325. USED TWICE
I lived in a secret
kingdom, one that
hadn't yet really
been built. Or
that's how I felt
anyway. Streets
and places that
are strange to a
person somehow
seem to be less
inviting than the
usual old haunts,
but they hold
much more mystery
- and for me that
was the kind of
strange thing I
fell into immediately.
Very difficult to
explain. For people
born there, the
sights and places
of New York City
have different values,
from the get-go; they
hold no specialness,
they just are : 'There's
the corner store where
we get our eggs and
groceries; there's the
place we sometimes
eat at; and over there
is the store where I
buy my shoes, and
next to him is my
shirts and belts guy.'
The most simple
junk. All plain and
ordinary because of
its boring familiarity.
Hard to believe. For
me, it was all a
treasure-hole,
something perfect
I could fall into and
be taken away from.
Any doctor, even
the NY Municipal
Medical ones, would
have said I was crazy.
But not for me, I'd
already ruined it all
for myself by arranging
those historic ghost
corridors and almost
spiritual places. I'd
have to be saying,
'No, no. This was
the corner where
the old Langston
Hotel stood; next
to the grocer who
lent Poe money;
down that street
was one of Hart
Crane's apartments,
where Harry and
Charmain Crosby
lived, his friends
and backers. Just
east of that is
where Wendell
Marchesa died
in that hold-up
after his play's
opening night.
Over there, on
Bedford. was
one of the places
Delmore Schwartz
lived. There, there,
that's where Nathan
Hale was executed.'
I guess you see
what I mean...and
I only kept that to
recent literary history.
Beyond that, it
went everywhere,
200 years back,
raw land, hilly and
rocky outcrops, the
small Indian villages,
the waterways and
the old, original
coastline. All of
that was in my
head, you see,
and it could
never be dislodged.
I lived through a
different fabric
of place and time
and being. It was
very difficult to
share that or properly
communicate it to
others. It is what
crazy men are
made off.
-
'The lower depths
of the densely
populated inner-city,
which carried such
a charge of social
anxiety, (1850),
threatened to
re-emerge as a
waste land, an
outer zone of
random residential
and commercial
development largely
created by the
increasing number
of factories located
to the north of the
built-up areas of
the city. An unsanitary
cordon of slaughterhouses,
milk distilleries,
bone-boiling
establishments,
hog-pens, and
dung-heaps. The
foulest imagination
could not give
form and expression
to the countless
and monstrous
shapes of filth,
obscenity, and
abomination of
which they are
the home. Golgotha,
Gehenna, and the
midnight revels
of graveyard ghouls
at their un-nameable
feasts, united, could
not furnish a scene
to compare with them.
Struggling half-built
streets, with shabby
stores, lumber-yards,
heaps of rubbish,
petty wooden shacks
and houses, and a
general aspect of
filth and disorder.'
Yes, well folks,
that was the factual
re-telling of the
presence of mid-19th
century, early NYC -
Sixth to Eighth Avenue,
between 14th, 28th
and 35th today;
either side of
Eighth Avenue in
the 40's; and on
the east side, Third
Avenue, 24th thru
35th, today. That's
what it was all like,
and that's where I
lived. All those
places held me
in their thrall.
I never wised
to leave and
there was no
present day.
-
My friends were
rag-men and bone
collectors. Their
daughters, though
poor, were fair
and cheery. The
sons, dragging
and rugged : horses
and more, wagons
and carts.
-
I'd manage to get
back to the Studio
School, from my
off-time, and always
found ways to
dedicate myself
right back into
that work. I was
determined to
pound myself to
death, if need be,
to attain what I
sought. My studio
mate was some
strange, straight,
Jewish guy from
Montclair, with the
name of 'Mike.' He
was just a guy, it
didn't matter religion
or creed, he had his
calling : he painted
soldiers. Yes, you
read that right, he
painted soldiers.
