328. GHOSTLAND
OF SHIPTOWN
'Here, where everybody
says that all men are
equal, and everybody
is afraid they will be,
I stood outside of
all things.' Well, that's
what it all felt like
anyway. I admit it
all came to nothing.
I could have been
standing anywhere
to say all the big
things in the world,
and it wouldn't have
mattered. I was a
mole, an underground
being, anything but
a catalyst for others.
As I re-visit places
of my past - and I
do often enough,
especially in the
city, because they're
there - it all seems
so incredibly different
now. I suppose, as
when you're six years
old and every snowfall
seems like 10 feet,
it's all about perspective.
Direct connection.
When you're eventually
5'10" instead of 4',
you realize you're a
bit above all of that
ground-effects stuff
and things take another
sense of reality. It's like
that, too, with growing
up and returning. New
eyes, taking in same
scenes, but they're
all appearing different.
And, yet, they are
different too. In
my case, a hundred
times different.
Bryant Park different
- that's the place, in
1967, you couldn't
breath because they'd
steal your breath, and
by 1974 if you went
in there, by night, the
drug dudes would string
you up. It was dark
always. It was a whole
terrain of mad junglemen
and even the cops
had given it up.
It might have been
Hell. That's how I
remember it, and
today's Bryant Park
bears absolutely no
resemblance to
what was there.
The huge concrete
pediments of the
library and park
wall on the south
side, 41st street,
used to seem to
be underground
to me, they were
so massive and
the place was so
dark and dangerous.
Today, your average
three-year-old kid
could be left there
for two hours alone
and it would be safe.
I'm not usually in
favor of that sort
of stuff, because
it just ends up to
be Mickey Mouse
and bubbly-happy
- and Bryant Park
is like that now too
- but it least it was
saved, something
of it, from death. It was
so bad it could easily
have been leveled
and built upon as
a solution to the ills,
Instead, they fixed
it, re-did it completely,
and now it's a happy
tourist ground for
4000 people an
hour to stroll, eat,
talk, do yoga (outdoor
classes), music, skating,
Winter ice-skating,
laptops and laptop
stations, and crowds.
International crowds.
And a carousel too.
It's incredible. All
my memories,
however, source
back to my original
days there, and those
are still the ones I
wish for. The ones
I'd rather see. You
can have the present,
it's too generic for me.
I'd much rather be
furtive than festive.
Story of my life.
-
In the previous chapter
I was writing about the
maritime, sea and water
aspects of New York
City - and they were
strong and vital, even
in '67. All the piers and
docks, many of them
functioning, were still
in place then - working,
ships coming and going,
freight and cargo, daily,
it was all very busy. Both
of the rivers down my
way, the southern end
of the island, and all
the way up both
sides too. Corlears
Hook was still
making boats, there
were (there's one
left now that I know
of) ship and marine
repair shops and
supply shops.
The entire area
of what now is
all schlubbed up
as 'South Street Seaport'
(a big, festive lie), was
eerie and out of date.
You could walk
through there and
be transported, and
I mean it, to another
era without even blinking,
or believing. It was a
'ghostland of shiptown.'
There was a bell-toll
monument to the
Titanic, old cotton
exchanges, slave
markets, things like
India House, where
the dock merchants
would meet and
haggle and barter
over their lunches
and dinners. (Now
it's just a rich-man's
dining club). I can't
explain more, it's
just all different,
and mostly dead
too. Make believe,
wanting to wish it
were so. Pretending
it is. Vicarious living,
at the expense of
nothing at all.
Everything I knew
about the place I
learned from learning
about it : Swaggering
Yankee merchants.
Schooner captains.
Flying clippers from
the farthest east.
Everything seemed
flavored with 'bootleg
mayhem and Brooklynese.'
Movie starlets crossing
their silken legs before
newsreel men on the
promenade decks of
Atlantic Greyhounds,
the massive crossing-ships
of the sea. High-bridge
tugs, with big rubber
fronts. Ferry boats,
sliding slowly west,
across the Hudson,
to dingy New Jersey
destinations with
aboriginal names.
A harbor of history;
Ellis Island, sailing
ships, police and
fire boats, immigrant
hoistings, teary
farewells or hellos,
wartime troopships
and contracted
packet boats.
Cordswains and
rigging ropes.
-
I never minded
using my time
for learning like
this : art and
creativity, they
too had to have
a real basis in
something. Otherwise,
as with irony and
coyness, it just became
wise-ass art, joking
and cloying with
empty emotion.
Pop Art. Venal Art.
Art with nothing
beneath it. Same
with writing.
Same with thought.
I wanted treasure,
and like any Sinbad
I was setting out
to find it by digging.
Treasure maps be
damned; I'd dig
anywhere I chose.
-
I had to be intelligent
to make my work
intelligent. It was a
strategy, but it
never really worked
out. Everything I
relate here, of my
own life and time I
mean, did eventually
crash-land. Failed.
I lost out. Got nowhere,
and eventually turned
into, for too many years,
a regular working guy,
a wage-earner stiff. I
hated every moment
of that, but I did
it because I was still
learning. One of
those drones, from
the time when drones
meant miserable,
suffering, ordinary
people : not the
silly things we have
flying around now.
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