9153. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt. 320

320. DINING

In about 1972 there

was a book written

by someone named

A. Alvarez. The

title was 'Suicide:

The Savage God.'

It was something

like that, and it was

written, in its way,

about the, or bouncing

off of the, suicide of

Sylvia Plath, poet,

who'd taken her own

life  -  head in the

oven, while her two

small children in

the room next over,

slept. Yes, the usual

bizarre circumstances,

poetry-style, all that

gnarling and gnashing

of teeth. He had been

a friend of hers, and

I guess being effected

by this death launched

him off onto this

academic study of

suicide. It never made

much sense to me, the

entire subject, but a bit

later, up in the wilds of

Pennsylvania, the idea

of the whole thing caught

me up, and, in Ithaca at

one of the university

bookstores that then

dotted the landscape,

I bought a copy.

(An aside : Ithaca,

the word, 'Ithaca',

whenever I was up

there, reminded me,

and wanted to make

me say, Ithacaca instead

- based on Machu Picchu,

in Peru, an old Incan

site of great importance

and much mystery  -

which too always

intriqued me, even

moreso once I

connected it with

inter-alien Gods

and space-travel  -

because it was located

at Lake Titicaca, as

Ithaca was at Lake

Cayuga). The book

was way out of

place, of course,

in my Pennsylvania

farmhouse. As was

anything of that ilk:

intellectual or academic

stuff. To wit, we often

played 'classical' music 

on our phonograph  -  

Stern-Rose-Istoman Trio 

stuff, Chopin, DeFalla, 

and the rest  -  but never 

let it really be heard or

get out (isolated far, as 

we were). A safe-house 

for 'strange' music, as 

it were. So it was too 

with this book. A study 

of suicide indeed. Of 

course, that all changed 

some too, after old 

John Harkness, aged 75 

or 80, took his own life 

by dangling himself 

from the end of a 

rope from the loft

in his barn. It was 

always difficult for 

me to fathom an 

old guy like that 

doing himself in, 

but he did. The 

modern world had 

cut him to the quick. 

He was like an old 

Amish type in his 

ways  - sour, determined, 

straight-to-task and 

no humor about it. 

John was tough, old 

American material, 

and it was hard to 

see him go. But, 

suicide's door 

opened a crack 

at that occurrence.

I've walked around 

ever since with one-eye 

open and checking for 

that. There have been 

a few more, suicides,

in my life, since then. 

But not me. Frankly, 

I can't be bothered. 

Alvarez had his 

way with the concept, 

pretty well. Now 

I'll need to go re-read, 

before flapping my 

gums over what he 

did or didn't say. 

But my point is 

(was) that certain 

things remain foreign

to one's own life, 

unless they're a real 

part of it from the 

get-go. This was not. Yet,

this whole 'savage-God' 

thing was always far-off 

from me. And anyway, 

as I saw it, John's 

suicide solved 

nothing, made it 

worse in fact for the 

survivors  - leaving 

behind a bewildered 

and broken old woman 

(wife) and his 50 year 

old or whatever daughter, 

just angry and frustrated 

about the whole thing. 

Pretty tough; even 

though he got a 

big funeral and a 

massive send-off. 

I think they even

named one or 

two things, locally, 

after him as well.

-

The thing about 

funerals, and weddings 

too, even up there, 

was that those were 

the two instances 

when most people 

heard classical music, 

and didn't even know it.

it. There was only so much 
of that crazy hearthrob 
country/western stuff one 
could take, and pop music 
itself was a joke. I used to tell 
people  that if they played 
a country-western record 
backwards, the guy gets 
his dog, his car, and his
woman back. They actually
th0ught I'd made that up.
So it was funny to have to
be reticent about being

found out for this 'classical'

 'music, out in the middle 

of nowhere anyway. 

But then some movie 

came along in which 

'Bolero' by Ravel was

 the main theme or 

something, and 

everyone soon got 

hip. Funny world. 

Or funny me  -  or 

as that old, driving 

blues song goes  - 

'now you funny too.' 

So Alvarez's book 

is there, sitting on 

my countryside shelf, 

among all the other 

folderol books I'd 

brought along  -  

which were mostly 

old volumes bought 

in Fourth Avenue, 

Book Row, NYC 

bookshops. This 

was way before the 

time of all the 

megastore, book-store 

super-selection stuff, 

like Barnes & Noble 

which those two 

Riggio Brothers 

stared later on, in  

a few years anyway. 

