

glory of Penn Station, 

which I'd used and seen

and gazed at in wonder, as

a kid on trips with my

grandmother.  All the

rest was new  -  1960's

balderdash new; the 

coming of the new 

awnings, the arrival 

of all the new shades

and curtains of the 

world we live. I was

squeaking by. I was

coming through.