298. A WANT OF PLACE
'Eve, I've dreamed
of apples again.' I
often thought about
things like that,
dreams and all
the rest, when I
considered 'Life'
and what it may
be, or have been,
or could be. In
Ithaca, the entire
time I was there,
something was
always hanging
in the air -
maybe Ithaca was
a spiritual place,
somewhat more
than others, or
maybe it was
just all those
international
types of people
walking around
on the high hills
of the campus.
What was really
funny was the
'cliche' of
Chinese people
- as seen in
San Francisco
vignettes, etc.,
(I hadn't been
there, to San
Francisco yet,
at that time)
with their funny
little footsteps
and determined,
brisk walk-paces
up and down the
hills. In Ithaca,
that was certainly
real, brought to
life, and not so
cliched. There
were plenty
of Asians,
doing just
that. It was
almost an
imaginary
place, as of
a dream-scape
creation. And
there really
were little
people constantly
in motion, up
and down the
hills, with their
deliberate, anxious,
fast steps. There
were rocks and
walls everywhere,
twisty lanes and
paths. Any person
certainly felt
that they were
a real part of
the geography
there. Cars
were mostly an
afterthought,
especially in
Winter and
Winter's storms
- sideways,
failing about,
people AND
cars. The idea
of heights and
hills really
made you
think. Made
me think (I
don't know
about you).
It just cleared
the head -
there's something
about a non-straight
line by which to get
somewhere that
brings out the
animal instinct
of thought, some
more primitive
and basic
mannerism
that's within
each of us.
The landscape
sings to our souls
- for want of 'place'
so many of us
remain disgruntled.
You could certainly
feel that there.
-
Up or over
anyway, at
the other part
of town - in
a farther-off
direction, coming
in, from the
Elmira side,
as it were -
there was this
crazy Buddhist
halfway house
type thing. I've
written of it
before, either
in an early
chapter here
or in one of
the other two
books on all
this subject
and era - (I'm
intending on
calling this
'Three Lives,'
all together.
It's one life,
but told three
different times
in three different
ways, in one
volume, and
with different
incidences. A
good compilation.
And it shall be very
unique). As was this
Buddhist house - a
twisty old house,
lots of it, rooms and
space, filled with
a fairly motley
assortment of
recovering addicts,
hippies, criminals
and, even weirder,
Buddhist monks
- real ones -
who took care
of them. They
sold pies and
cookies and
clothing. Pottery.
All sorts of
bizarre goings-
on. We stopped
most every time
- to visit. Inside
it was curtained,
incense'd, dim,
meditation music
always going,
pillows, chairs,
couches, all
quiet otherwise;
wispy, fragile girls
and guys, everybody
seemed hurt and
wounded, as if we
were in a den
of young, vulnerable
deer who'd been
winged by gunshot
and were getting
better, slowly.
The crazy monks,
all they ever
seemed to do
was smile and
bow, funny
monk grins on
all their faces,
hands always
held together
in front of their
bodies. Our son
was about five
then, and they
all doted and
fussed, each
time, as if he
was the center
of (their) attraction.
It had about it
all a sense of
comfortable
simplicitude,
I thought - as
if they accepted
us, and him,
because we never
brought them any
problems and
they could become
children for the
hour, with the
child we always
presented.
Pretty strange.
-
For myself,
on the other
hand, I was
dark matter,
a black hole,
compared to
them - it would
drive me nuts,
these people.
All I'd think
about was
how could
anyone be so
distant and
naive about
things to live
like this. So
fragile. That
stupid-grin
happiness had
to be fake. I
thought about
sex, constantly
- all these people,
who was doing
whom, what
were all these
sweet girls up
to, how did it
all work? Even
today, when I
see his sort of
thing, or the
Dalai Lama
or any of that
stuff, I wonder
what the heck
is possibly going
on with these
people. Where's
the animal in such
a freak show? Or
is it just me?
I think 'where
must these
people be,'
now, 45 years
later give or
take - did they
make it out of
their mess, did
they survive? Did
they manage to
salvage anything,
or build something
new? Are they
the old parents
now of the
children they'd
seemed to wish
for then? I've
revisited that
house, just 6
months back,
and it's now just
a vacant ghost
on the side of an
expanded and
newly busy highway
- weedy, overgrown
abandoned, and
painful to see.
I'd a' cried, if
I had a damn
tear left in me.
My life has
turned dowdy
and dense, but
I've got dreams,
and memories,
to go on.
No comments:
Post a Comment