Fifth Avenue and 

19th Street, I think 

it was -  the first 

one I remember. 

I'd spend hours in 

there -   it was really 

huge, something new, 

the entire idea, portioned 

by section, remainders, 

seconds, new-titles 

no longer new, nice 

discounts. New York 

City, about 1978, 

really started coming 

around again with 

the book trade. It 

was nice. But, anyway, 

that was in the future

 at this time, I still 

had to muffle and 

hide my strange 

books. Or, I could 

just throw a copy 

of 'Pennsylvania 

Farmer'  -  a big, 

over-sized monthly 

magazine I subscribed 

to  -  over it. Learn 

about silos and feed, 

hay and manure 

and tractors. 

Yeah man!

-

 I used to like 

to make up words. 

Like 'how could 

you take your own 

life when there 

were so many 

weirdidities around 

you to check out and 

learn about? See what 

I mean? Even in my 

worst days, that stuff 

kept me alive, kept 

me from jumping. 

The preclusiverance 

of the ambiotic 

interest-level in the 

constantly protruded 

necklision of the 

strangliness within 

the frequensities 

of the real and 

authentic world.' 

So, what do you 

know about that: 

writers tell what 

must not be told.

-

Strolling down any 

street in NYCity, 

there were always 

girls. Girls in the 

city occupy a singular 

place in my theology. 

A perfect one-ness, 

in that there's really 

nothing like them. 

Bundled and battered, 

in Winter, by coats 

and scarves and hats 

and gloves, boots and 

wraps, it's a wonderful 

sight. The more that's

covered-up, the more

that becomes mysterious 

and intriguing. Even 

in 1968, that was true. 

That first Winter was 

so freezingly btter-cold; 

the Hudson froze over, 

great heaving chunks 

of ice, when they 

finally broke, would 

be seen making their 

way out to the harbor,  

with the noise and the 

groan of ice too. Creaking

and smashing, at 15 or

20 miles per hour. It was 

unique, and all around 

it was so cold. There 

was no chance for 

skin to even be bared, 

without the blueness 

of frostbite hitting in 

about 15 minutes. 

There were homeless

types all around there, 

living in the backs 

of trucks, mostly  -  

abandoned crates, 

rear cargo-section 

of broken down 

trucks, barrel-fires, 

anything to get warm. 

It never stopped some 

of them from their 

adventures in the

skin-trade, but that 

was their problem. 

There used to be 

a big trucker's diner 

down there  -  not like 

a highway truck stop, 

no, but I mean big for 

NYC, in that it was 

maybe three or four 

businesses wide, 

like 4 brownstones 

of width, with a 

glass front, and 

an actual parking 

area too. Playful, 

totally cliched 

waitresses, with 

the pencil at the

ear, the whole bit. 

Not too much New 

York about it  -  the 

truck guys would 

slosh in and get 

their grub. It was, 

unlike the Village 

Diner that I've 

written of previous, 

in other chapters; 

more just really for 

car people, or truck 

people, passing thru 

or passing along. Not 

real new Yorkers; 

and it showed. Like 

the Munson Diner  -  

used to be, up by 51st, 

at Ninth or Tenth Ave. 

That was a diner-car 

unit, one of those 

metal shells built 

for diner use, and 

by, finally, the 

mid-nineties it 

got purchased 

and was rolled 

away to Missouri or 

somewhere. People 

out there, in interviews, 

were getting all excited 

about eating in a diner 

that used to be in NYCity! 

Imagine that. If they only 
knew it was actually just a 
late-night hangout for the 
taxi guys and local whores to 
stop in and get warm while
streetwalking their wares. 
Yeah, that'd warm some 
Missouri hearts. That's 

right by the area at 

Clinton Park where 

they keep, and kept 

then too, the horse 

and carriage stuff  -  

maintenance on the 

wagons and all. It used 

to also be a motorcycle 

place, for years, called 

CamRod Motors. All 

gone. Funny how things 

change  -  it's not change 

really, it's more just like 

death. Except, 'things' 

and 'places'  -  isn't it 

funny  -  can't commit 

suicide, can't do it 

to themselves. They 

need us to do it

to them.