Wednesday, January 11, 2017


With my work at St.
George Press, I dealt
with two magicians. 
Members of that 
brotherhood  -  which 
was severe, sacred, and
quite secretive. No, I 
was never let in. Neither 
Martin D'Aigle nor John 
Bundy would take me past 
a certain point. That 
brotherhood, with its
levels and degrees, was
quite Mason-like in its
approach. I stayed 
comfortable with that, 
and went about my work 
calmly with them, through
the years. I did not 'need'
their 'sacred' information.
Little did they know  -  and I
never let on  -  that I had my
own, far more valuable and
vital, sacred information,
that did not include them.
I had met and mingled with,
and had sourced my life,
evidently, out from, or
been sourced from,
another group, aliens
all; and their realm.
My story:
No one ever believes
 me, so I suppose I
ought to tread
carefully here.
And with some
hesitancy. But, at
risk of life and
limb I will now
attempt in all
earnestness to
relate this tale,
of truth.  I don't
know if that still
makes it a tale,
or just truth.
Either way  -
over at Pfaff's,
I've sat with
Poe, Whitman,
and others. Near
the corner of Broadway
and Bleecker, Pfaff's
was a sort of dumpy,
'Bohemian' place
where the literati,
or what there was
of it, of New York,
in about 1856, hung
out, and I mean
hung out  -  night
after night, long
afternoons, one
after the other.
Back then, in
another incarnation,
we needed a place
like that  -  there
was really nothing
at all like it at the
time. It had been
tried once or twice,
various grog halls
and cafe settings,
even the earlier
Tontine Coffee
House  -  just
places for the
loose and the
unconnected to
hang out. It wasn't
like now, people
were easily offended,
everything was
quite stratified,
and talking or
being out of turn
could cause a person
a lot of woe. In this
case, it would all
be plural  -  there
were some 12 or
15 of us, steadily.
Each a character.
We had to doff
our hats, properly,
at the right moments,
and at the right people,
too, so as not to so
much stand out,
to be at least a
bit undetected.
I have trouble
with time, but
it must have been
1855. What was
so strange to me
was to realize
that but years
later, a full 100,
I'd be a little kid,
a boy-child at
age 5, playing
around on the
steps and yards
and woods of
a place not
20 miles away,
Inman Avenue,
Avenel, in a
stringy row of
new all-the-same
houses  - bicycles,
televisions, toys
and games. Cars
and pets. Parents.
And even moreso
that in three more
years, making it
103 years, from
Pfaff's, when all
that early railroad
stuff was building
and running and
changing the
country and
most certainly
putting a
to New York City
-  railyards and
distances and
travel  -  I'd be
knocked smack-dab
nearly dead by
one of those trains
in the marshy wilds
of a sodden New
Jersey. How it all
adds up, I never
know. From Pfaff's,
as well, in 1949 I
was born in the
harbor of Bayonne,
all that Kill van Kull
stuff, less than
maybe a mile
off, or two.
Before tunnels
and all the rest
-  just water
and boats and
rail. Dig.
None of us, writers
and talkers and
artist-types, we'd
never gotten a
hearing, or at
least the sort of
hearing we'd wanted.
No one knew what
to make of us
there, and that
particular society
didn't yet have
the place or the
role or the 'spot'
for our sort. It
was as if we
didn't fade away
-  rather refused
to  -  and somehow
went underground
(in this case of
basement Pfaff's,
quite literally too).
stuff, yes.
'Bohemian' was
the French
word for gypsies,
based erroneously,
of course, on the
assumption that
Bohemia was their
original homeland.
If we call them
anything now,
here, today,
they're called,
or were called,
Romany. I guess
from Romania.
It's also thought
they came from
Egypt; and stole,
and cheated. Thus,
one gets 'gypped'
as in 'he gypped
me.' Unsettled.
Anyway, most
of them have
been slaughtered,
and dispersed.
