284. AVENEL, Pt. 6
Somewhere along the
line things began shaking.
There was a TV show -
I must have been very
young, I mean what
sounds here as stupidly
young, but it caught
my attention. It was
called Omnibus, and
past the title I didn't
know much else about
it - the names and the
personalities of the
show, Alastair Cooke,
Jonathan Winters, and
fifty others, meant
little to me at that age.
I learn now, as well,
that the show is, and
was then, considered a
groundbreaker and acted
as a forerunner of what
we now have as PBS.
I can't say, and I admit
to probably really
taking in only half
of whatever these
presentations gave
to me, but this
show riveted me
and from it I
grew a full
cross-section of
most every other
level of creative
or acted and
made up persona
that I saw. There
were singers,
dancers, storytellers,
comedians, artists,
writers, actors in
roles. There were
'historic' re-enactments
and dramatized
things. All over
the map, but it
acted as an early
school for me;
forget the rest. I
took from that a
large part of the
earliest patterning
still inside me.
Personal truth talks,
and the internalized
self holds all the
cards. Later on,
in something of
the same vein, All
one has to do is
not shy or run
from it, and
instead grab it
and work with it
and learn to read
it all. That's
Natural Religion,
the real thing.
If you think it
was easy finding
a way to watch
this stuff in my
house, think again.
It was baffling,
in fact. I was way
too young, couldn't
possibly understand,
and probably
wanted to watch
cartoons instead,
right? Or at least
that's how the
thinking went.
-
Later, in the same
vein, copy-cat
fashion, as TV
does, there came
Steve Allen -
another one I
tried to watch
when I could. He
had really cool
people on and
the words always
spoke to me. I can
remember seeing
Jack Kerouac on
there, as a scardy-cat,
drunken, cut-up
guy just trying to
get through some
'broadcast' he didn't
understand. He
read a bit from
his book, but he
was frozen and
it was stilted. Steve
Allen himself,
annoyingly plinking
away while he talked,
on a piano in some
basic, note-by-note
inflected jazzy blues
riff of his own,
seemed to get
in the way, more
than anything,
and I sensed
ridicule, I sensed
a circus animal
being held up
for inspection,
Kerouac. What it
meant, I didn't
know, but it
stayed with me
forever. Later on
came other shows
- stuff of the outside
world, other places,
where people acted,
did things, got
involved in real
messes. Route 66.
Naked City. My
mind raced over
everything. I was
caught and I was
trapped. Nothing
normal ever seemed
to have any
abiding interest
for me.
-
So, as it went,
being back, at St.
George Press, 20
or so years later,
whatever it was,
after a ton of
adventures and
other places and
things I was still
living down, I
had to make it
really mean
something to
me or all of this,
I realized, could
just crumble and
be a real sham and
I'd simply end up
as a waste of time.
I just always carried
everything with me.
Once I got established
in St. George Press,
one of my regular
customer-accounts
became the Barron
Arts Center. Perfectly
enough. This was an
old town building,
wonderfully stylised;
Richardson or
someone architectural
and famous had built
it for one of the early
Woodbridge rich guys,
as a library, his own.
It looked like a church,
sort of. But it wasn't
- rather it was just
a really perfectly-done
little specimen of
'important' domestic
architecture. The
town had taken it
over and, in one
of those ubiquitous
culture-vulture
searches these
local governments
do, with tax money,
had decided to have
a cultural and arts
commission and
pump in a lot of
money into
refurbishing this
place as a
performance
center. They hadn't
a clue. Previous to
this it had been
a children's library,
wasting away -
story times,
coloring-book
festivals, nursery
rhyme days, etc.
Easter Bunny and
the rest. Good
riddance to that.
They closed it up
and re-opened as
the Barron Arts
Center, and hired
a few females, the
gentle, poetry sorts,
to come up with
a program,
something to
keep this vibrant
and flowing. I had
already begun doing
their early printing,
and working with
them - shows of
artisinal ceramics
and pottery, a show
of Americana, one
of stamps and
postcards, all
the usual stuff. A
few local
'tree-on-a-bridge'
type local artists,
the kind who bleed
still-lives and floral
arrangements and
'landscapes' of
Pennsylvania or
whatever, onto
nicely framed
canvas. So, they
immediately
thought of me
as someone perhaps
interested in helping
with this scheme.
