266. RUN WITH IT
In many ways, looking
back now, I can see how
I was brought up in an
almost 'old world' way.
Just through the odd things
that came through; about
respect and reverence and
sanctity and listening to
elders and such. Quiet
light, in a large, dark
room. As a youngster,
amidst all those visiting
adults - aunts and
uncles, and the rest
of the extended family
groupings, I'd be told
to 'move away' or go
outside, as the 'adults'
would be almost
surreptitiously
beginning their talk
about 'someone' or
someone's delicate
situation which, at
the same time, must
be kept from the likes
of me - the children.
Or, sitting down at my
aunt's piano, being told
to play low, not loud,
and with a 'delicate'
hand - as if the music
resultant must be reverent,
or not be. The airmail
envelopes that folded
open, covered with
Italian, blue-ink
handwriting. The
glass-globes, scattered
around, each with tiny
scenes of faraway forest
and country scenes. A
shake, and in silence all
would be engulfed in
snow. Adults, imponderable
in their dark and deep
conversations : the
meddling hand of
traditions and custom;
everything extolled by
experience.
-
I wanted to be separate,
and single. Yet at the
same time I wished to
be part of everything. I
had gotten myself under
some sort of new, Walt
Whitmanesque spell.
'I am a man, and nothing
human is alien to me.' All
that stuff. 'Every man is
all of man.'
-
Occasionally, people would
die. It was not until much
later in life, 1980, in fact,
when I actually saw a dead
person; my own grandmother,
my mother's mother, that is,
laid out in her coffin. Before
then, even the idea of death
was just something that
happened to others. I
never had much of a feel
for it. My father had a
few photographs,
actually, of his own
mother, in her coffin.
It all seemed much
older, ancient in fact,
and from another time
entire. However, I had
visited and known her,
a few times, in her
asylum domicile.
We'd visit, the spindly
nuthouse wards, they'd
let her out for a few
hours, we'd picnic
on a large wide lawn,
she'd look all crazed
and bedraggled. I'd
pretend familiarity
and that nothing
was out of the
ordinary. Then
she was dead, and
I never heard another
word; just these few
death-photos. Along
Mulberry Bend, in
NYC, where Chinatown
now is, was once
the most renegade
part of old Five Points,
with death and violence
at every turn. Most of
it's been taken down
now, replaced with
what's called 'Columbus
Park' (it was once Italian,
thus the name; now
it's all Chinese). Anyway,
there are three or four
still massive and quite
serious funeral homes
right there on the
one side portion
of the Bend which
has been left. Each
with a long, Italian
name. 'Bonstromatto
Funeral Parlor', or
whatever. These
were never removed,
and still do business.
I don't know any
more about them -
neither about the
clientele, nor who
they service and
under what tutelage.
It's just funny to see
- old world stained
glass, and fancy fronts.
Like that piano music -
quiet, in a noisy spot.
-
Trying to grow up in
the middle of all this
was quite difficult.
To compound it all,
I had the train wreck,
the hospitalization, and
then the recuperation. It
made people dote on me,
bring forth some sort of
special treatment. I never
much understood it. I
probably appeared to
them as something
returned from the dead,
in a very unexpected
manner. No one quite
knew what to do. I was
too young to really care,
or to attempt to put my
own feelings across -
people would just say I
'wasn't the same.' The old
spark and vigor was gone.
I never knew, whether
right or not, what they
were meaning to say.
-
I myself used to walk
around, at age 10,
doubtful of my own
existence, thinking,
'should I not have been
dead? Have I returned
from something in a
manner I should not have?'
It became quite difficult
for me to justify my own
being. Death had left a
ragged trail up and down
my back, through the
middle of my spirit,
and it barely had missed
my heart. What was I
to do now? Each time
my mother told the
story, it seemed it got
more fanciful. 'Oh, Gary,
everyone thought he was
dead. They dragged him
away, limp; I thought I'd
lost him. Then he was
in a coma for a long
time, and no one knew
a thing. What to expect.'
The story grew. I tired
of it all, myself. If they
wanted someone for
their drama, why did
it have to be me. Why
was I singled out?
Misery. Misery. ('You're
back; OK, here's a life.
It's your; run with it.')
All my life ever was
was a piano in the wind,
heard at Fingal's cave.
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