8903. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, PT. 249

249. GOING THROUGH 

THE MOTIONS

How many people have

you heard of who have

who have ended up all

pretty much right where

they set out to be a long

time back? I mean, of

course, happily, and with

a satisfaction. The famous

and powerful, having

achieved goals, are still

always whining or

complaining about

their 'burdens' or the

sacrifices they've

undertaken to get there.

How 'tough' it is being

recognized, and owning

all these things and

places, and the demands

on their time, and the

constant stream of

wants and need by

others. Yeah, sure.

Why they don't complain,

as well, about all the

lawyers and accountants

needed to maintain and

keep up all their money

and trips to the bank,

is beyond me. They're

usually just full of crap.

Anyway, that's all

accidental stuff. I was

meaning to refer more

to the deliberate, the

set-out for places and

goals.

-

The funny thing is, as it

concluded, that for all my

own high-minded bravado

and quest for the gold and

the rest, I've ended up, lo

these many years later, right

back, for the finish line, at

my starting line. If that's

not, at least, a perfect

continuity, a completed

circuit, and rounded ending

to the great arc-turned-into-

circle of a poorly-run life,

I don't know what is. I walk

the soiled, lousy, streets of

the same dungheap of a

place where I began my

formative consciousness...

and then fled from screaming.

No it's over 50 years later,

and I'm walking these

streets again. Like some

jerk in a Green Day song,

walking those same empty

streets on the boulevard

of broken dreams. All that.

The same jagged routing of

teen angst that never went

away maybe, or something

to that effect. Hundred-year

old men aren't supposed to

be like that. The cars are

supposed to keep running,

not break down and have

you start walking away,

Anyway, new cars now stop

and re-start for you now at

every red-light. Who the

hell came up with that one?

-

I went to New York City at

age 17 precisely so that none

of this was ever supposed to

happen to me. I was going to

wipe the dust from this place

and be done with it like a

headache. A bad habit. Now,

in present hindsight, it doesn't

look all that bad  -  as long as

I can keep it rolling, as long

as the train station's near me,

as long as I can drive myself,

and roll. The rest of it all can

go screw. Five hundred years

ago most people were amazed

if they ever got thirty miles from

home. I can dig that  -  a local

guy today slowly passed me in

his shiny-like-new metallic

green '47 Willys Overland.

A big box on wheels. The

kind of cars most of the

relegated-to-poor people

around here drive are little

cars that regular people

would never think of

having as their 'first' cars.

It's that kind of place. This
was the guy's own hobby or
project car, but most others
have their work-trucks in the

driveways, home from

the job. The people who

leave from their homes

here, get into cars slightly

haggard, and often they

have a cigarette dangling

from their lips, with which

cigarette they accompany

themselves on their drive.

Windows up, no matter.

-

Today's up-to-date class of

modern-world people have

done away with all that.
All the ugly stuff of life, as
it once was, is gone. That's
all been cleared up. People
now just nicely do their
assigned tasks, willingly.

It's not often anymore

tolerated, the old and the 
ugly manners of the past. 
Just today, I saw two cops,

with their two cop-cars,

tending to a suspect in a

car they'd pulled over. All

lights flashing, one cop

to the front, the other

standing at the rear. It

looked pretty important,

a serious stop. Then I

noticed the cop at the

rear slowly yawning.

I laughed it off then, the

whole scene. No importance

at all. In times of stress, the

body does not yawn. Not

part of the emotional or

chemical repertoire at that

point. Have you ever noticed?

Even flashing-lights cops now

just go through the motions.

-

People  -  probably at much

the same level as these local,

Avenel, folk  -  back then, in

NYC, kept everything ordered

within bounds. Few had cars,

or even thought about that.

IN the city, when you're poor,

having an automobile is most

probably the last thing on your

personal list of items to attain.

Right below the cottage on

Fire Island. It all takes money,

the getting of it, first, and the

the constant parking headaches,

insurance, gasoline, finding

places to go (there are none,

really, without getting also

involved in deep toll costs  -

unless maybe you just wish

to drive up to the Cloisters,

and stare out over Englewood

Cliffs, or whatever's across

the way there). At least a poor

man keeps the good sense to

not get carried away with

the normal bull of everyday

life. Which is why kids wrench

open hydrants on hot Summer

days and make their own frolic.

A '47 Willy's certainly wouldn't

mean much. The people in

Chinatown, where cars never 

moved much anyway, dealt

with a constant gridlock along all

those tiny, ridiculous car streets,

with parking and crowds to

boot. People there just walked

OVER cars, to get to where

they were headed. No one

ever got IN one. Truck

deliveries were done in the

dead-still of deep night, and

for the rest  -  even the foolish,

rich, Long Islanders who'd come

out in their Lincolns and Caddies,

in all their clothing and personal

finery (which didn't cut it for

anything there), were just trying

to impress others but only 

ending up embarrassing 

themselves as they struggled 

with their gigando-cars 

and all those tight spaces. 

No one really ever got

anywhere. 

-

In my own sense, I've always

been a social outcast; but it

never bothered me. I found

my own ways of solace.

When I was ten, my parents

gave me a stamp-collection

book and starter kit. I was

endlessly fascinated, and it

took me away. I gathered

any stamps I could, and 

ordered stamps too, from 

all over the world, from

those old stamp collector

companies, like Littleton 

Stamps, in New Hampshire,

it was, or Boston. There were

a few. Comic books too always

had those 'Send ten cents for

a thousand stamps from 

around the world,' or 'older

American issues.' Those were

my favorites  -  all those

commemoratives of dams 

and waterways and 

inventors and statesmen.

I loved those send-in offers.

I'd find ways, just a few years

later, to stay up as late as I

possibly could, reading.

Writing. Thinking about 

stuff. A different sort of

richness for a different

sort of poverty. 'I have

said that it is the sufferer 

from insomnia who knits

the torn edges of men's 

dreams together in the 

hour before dawn.' Loren 

Eiseley, a mostly 1960's

essayist. He sure got it right.