292. 6 WAYS
FROM SUNDAY
It was a catacomb.
It was a cavern, a
tomb. I tried to
make some sort
of sense of the
life I was presented
with, but so difficult
had it become. I
had once learned
to manage my
tongue, say the
least I could say,
but that never
precluded me
from speaking
my mind as well,
when I had a
real opinion on
something, and
not some crummy
old media-induced
crackpot echo. I
knew it was going
to be difficult.
Communication
is one thing, real
talk is another. A
lesson I had learned
- and this is pretty
crazy for a human
person to say - is
that you have to love
what you use as
language. As a
writer, you have to
quite simply love
the words you write.
If you don't, if you
end up being cheap
and cavalier, they
become nothing.
Bookstores everywhere
are filled with
such junk - the
story line and the
brazen appeal.
-
I have to admit, and
I do so here, willingly,
that I often heard
voices. Yes, I'll
say that again, and
it's true for this
present day as
well. I often heard
voices. Not so
much of this stuff
comes from nowhere,
you know. Those
were my own voices,
speaking things only
to me. All I had to do
was stay properly attuned
and they'd keep coming.
People, on the other
hand, would say things,
weird things, over
which I had no control.
They were not using
my words, for sure.
I did not love that.
An instance: one 1960's
phrase - always
completely without
any understanding to
me - went something
like '6 ways from
Sunday,' or '20 ways
to Sunday,' or '40 ways
from Tuesday'. I forget
exactly. And I haven't
ever heard that phrase
since - back then I
heard it 5 times a week
without comprehension.
It was a real 1960's thing.
Was it code? What
did it mean? Who
originated it? It turns
out to mean something
like investigating a
situation from every
angle. As in, 'Hmm.
There are 6 ways
from Sunday to get
this done. Let's
examine them all.'
I'd imagine, a
week having 7
days, the core
of this was getting
to Sunday, or from,
with the use of
the other 6 days.
Who knows? It
was imprecise,
and the people
saying it just
mouthed their
words. No one
knew, and this
phrase perfectly
captured a form of
the tense sort of
'glib' that was then
always in the air.
And then, oddly enough
I learned to use that
same imprecision
in my own work.
Nothing was ever
closed out -
whether art,
drawing, writing,
poetry, whatever
I did, I found it
'right' to leave
a certain imprecision
for the reader or
viewer to work
out on his or her
own. If I closed
everything, every
option, up, what
was the good for
the viewer. There's
nothing more boring
than a closed and
rational system. One
needs to be able
to sort and sift,
and come through
an experience with
one's own sense
of completion,
learning, from it.
Tactile. Soul and
spirit. It's the
same with
learning. If I
were to tell
someone the
point and lesson
to be taken
from everything
I did or wrote,
they'd remember
nothing of it.
Better they
came up with
any and all of
it as it fits
them, as they
structure their
own reality
around suggestion.
That's how my
own life was,
and I was
working hard
at it. I guess it's
abstraction, but
I don't know,
because to me
it was all clear;
even back then.
Hearing voices.
Clear light.
-
I was faced with
a dilemma, and
I guess I tried,
amidst all this
normal-world
stuff around me,
hounding these
print shops, by
which I figured
'lithography'
would at lease
always keep me
somewhat near
to 'Art'. It was
a shot in the
dark - better
than being a
pharmacist or
somesuch baloney.
In these 'roles' I
took on, Appellate,
and at St. George
Press later, when
all this stuff finally
began happening,
I had to portray
some happyland
jerk, a regular guy,
at home in the
world, getting
along with everyone,
making the requisite
small talk - about
politics and
Chernobyl and
Patty Hearst and
Reggie Jackson.
All that junk, really.
All the most normal,
abhorrent to me,
stuff in the world.
It was part of being
invisible, of somehow
sidling back in,
between treasured
cracks, to remain,
at my core, what
I really was,
unblemished,
while letting
others see what
they wished in
me. Man, I had
scars. I never knew
how much of them
others were seeing.
I guess those are the
only markers
the world allows
you, and the
only thing the
world wants
to do to you,
as well, is
tarnish you,
beat down to
death whatever
dream or
compunction
of elevation and
high-mindedness
you might have.
It's pounded
into you. Up
and down Main
Street Woodbridge
it was all on parade.