Hitler rounded
them up, as he
did Jew, but you
never much hear
that angle. Right
here in America,
where I live today,
there's a bunch,
often using the
last name Miller,
for regular,
American purposes.
It's all fake. You
can see some of
their real names
on the gravestones
-  there are two
Gypsy graveyards
around here  -  one
in Linden and another
in Hillside, right on
the Elizabeth line.
Massively enjoyable
places. I can't explain;
it's all projection, a
place of time and
being that doesn't
really exist. But
something gets
buried there, more
of Spirit than
anything. Riblad.
Wild. Happy.
Grotesque. Those
should be the
real last names.
There was a fellow
named Henry Clapp,
Jr. He started this
whole Pfaff's thing.
It too was spiritual
and really vague,
but we all got caught
up in it  -  it was
romantic, how we
repudiated everything  -
all that 'middle-class'
stuff, or whatever it
all was called then
 -  society only
really had a top
class, NY Aristocrats,
with all the old,
founding money
and class and soirees
and drawing rooms
and clubs; at the
other extreme (for
 that's really all
there was) was
the totally down
and out bottom
people  -  from
areas like 5 Points,
the riversides, the
shanty towns in
the woods, and
the endless swarms
of new arrivals in
the crowded, funky,
fetid, dripping,
awful and stacked
tenements and old
run-down homes,
and the old abandoned
mansions and things,
after the Panic of
1837 left a lot of
stuff bare and empty.
Smallpox. Cholera.
The people with
money really began
scramming, uptown  -
building new streets
and palatial new
homes, of stone.
It was something.
It was all physical,
hard  -  because
that was what they
were tuned in on,
it was their reality.
None of it was
for us  -  holding
money and system
in contempt and
getting as many
'alternate' work
and living arrangements
as we could -  male
and female, all or
none, or both. Every
so often, someone
would be killed,
or have to be killed.
For varied reasons.
Clapp got here and
started somehow
gathering us all up.
These guys, as
myself, were from
somewhere entirely
other. There were
worlds melding
and joining and
dissolving away.
How else do you
think a place like
1840's New York
and Manahatta (as
Walter had it) got
going? We had
Fitz-Hugh Ludlow,
who wrote 'The
Hashish Eater,'
and we had a girl/guy
(I was never sure),
with the fake name
of Ada Clare, famous
anyway, by that name,
even though it was
nothing more than
a dashing put on  -
'I Declare,' who wrote
torrid love poems
and scenes that managed
to scandalize everyone
about. This fat,
Swiss-German guy
named Charles Pfaff
opened this beer hall,
as I recall 647 Broadway,
 maybe 653 later (it
changed) by Bleecker.
Part rathskeller,
part underground
grotto, it had an
eerie Euro-feel,
with steps down
and again into a
-like rear room,
which was essentially
given over to us.
Coffees, beers, fine
wines, cheeses. Rich,
German beers; old
world stuff. We argued,
we fought, drank and
ate, read things back
and forth, and, as I
said, Walt Whitman
became our local
patron saint, most
 always there. The
departed Poe was
actually the first
'patron saint,' but he
was gone and Whitman
took it over. Didn't
talk as much as we'd
have liked, but was
the 'reigning luminary'
nonetheless. Luminary
has to do with 'Light,'
so remember the
subject of this chapter
as I started it out.
Aliens bring light
-  and it's light that's
not our spectrum; you
see they also bring
new colors. Colors
you've not seen
before and would
never imagine
existed. It's like
saying there are
26 letters to your
alphabet. Why
the limit?
Whitman once
wrote, in the
middle of some
other stuff -
"The vault at
Pfaff's where
the drinkers
and laughers
/ meet to eat
and drink and
carouse / while
on the walk
overhead pass
the myriad /
feet of
Ok, well now,
that was that  -
lives overlap
and the most
dense and smokey
of shaded areas
eventually clear
up and air out.
