9001. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 274

274. ALL THAT MATTERS

I always had a compelling

fetish to mess with people

heads. Something like the

'trickster' character in old

medieval lore and writing.

Simply put, the 'Trickster'

is - "an alchemist, a 

magician, creating 

realities in the duality 

of time and illusion. 

In mythology, and 

in the study of folklore 

and religion, a trickster 

is a god, goddess, 

spirit, man, woman, 

or anthropomorphic 

animal who plays 

tricks or otherwise 

disobeys normal 

rules and conventional 

behavior." That's in

and of itself isn't saying 

much, but when you

need a definition, 

that'll do. What it meant 

to me, and still does, is 

someone consciously 

outside of the normal 

parameters of both

Being and Meaning. 

The crooked eye. The 

snide sniper. Like that. 

One thing I always tired 

of is 'sincerity,' all of that 

dripping glop of concern

and interest. It's usually 

a real bunch of crap. All

the 'I'm with ya'. I feel your 

pain.' and that 'hail fellow,

how the hell are you?' stuff.

Like they've known you as

a bosom buddy for years.

Chicanery and pure fakery.

Oughta' bury those people.

I can spot it a mile away,

and it's transparent too.

Condescension when 

there's nothing on the 

doer's part to condescend 

for. My idea of trickster 

was, for one for-instance, 

to have a go at someone 

over movie titles, which 

was always fun and easy 

to do. I'm talking way 

back of course. Like 

'Wasn't that movie

with Bing Crosby, the 

one that introduced

the song 'White 

Christmas' within it,

called 'Holiday Inn?'

Now, the answer

was, 'Yes, it is, that's 

the one.' But I'd say  -

'No, no that was 

'The Day the Earth

Stood Still'. And I'd

stand my ground, 

even knowing I was 

wrong. But messing 

reason on a stupid 

item such as that 

would be, it always

gave me a solid lift. 

There are certain 

idiots who would

fight you to the 

death over a

stupid movie.

-

Anyway, none of that 

has much to do with 

anything here. One of

the books that I read 

carefully for those 

months that I lived

in the Studio School

basement (or, rather, 

and oftentimes, on 

the upstairs library 

floor, fortunately

carpeted), was by

Carl Jung, entitled,

'Memories, Dreams, 

and Reflections.' One

of the two guys who 

were there, staying in 

NYCity from the San 

Francisco Art Institute, 

(the third third guy 

was Jim Tomberg,

of whom I've already

told you), he 'd 

recommended it to

me. His recommendation

was kind of funny, in that

he essentially put across

not so much the factor of

the book itself, but the

idea that  -  out in San

Francisco  -  all the really

heavy-hitters, artists,

serious hippies, and the

rest, they were way into this

book and it was, in its way,
designing Haight-Ashbury

by the thinking it projected.

Besides LSD  -  I think

he left that out. 1967,
you know.

-

Another cool thing, which

I'd like to point out now, was

that Jim Tomberg, the San

Francisco Art Institute 

sculptor guy, was the one 

with the heavy, constant

presence of tough personality:

alcohol, drunkenness, 

women and new babes all

the time, keeping them over,

screwing their half-drunk 

brains out and then heaving

them out  (no keepers) and

going back to his table-waiter

job at whichever one of those

Bleecker Street cafes which

currently was keeping him.

Jim was the tough and nasty

type, the hard-steel welder

fire-breather person. The

other two California artist 

types, by contrast, were 

the usual fey, wan hippie 

pushover types. They may

 as well have been girls. 

Weak and indecisive, 

with frilly Indian shirts

 a lot of the time, and 

hippie sandals and cloaks,

 little wispy facial hair 

and real gentle manners. 

They were that sort of 

androgynous, west-coast 

 weak sort who reveled 

in their own goodness 

and manner. It was

 very difficult catching

 up to them. There was 

no 'there' there, it 

seemed. Just a 

hollowed-out shell 

of 'something,' an 

aftermath only. Casting 

from Hippie Central,

 but there was no

movie. The comparison

was rather startling, 

and I just as well 

would never have 

expected a book 

recommendation 

of such a nature as

 Jung coming from

 Jim Tomberg. He 

was more the 

Nietzschean 

Superman, will-to-

power, type, maybe.

 In any case, one of 

these two guys, 

I can't recall which 

except there was a 

really weak name 

involved there too, 

like 'Hayden' or

'Todd', was the 

one who brought 

this book to my 

attention, and I 

fell in. Yes. It turned 

out pretty great. It 

was an oddly-written 

collection of personal 

notes, ideas of self, 

basically. The 

beginning was 

different from the 

end, stylistically and 

in its content too. 

A lot of things in it 

were unsettling for 

people, and the book 

went through some 

major revision and 

such in order to be 

put together in a 

palatable fashion 

for the sensibilities 

of 1963. Even 

European sensibilities, 

which were rather 

often more advanced 

some from American 

ones. Archetypes, 

Tricktster stuff, through

the ages, snide and 

off-the-cuff remarks 

based in psychological 

profiles and bleed-through, 

pictures of the world 

through quite different 

eyes and with another

discernment. All this 

from a somewhat crusty, 

very serious, dour old 

guy who just wished to 

wind up the distracting 

strings of his own life, 

then fading off some 

already. A strange, 

crafty book. It took 

me along and, again, 

yes, I did end up 

feeling empowered 

and more forceful 

for the read  -  for 

what reason, I did 

not know. Maybe all 

those far-more sunny 

and happier California 

people knew, or thought 

they did anyway.  Which 

is all that matters.