I used to have
some business I'd
have to do, through
printing, with a
guy named Ralph
Barone - I guess
he was still Mayor,
though I can't
remember. He
had a 'professional
building' office as
well, not mayoral,
across the street
from the post office,
which too was
newly constructed
in some sort of
'modernism'
face-off, by
which, all along
Main Street the
old was disrespected
and the new
was left-to-right
trying to replace
everything. To
this day, next to
Barone's mess,
there's a tattered
old church house,
and a church too,
left standing,
decrepit, gone
to seed. As far
out of the pale
from the modern
day as anything
can be. All these
business people,
I realized, lived
within a certain
precision - all
those business
guys, Ron Anzivino,
Bob Wiegers, Ralph
Barone, Harry Halpern,
Dr. Feiler (the real-estate
dentist with the big
building), all they
ever did was live
in a constant
present. They
had no other
sense of place
or tense. All
that existed
for them -
history be damned
and don't give
me any stories -
was the present,
from which to
look out and
proceed. 'It's
old, it's failing,
get rid of it, and
good riddance.'
The only thing
that saved the
land next door,
and probably does
to this day, is that
it's church-owned
and that somehow
puts it in a different
category of place
and time : no one
knows what to do.
It's viewed, in their
twisted mind-speak,
as a 'sacred' shamble,
thus let be. Anyway,
Ralph Barone was
a slippery, slimy
political dude, in that
role, who could stare
down a cobra to
strike. Back then,
he didn't much
like me and I
didn't much like
him - there were
interdicts, Vietnam
War gung-ho militarists,
'cut you hair or get
out of town' anti-hippie
types (they hadn't a
clue; all they knew
was what TV told
them and what they'd
hear down at the
(new) Elks Hall on
Friday nights),
and he represented
them. To him, I
represented 'the
other.' Nonetheless,
I had to deliver
papers to him,
and did so. His
office was as
boring as his
butt-end. A few
photos on the
wall, shaking
hands with this
or that dignitary;
a photo of a ship
or something on
the bounding main,
maybe a portrait
on the desk, of
a wife or kids,
whatever.
Cigarettes,
ashtrays, I didn't
even see a secretary,
except for the main
one down in the
lobby, who let
me up. He seethed.
But such was the
sort of person who
controlled these
things : land-development,
new projects, zoning,
local spirit and
local feel. I wanted
to say, 'Hey, Ralph;
so, ah, where do
they keep your
straitjacket?' I'd
done my own
version of 20 ways
from Sunday about
everything. Train
wreck. Seminary.
A miserable, tawdry
final completion to
regular high school
hauled off and
dumped into
some ash-heap
local high school
where I had to
hang with all
those kids already
dead; signed sealed
and delivered as
they were into
their acceptable
notions of future.
Of which they
weren't even
aware of, nor
what they'd
already signed and
gotten. To them,
like the other gents,
it was all and only
a 'present.' Tunnel
vision. One too
many times of
hearing an endless
'Hang On, Sloopy.'
Which was like
the endless,
looped, theme
song to their
silly lives.
-
That one, last, miserably
cold Winter, I would
walk the freight tracks
from the main rail line
to get to school. And
back. No one knew,
but it kept me, as
well, from the
skanking misery
of that school bus
routine. These
were the same
tracks, another
section on which
I'd been slammed
years before, 9
or 10 years,
whatever it was,
knocked-out dead,
coma-time, awakening
again only late to
some newer and
other form of
Earth time, to
which, in my
own surprise
brought me right
back here. That
was a hard load
to carry around.
Hello Earthlings.
It's me again.
I had taken it
from that point
on that I had a
mission, answerable
to no one but my
inner self, to
extend outward,
bring light and
warmth to others.
It was just some
stupid mission.
Now, all these
years later, all
that's left for me
is to die - so,
goes to show you
what any of it
was worth.
Spinning in
time, or a form
of it. I'm at the
long-end now
of something
else completely.
No, it's not fair,
but try and beat
the rap. You can't.
I walked these
tracks, frozen
dirt embankments
on either side,
as they cut through
the junkiest portions
of the local landscape
- swamp and marsh
or flat, dead dirt.
Which was good;
best place for it
to be. It bothered
no one else; I knew
the trains, all those
tank cars of fuel,
freight cars of
whatever - grain,
bags of seed,
fertilizer. Closed
and sealed boxcars,
and open ones
too. One time I
even saw an
entire bucket car
filled with nuts
and bolts, whether
scrap or just nuts
and bolts for use
somewhere, I
really couldn't
tell. Thousands.
The clickety-clack
of the occasional
train, I'd hear way
off, and needed to
be sure then too
that I'd be on the
correct side of the
tracks, walking -
75 or 80 slow-moving
cars later could
amount to a real
delay. It was a
personal warmth
and silence though,
in place, that I liked.
And, I'd muse, just
like with these
train tracks, I'd
have to be sure
of which side
of myself I'd
want to be on for
the great passage,
the travel, the
rolling along.
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