You'll see. In
any case, we
jump to 1967,
and Rarleighbourne
Fishbein, Negotiator
for Extra-Terrestrials
 catches up to me
in a cross-town
tavern. I've told
some of this in a
way-past chapter,
but I relate some
more of it. I told
how he was
lighting the ends
of his cigarette
with a finger. I
told how his
money never disappeared,
just kept coming
back again, onto
the table, as he'd
pay, yet he was
always paid up,
how his beer mug,
always being drunk
from, never went
down. OK. He'd
drawn me over  -
he said he drew
me in to the place,
which he may
very well have
done because I'd
never been there
before and couldn't
figure out why
I was  -  and he
begins re-telling
my story, to me.
He's naming y
ears and places,
lives ago, influences
 and memories. It
was all pretty startling.
He said I didn't
know it yet, but
I would  -  who he
was and why, how
I was here and
why, what was
up BUT, he said
at that point he
simply needed
to fill me in on
the 'present.'
Which meant
our shared 1967,
I guess. If we
use numbers  -
which we didn't
always use.
He said our shared
origination was a
location called
somehow more
like 'Bremer'
than anything.
He said that he
came and went,
checking on
things, with
small tasks  -
like helping someone,
or taking them away,
when their 'cover'
was blown, when
the fact was out
that they were
'alien' as it were,
and not part of
this earthly locus
and vibe. It happened
enough, he said, to
keep him running.
He would 'do'
whatever ever it
took; thus the
'Negotiator for'
thing. I had,
according to
him, a longer
task at hand,
presently, than
he was used to,
but he'd be
watching me
as well, sending
me ideas and words.
What he called my
'Treasure Links.'
He told me to
work carefully
and with prime
and full awareness,
get my work done,
realize what it was,
understand the
messages and
movements, and
stand clear of
both time and
trouble. Well,
OK. Then, and
this is where
I should have
removed myself...
He began : "We,
on our plane of
being, are not
born of others.
We are not really
even born, since
we constantly
are, deriving and
altering, as it
were. Roles and
meanings. What
it comes down
to is we are
'words.' We are
formed and
selected, first,
as words to be,
and incarnated
for that purpose
-  embodying our
'word' which is
filled with the
possible, and
engaging that
'word' in all its
aspects of our
working psyche.
Earthly life, entwined
with current and
time, as it is, has
to be experienced.
Unlike other planes,
without being
'experienced' tactile,
profound, tangible,
it does NOT exist.
That the Earth-pull,
unlike others, is
not a strong enough
one to be existent
on its own. It fails.
People upon it,
within the frame
of it, die. Human
wither, and cannot
withstand the pressures.
The 'acceptable' route
then is the apparent
visibility of 'Death'
in all its manifestations.
It/they (both LIFE 
and DEATH), here 
must be experienced
in order to have 
essence and reality. 
Formation. Symbolism, 
as it were, which 
takes the shape 
and form of that 
which it symbolizes. 
Everything in this 
life is a symbol 
for itself, for 
something else, 
some other, stronger 
version of its 
reality in another 
sphere. We live 
amidst symbols.
Everything else 
done on earth is 
merely a symbol, 
an urge, towards 
completion  -  a 
blind completion. 
Everything, a symbol; 
from rocket ships 
and atoms and 
bowling balls 
and cigarettes, 
to religion and 
death and family 
and heart."
That's what he 
said, and there 
was lots more. 
Personal stuff 
too, which was 
And then, lastly, 
he said this  - which 
baffled me, then, 
and now still baffles 
me. "Each [person]
on Earth is born as 
a word; nothing 
more, a word. 
Many sense this, 
but never get to 
the bottom of it, 
nor 'find' that 
word. It's different 
for everyone, and 
represents different, 
entire schemes 
for everyone. 
None but a few 
are given their 
word so openly, 
as I give you 
yours now, and 
then leave. YOUR 
word, your life, 
all your world, 
is 'implacable.' It 
is yours; grow 
into it and realize 
it was presented 
to you by your 
creator  -  and
by it you shall 
be judged."
And then he 
was gone.

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