Just think of that,
from the viewpoint
of my timeless soul,
battered and ramming
through 300 years
of past and an island's
history, in all its fury,
to end up there. There!
In a room, a space to
paint, unfettered,
in a studio of my
own. With a guy
named Mike, who
painted soldiers. In
all seriousness.
He painted military
men, perhaps
half-life-sized,
maybe three feet
high - canvases -
the guys were not
sitting for portrait
or anything, but just
standing, staring
out, on a sandy
field, or next to
a tank or something,
in a setting, but still,
no action depicted, no
moving about.
Fully-uniformed,
perfectly done,
all the medals
and ribbons and
those colored bars
of stuff they wear
on the chests and
shoulders. I never
grasped, could not
figure it out - and
we never really
spoke intently of
it, it was too far-out.
We never actually
interacted that
much anyway;
some days he'd
sit around, smoking,
and we'd talk about
the bus ride or the
train, mine and his
- his, to Montclair
(he went quite regularly,
like to a schedule,
weekends and all;
didn't seem to do
much else, and I
don't know where
he stayed in the
city. Nothing). Or
he'd talk about
Montclair. Not
much else. Once
or twice I can
remember us
going on about
a gallery show
or this or that,
art-talk, ideas.
His soldiers always
threw me, I never
knew if this was
a military thing, a
fixation, an anti-war
or pro-war viewpoint,
Just never knew.
They had nearly
perfect fidelity to
the imagined reality
of a strong-jawed
and determined
soldier staring
straight out. I
guess that was
good, like a painted
Campbell Soup Can
was good, or a Brillo
Box. Maybe. I should
have asked more.
I should have delved.
Now I can't even
remember the
guy's full name.
-
When they laid
out New York City
- the commissioner's
Plan of 1811, whatever
it was, there was,
immediately a conflict
between realms of
thought. I could
sense that battle.
The rational, of course,
won out, not the romantic.
The grid plan of straight,
10th of a mile, numbered
streets running east and
west, along the up and
down running north/south
avenues, all squared
and numbered to make
a relatively simple
map, all of that was
for after the geography
first was tussled and
destroyed. It was all
done for business and
the ease of commerce.
I knew that too, and
sensed it walking.
This had once been
a real place, crags
and heights and
boulders and landscapes
made of dips and
hollows and stony
rises, a flow up and
from, and down and
to, the rivers and
streams all throughout.
Each side was lined
with its own river,
and in between were
the brooks and streams
and ponds and pools
of a jagged, natural
landscape. Some
places higher, others
lower. Swamps and
fens. All gone. It was
only by a great
public-works effort
and as a means of
getting the indigent
rabble up and off
the streets and doing
instead some sort of
public works for
pennies that all
this got going :
pick and axe and
shovel, barrels and
wagons loaded with
material. All those
rocks and boulders
moved, cut, things
leveled. It was a
massive, monstrous,
and seemingly crazy
undertaking for all
those years. 'There
were scarecly any
buildings at all on
Fifth Avenue above
25th Street. When
William Waddell's
Gothic villa went
up on Fifth Ave.
between 37th and
38th Streets in 1845,
it was reached along
a dirt road from
the northern side
of Washington Square.
From the tower of
the house it was
possible to see both
rivers.' I began studying
all that, paging through
and reading the great
books all night - tales
and re-tellings of old
gaslight New York,
the stories of the
wagon-men and
the night-porters
and those who
hauled and carried,
the rich and the poor,
all massed together.
It was a grand mess,
and I realized no
one really even
knew of this any
more. Thy walked
over a land of the
dead they'd not
even thought of.
Potter's fields,
military drill
grounds, execution
grounds, forts and
camps, slave
shacks and squatters'
sheds. It was crazy
and unheard of,
the seated reality
beneath of all of
what I saw daily.
Minetta Brook,
an unspoken ghost
now just a street
name, and a lane.
At least it had
gotten used twice,
Each morning, as
the sun rose again,
I swear, the island
breathed.
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