9865. RUDIMENTS, pt. 51

RUDIMENTS, pt. 51

Making Cars

I'm never done, and when I'm done

I'm not over, so be advised. When I

lived in Elmira, a few blocks in from

the central campus of the college, the

Octagonal writing building, about the

size of a big shed, with lots of glass as

windows all around, with, inside,

a bench and a desk and one of Twain's

last, old typewriters. The writing shed

had been a family gift to him and had

originally been located at Quarry Farm,

where they spent some time, about

4 miles out of town. Back then all that

was real country, and they would

'Summer' there, as it was put. It was

moved, with some celebration, onto

the college grounds and a few plaques

went up about it being 'Mark Twain's

writing studio, where he wrote and

finished up Huckleberry Finn, while

'Summering' in Elmira. Big civic pride

thing  -  of course he's buried here too.

I used to say 'Simmering' in Elmira,

more'n likely. I've since read it was,

even as he used it, which he did, covered

with cats, some 10 or so who lived there,

jumping up onto things lounging on the

desk areas as he write, etc. (See, I told

you Mark Twain wrote in  a cat house).

-

The thing that's different about those

days, and those times  -  and I simply

use Mark Twain as my example or

point man because I'm most familiar

with him  -  is that he was one angry

dude, and allowed to express that in

his unique way. People were different,

and times and fame were different too.

The entire 'Mark Twain' thing he did

was a theater : not much of that would

come across now. Everyone now tries

to go for high and ironic sophistication,

but back in his day the best things were

gotten across as a rube, a yokel. Like that

entire homespun voice thing of his. Now,

I myself could try that now, but before the

smoke would clear from the smokehouse

and bunkhouse too, I'd be found out like

a catfish in a barn. There's no tarrin' a man

too good for lyin' and making stuff up. The

Devil himself should come and try to arrange

the punishment, for it's too great for me to

do. No simpler anger ever existed that the

anger of a man betrayed.

-

See what I mean, that's the voice and the

e-locution of someone that's parrying a

thrust to make a point with. You want to

listen slow, but it's too engaging and you

end up wanting to listen fast. That's a bit

of the charm  -  once you capture an

audience like that  -  even if it's in a tent

and they're sitting on straw  -  they're

yours. And in Twain's case all that big

panoply of posture and horse-sense kind

of talking covered over a world of sin and

anger. Nay, almost despair. It's a wonder

the man never did kill himself. It's too bad

he's not read now nearly as much as he

ought to be. Everything's against him. In

Huckleberry Finn alone the word 'Nigger'

is used at east 200 times. And oh, how they

tried to cleanse it all  -  turning it, in contrast,

into a sweet-chuckle library book for boys and

girls. Over the years, in  fact, now nothing

more than a boys' adventure-raft library

book. He wrote something called 'Letters

From the Earth - Uncensored Writings'
that could blister your heart with its anger

and venom. He wrote, 'The Mysterious

Stranger,' and 'The Diary of Adam and

Eve,' and 'The Personal Recollections of

Joan of Arc,' and 'On the Damned Human

Race.' This guy was a pitiful pratfall, a

raging rube, a 'sure and angry yokel.'

I honestly think there are people today

who live in a fantasy world in which all

are the same, and nice, and nothing 'wrong'

or untoward can ever be uttered  -  let

alone that someone should call you out,

or a group, or whatever, for what it is.

That sort of thinking and behavior 

reminds me of nothing more than the

music of Jacques Offenbach, some French

lilting happy-kick group music that never

wants to stop and in which everyone is

reduced to their own stupid status of

Muppet. All that communitarian 'it takes

a village' crap. In my own experience of

long years of bookstore work, in two 

different, major, locales, the only thing

that sort of junk is good for is selling book,

ginning up the store and sales-floor and sales-

staff to go on peddling supposed 'enlightened'

kid's books pushing the dumb premise.

More insidious than anything ever done,

or just as, in the name of a negative value.

There's a certain form of blindness, you

see, that thinks  -  and then demands  - 

 that everyone begin seeing the same

thing they do.

-

What was cool about Mark Twain was

how he played off this dark side and sold 

his 'I too can be a clown' bill of goods to 

the world. When the world was still small.

As it got big it never got 'better,' just uglier.

Mark Twain managed it  -  to be known

without that 'dark' side, which was really

the constant string that tied him to (his) 

Hell, and all people really ended up 

knowing was the dumb, happy balloon

he floated off that string, a sometimes

art bit of colored nothing. Sometimes

not. The persona of Mark Twain that

you and I know, and are presented with, 

is the light and jocular one that covers

over everything else. The guy was a

furnace. A volcano. And, man, he died

miserable. 

-

Remember the Elvis stuff, last chapter? 

They tried all that with him too, and it failed.

They used him to actually try and 'advance'

their dumb idea of rebelliousness, as if they

were wishing for trouble. He missed that boat,

and just turned into their goon. It took another 

decade, at least, before the real shine hit the

mirror. By then it was all over.