268. SOLO CHESS
A large portion of my life
has been a personal form
of solo chess. And I'm glad
for that. It's all been about
strategy. In the very years
after the removal of myself
from 509 e11th, and NYC,
I finally felt that I was so
far away from anything
germane to the 'scene'
that no one would ever
locate me. I had high-tailed
it away from further trouble,
and let the dead bury the
dead. Peter Coyote and
those guys had their own
situation, hippie communes,
etc., up in Portland NJ,
on the cusp of nowhere
but not quite. The Delaware
Water Gap swarmed with
people. I had headed out
far past that point. All
things had to become
distant memory....and
soon. Others had run off
to the usual sanctuaries -
Vermont, New Hampshire,
Maine. They all seemed
to obvious for me - too
sunny, too Life Magazine.
Playing solo chess allowed
me a distance from which
to view each strategy and
each maneuver. It was a
relief just to realize, at
the end of a day, there'd be
no one at the door, or calling.
Nothing more to answer for.
I was as good as dead.
God's calling.
-
In a way, I was so far
out on the last stretch
of nowhere that I really
could have died and no
one would even have
noticed. The past was
closed behind me like
a tomb-doorway. Marble
and brass. Some people
can't let all that go. I
have a friend who still,
to this day, thrives on
lies about his past, can't
let it go, won't drop it
down. Makes things up.
Whole cloth; speaking
of which, how lies will
catch you up, I contact,
in Maine, one of the
purported 'contacts' he's
working with - imported
fabrics, shirt designs, and
the rest, the guy turns red
with anger and says this
fellow 'Billed me and
collected for yardage
that he never delivered.
I was never able to
contact him or collect
my payment.' It was
no surprise to me, of
course, because lies
remain lies, a liars
remain liars, but oh this
poor merchandiser in
Portland, Maine (not
Peter Coyote's Portland,
NJ). I should turn in the
geek's reference info. In
addition, five days ago,
I write about Jardot's,
the 1967 bullshit hang-out
for high-school skeletons,
and today it's all over his
own info, as if he didn't still
go ahead stealing from me.
New York City was filled
with grafters and corrupt
people. I knew that, and
I dwelt among them. But
this was idle, stupid
Woodbridge, NJ stuff,
for pampered diaper-babies
who'd never outgrown it.
Entering late-life, and
still wanking off about
high school. Whew.
-
On 12th Street there was
this really cool place called
the 'Twelfth Street Bookshop.'
It was just off Fifth, and it
had a few steps down to get
to a really curious-looking
front area which I'm sure was,
in the mid-century years, a
street-front nightclub or
something. It had that whole
vibe of the art and soul days
of the old 10th Street Art clubs
which were near there and
in a time when these few
streets teemed with all
that breathtaking American
postwar art and jazz,
before the bigger-time
uptown stuff took over
and the really big money
set in. The guy's name
here was Tom or Ted,
I forget. He was really
cool, in that he
possessed an
amazing grasp of
old New York, being
something to do with
and related to the third
or fourth generation of
family ties to a guy
named Colonel Thomas
Dongan, who had been
sent from England, by
way of Limerick too.
He replaced the unhappy
term of Edmund Andros,
who had apparently made
too many deals with the
leftover landed Dutch
who were still around,
back then. Problem was,
Dongan (for whom
Dongan Hills in Staten
Island, is named - one
of his personal landholdings
back then) outdid even
Andros before him, who
was big on improving the
waterfront. Dongan proved
even bigger on handing
out vast landholdings,
huge grants of virgin
land, to Dutch cronies
and favorites. Under
Dongan, the city
came up with its
wards and elected
council and
representative
formats, etc. They
made twelve 'shires.'
New York (all of
Manhattan), Kings
(now Brooklyn),
Queens, English
towns of western
Long Island). Etc.
It all went on from
there. I loved hearing
about all this wicked
stuff - thievery and
land-grabs,
misrepresentation
and stealth. (I never
tired of learning how
people could 'give away'
what wasn't theirs).
1683 proved a very
good year for free land
grants with minimal
meddling. Dongan got
on real good with the
remaining Dutch -
basically buying them
off with huge swaths
of granted land: 850,000
acres, better than 1100
square miles, fifty times
the size of Manhattan,
went to what became
and was called
'Rensselaerswyck
Manor.' Their lower
family manor at
Claverack added
another 250,000 acres.
Robert Livingston, a
young Scot with
ambitions, who
worked for the Renssalaers
and linked himself
by marriage to the
Schuylers and Van
Cortlandts, obtained
Livingston Manor,
160,000 acres. All
this went on and on
- Bentley Manor,
Cassilton Manor,
Pelham Manor, all
to decisive
landed-families.
It was amazing
for this Tom or
Ted, the bookstore
guy, to have found
himself sitting on all
this very old family
interaction while
trying to seed
himself off as a
mad, Trotskyite,
fervid leftist
bookseller. Intent
on making 'business'
only insofar as it
could make destruction.
His joy was to fill my
brain, and the brains
of others, with serious
literature-directed
Utopian-commune
sensibilities of the
far-left. I loved it
all, and his shop
was great. In the
front there were
great stocks of
records albums -
heavy and deep
with early jazz
albums, and classical
recordings from older
days. Things were just
different, even the
old sounds of
recordings and
music had merit and
import and meaning
- way before the
cackle and cant of
1960's drivel.
-
He'd go on about
what he called, 'Truth
by fiat' - by which
he meant how reality
was so bendable that
this great forebear of
his could simply make
things up and, by fiat,
by willing it to be, give
it away too - to others.
Regardless of the truth
or the presence of things;
others who may have
had claim or even had
called it home, let alone
the natives there. There
was carnage and
unhappiness everywhere.
Lives were lost and
things confused and
angered...until one
day all the rulers just
tired of him, and he
was removed, caught
up in changing alliances
and the religious wars
of back home in Europe
and England. I'd never
have thought how, for
myself, forty years later,
the same sort of lying,
creepy shackles would
not be enough to hold
another manic-usurper,
in check. My own
strategy of solo chess,
kept me away; it had
to work, just simply
had to. Dongan lives!
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