One day we were
talking - Edie Eustace,
Susan Crotty, and
another girl whose
name, right now,
escapes me but I
wish it didn't because
she has one of the
stranger roles here
to portray. Maybe
it'll come. We worked
out an idea for 'Poetry'
readings - open
microphone, let anyone
in who wished, sign
them on a list, have
readings, in sequence,
no real rules except
the usual - gross
profanity (this was
way before rap music),
none of, or not too
much of that
carnal-knowledge
and wide-open sex
crap, offensive or
bleating anguish
stuff. We didn't
wish to lay down
rules or single
people out. Junk
is junk, and it's
usually quite apparent
on its own. If the
township dudes got
wind of something,
and found it wrong
or bad, it would
probably have
already passed our
supposed censoring
anyway. Once you
get mixed up with
'civic' stuff, the
entire equation
gets changed. Beware.
Two complete and
different sets of
parameters; so who
cared. We decided
to hold this each
month, on the second
Weds., 7:30, I think it
was, and they ran to
maybe midnight -
wine and crumpets,
whatever. More on
all this later, but first
- for me and my
'business 'vitality',
it worked fine -
generated printing,
billable to the town
budget, paid usually
on time, everybody
happy. It's funny
how towns work,
with money.
Everything had
to get a voucher,
be approved, plans
examined. The
extended budget
was always under
some scrutiny.
Things had to
pass muster and
no one could just
go out and purchase
anything, on a whim
- the Arts Council
people I mean. It
took at least a
month to get things
through. And then
payment was slow
as well. Whatever.
It seemed completely
different from the
usual graft and
corruption of getting
your hand into the
roads and sewer
contracts and hidden
zoning variances
and stuff by which
the big guys made
their dough. I don't
remember, this was
maybe 1980. Got
it rolling, and it
really took off
nicely. Before
too long, I was
over my head
in stuff to do. This
went on for over
three years, getting
stronger all the
time. We did
recitations, dramatc
readings, any number
of things, in addition
to the poetry nights.
Everything was still
quite primitive then,
no computer or
even video hook-ups.
so anything we did
was done once, and
dissolved away to
memory. W'd get
about 30-40 people,
same and different,
on a steady basis.
Not just Woodbridge
people - there were
those wo came from
20 miles or so for
these things. Martta
Rose, from West
Orange. (I think
she later 'became'
a band also, fronting
her name). Hunterdon
County people; it
was all over the place.
Sometimes there
was music involved
as well. I did't know
much, but thought
fast and worked well
on my feet and soon
had it pretty mastered,
handling and goading
the crowd, introducing
things and people,
working all month
on format, for that
one night. That girl
who name I just
recalled (but am
not going to use
here, in case she's
still around), she
had a problem life
going on, and she'd
come to see me at
St. George Press,
in tears sometimes,
when she needed to
'chill' or let her
emotions calm
down, or just cry.
It was a sad scene,
and I often really
did want to just reach
out and help her.
But nothing, back
then, ever came forth
- things were different,
no one really knew
how to handle this
stuff. Evidently she
had an abusive boss,
to her and to other
girls in the office
as well, and every
time he had a go at
her she'd flee, and
somehow end up
running to me, sitting
in my little office, calming
down under the pretense
of getting some printing.
Door open; don't get any
ideas. In tears, usually
- 'he grabbed me,'
'he pulled my shirt
up,' etc. I only got
half the story, I'm
sure; but I never
called the cops or
anything, and she
never did either,
nor wished to. She
was shit-scared,
for her job, and
for the future
reprecussions if
she did anything.
So, I didn't remember
what happened,
but she disappeared,
and was soon gone.
Tough scene. It's funny
too, and this is real -
people used to ask me what
printing was about, my
job etc., and I'd answer,
'Oh, it's a bunch of things,
part listening, part talking,
part business, part social
work. You just really
have to listen for the
things unsaid as much as
to what's said.' They used
to think that amazing, or
say 'I've never heard it put
that way, wow.' but it
really was true.
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