260. BLEMISH
One of the first things
I had to do was learn
limits. Having found
that it was both smarter
and easier to do 'one'
thing at a time and not
juggle a number of
things, I realized that
the purity of effort was
reflected in the quality
of the end result. The
quality of product exactly.
It became a real past-time
for me, seeing that. I
started seeking out
'quality' in all things.
The idea of 'quality'
began to seem to be
one of the things
that was going out
the window quickly.
Things, while becoming
cheaper, were just as
quickly turning to junk.
Leather was replaced
by plastics - my
father's quaint use
of 'Naugahyde' on
furniture and things,
where once before
it would have been
a nice leather. I never
saw a farm-field of
naugas, but they
were apparently
all giving up, by
1958, their hides.
My father's customers,
having perused his
sample books, were
more and more
selecting the fake
fabrics presented to
them as choices. My
sister kept getting
'patent-leather' shoes,
and and patent-leather
tap-shoes for her
dancing lessons.
Ball point pens
were replacing the
nib-tip of good
fountain pens,
mother-of-pearl
inlays, and ink-wells.
Things once mad of
beauteous, polished
wood began turning
up in ersatz imitations
of themselves. Even
the telephone - once
a solid, heavy Bakelite
- was before long being
made of tawdry-colored
plastic, in every variant
of tint and color a fool
would want. One by one,
as volume and appeal
increased, quality of
care-of-product fell to
the wayside. The
plebeian masses
(me, us) had taken
over - so that the
preserve of care
and quality was turned
over to the rich and
the wealthy, who
seemed to care
about that stuff. My
friend Freddy Fox,
an old-line car mechanic
with a garage in Rahway,
was a collector of
Chris-Craft, hardwood
boats. He owned a few,
which is all anyone
could own anyway -
they were real, full-sized
boats. I'd never figured
out why (1970) until I
actually saw one. By
modern standards they
were dinosaurs, but by
the better standards of,
say the 1930's or 40's,
these boats were beauties
- perfect wood, sleekly
engineered and constructed,
worth a mint. All the
schlubs with boats in
the marinas then (and
now), in my experience,
were proud of their
plastic and fiberglass
tubs with horns and
flags and names.
They had NOTHING
however on the quality
the Chris Craft and its
like offered. Like a
Maserati up against a
Ford Falcon. No go.
-
Passing through the
rigors and miseries of
growing up, I quickly
realized that nothing
of the essence of 'quality'
was ever offered. Certainly
not within the misery of
schooling. The presented
reality of, say, senior
year high school, bore
simply no relation to
reality in any form.
Every concept adopted
and assumed was incorrect.
A spaghetti-twirling-fork
of Kant's 'Critique of
Pure Reason', force-fed
to any one of those dolts
would have served them
right. And right down
their throats too. In the
year 1967, plastic was
heroic. The space-program
was heroic. Vietnam was
heroic. To these people,
Jeez, high school was
heroic! As if nothing
was ever to come after
it. As if it was their
life's pinnacle. It had
just never dawned on
anyone that their world
could have been skewed
towards the powers that
be before it had been
turned over once and
presented to them as
fantasy. Anyone now
who can revel in that
past then is simply
insane. You can tell
it because their
'heroics' still go
on. Bloviating and
deceit. It's really
too bad.
-
Things always hit me
like thunderheads;
storms approaching.
And they still do.
For instance, now,
cars have windshield
wiper systems that
sense rain and turn
themselves on. Okay,
as concept, I get it.
It has little anymore
to do with 'driving'
in the old sense, but
people accept it and
move on. What bugs
me is how no one,
along their way, just
stops to investigate
or think. I'd known
guys in NYC who
would think about
everything - about
the water coming
out of the hose they
were holding - the
merchant guys hosing
down their sidewalks
and stuff daily. There
was a meditative
quality to the use
of things. Catskill
waters splashing down.
Now, no one even
considers what they're
doing. What is it
happening at that
windshield point?
Is the 'presence'
of water calculated
by a moisture content
hitting or massing
the windshield? Is
it weight? The weight
of the water, setting
off the blade-motor?
What is the weight
of such water? While
moving, or standing
still? What is measured,
and how? How then
is that connected,
electrically or by
sensor, to the
motorized segment
that energizes the
wiper-motion?
What is IN the
windshield glass
that starts this,
and how? Who
dreamed this up?
What human quality
of inquisitiveness
and technical
infatuation brought
us to this? If it's
'human' at all.
-
In 1967 in New York,
I still had a few places
where I'd go that were
yet using horses. They'd
get shoe'd and brushed
and cared for diligently.
I'd work around - grain
buckets, clean up,
wash-down, blanketing,
etc. - just for the joy
of doing it. These were
heavy, delivery horses -
large, clompy feet,
pulling wagons,
dragging freight to
and from one or
another place. It was
all a passing frenzy
of things - a slow
frenzy, yes. But it
was all going away.
It was meditative,
as I said. To me these
were all 'religious'
people and moments.
I was transported, by
far, away - to
something else,
certainly something
before plastic and
crap and Naugahyde
and Princess Phones
in techni-colors.
All crap. No different
than the other language
of junk they spoke in
high school - pretending
to care about each of
our personal matters
while really just busting
in to take control over
us. In fact, send of off
to death if they could.
No one spoke a word
of truth. No one did
anything right. Certainly
no one ever did ONE
thing, one good thing,
solidly and with quality,
at one time. The entire
world was a blemish,
and that blemish was
being passed on to us.
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