10,006. RUDIMENTS, pt. 89

RUDIMENTS, pt. 89

Making Cars

Sometimes I used to think the life I
saw was not much more than a constant
do-over, mostly by the same people (a
vast 'everyone'), repeating themselves
while trying to convince each their that 
their acts and rituals meant something. 
Frankly, it was all up in the air and 
anything could (can) always be said
to signify whatever you wish to have it
signify. That was the 'cinch' on everything
that the real, normal, world tried to
constantly keep tightened. As much as
possible, tight. Sometimes so sinfully
tight that even a smile between strangers
could be misconstrued.  I remember one
street-murder guy confessing, as to why had
he lunged at someone and stabbed with a
knife : 'He smiled at me.' I guess things like
that are why we have laws, and cops. That
sort of broken faith that yet endures was
always curious  -  and sorrow-filled  -  to me.
- Another thing I noticed was how people
 kept going back to the well, time after time,

even after they knew the pail had no bottom
and wouldn't hold water. That too was part of
the constant do-over, the 'repeat-behavior'
I've mentioned previously. It wouldn't have
mattered, and there was never that level of

introspection in them to be considering any

of all this. Even with their apparent strict 
belief in logic and sequence, it all passed

them by   -  the fact that their packaged 
beliefs were all untrue. That was always one 
of the things that made me the saddest. Odd 
to say, and probably considered rude too  - 
how all these people struggled, broke their 
proverbial backs, adhering and clinging to
all these sad, old-world beliefs. I'd have 
thought that would be one of the first things 
to go after leaving the old world  - I knew it
would have been for me (what is this vaunted
'Freedom' all about anyway? I used to mutter
that they changed or mistake 'Freedom' to 
'Freedoom'). But they narrowed in on it,
it seemed, even more, as it somehow
replenished their sense of worth or 
belonging to something to burrow down
deeper of and within their own people 
and old ways. I suppose, in our 'today' 
world, it's little different from the way we 
see, around here anyway, all these new
immigrant-entry Hindus and Muslims
in their native clothes and such, which 
usually last for six or eight months, after 
which time you begin seeing the same people,
uncomfortable, in their first attempts at
ill-fitting, and poorly-fit and colored, local
slacks and shirts, etc. From Ganesh to
gaberdine, as it were.
-
I had to make sense of all that, on my

own, in order to continue. Over on St. 
Mark's Place, (which had become like
my own Main Street of weirdness  -  
every local village outrage or quirk ended 
up there. It was a real monster-Bazaar at 
all hours, and one could learn very quickly
there, as well, any local behavior needed to fit
in). Around Eastertime of that first year, I 
witnessed two different events when the 
cap was figuratively blown from the top of
my head. There were two separate Sundays,

at this little Polish parish, across the street 
there from the Polish National Home - a

sort of apartment building and baths  -  and

next to, a few doors over, from what later 
became The Electric Circus, of hippie,

Andy Warhol, and Velvet Underground
fame, where they had, in the 'spirit' of

the Easter and Spring season, two events 
which startled me. The quaint, held-onto,
 old-world flavor of the event jumped out 
at me, as if all these people were still 
forest-dwellers in the deep Polish woods
instead of in some small-world ethnic enclave
through which the modern world was now
barreling. It was all very strange and
conflicted, but I guess no one noticed. 
People flocked to both of these events, 
held on separate Sundays, and each
well-announced before-hand. People 
lined up. You know how T. S. Eliot 
wrote that he 'did not know that death 
had undone so many,' about all those people

walking the bridge over the Thames -  well, 
that's how I felt. I was simply not aware

there were so many old-world, naively

honest people around who still held to 
such tenets. There was nothing modern 
about this. One Sunday it was 'The Blessing

of the Animals'. I wasn't sure what it meant,
but it appeared to mean pets. There was a

streetload of people, standing steady, 
babbling away in whatever Slavic tongue 
they spoke, each with something: dogs,

cats, birds, hamsters, snakes, lizards, 
even globes of fish. In their own religious

way, the idea was for procession with

the animals through and within the

innards of the church, for an eventual 
blessing by a priest. The very next Sunday,

the same thing occurred, but with baskets 
of food  -  to be representing bounty, not 
just that particular basket. I guess for people 
used to hardship, it held a real meaning. I 
was just baffled. There was such a pervasive, 

back-time, old-world feel to all of this. From 
it, I sensed the reality of all these people - 

suffering, hunched, laden down with a 
million things. The same strenuous, rigors, 
dictates and strictures which ruled their 
beliefs, ruled, as well, their lives. To be 
honest, to me they just all looked as 
equal to dead. Why bother to go back 
again and again  just to repeat 
the same errors?

-

It began becoming apparent to me that
many aspects of New York City were just 
as barren, or worse, than what I'd left in

Avenel. At least in Avenel, all besides my 
fighting against it, they were letting 
'modernity' take them in, and move them

along. The incidentals were new, and

things were changing as much of that 'old' 
was pushed aside and our parents simply
left with Mom and Dad in other places,

like Bayonne and Newark, and Irvington. 
All the places they'd left. Not here however;

these people were ancient in their ways,

medieval in their beliefs, and fixed and 
certain of it. Small, squat old women yet
in their babushkas and hats. Stern men

yet saddled within by something still

still horrid. Faith in God the Supreme

and Fiery, who would, perhaps, if

asked rightly, deign to stoop down and

bless this pitiful food and these horrid

creatures, lest we forget his power and 
his glory and He smite us anew, in some

other way. Boy, was I stuck, and seeing

it. I could walk over to McSorley's  - 
where the average age of the men 
sitting around was about 114, give 
or take  -  and imbibe their sorrowful 
blues along with them; mug after mug

of a fastidious, home-brewed McSorley's 
Ale, which you had to buy two at a time - 
until some knock-out power came along

to strike you, and then knocked you down 
- and try to learn their ways by hearing

their stories  -  pretty much just like the

bums and hobos I'd sit with at the piers, 
with their barrel fires. But these guys 
here, at least they had ten bucks or so

with them. Bills as folded and wrinkled

as they themselves sometimes were. 
Anything 'new' about New York City did 
NOT happen down here; this was ancient

throwback land. All those hot-mouths 
always going on about New York and the

wonder of the city, the glamour, excitement, 
the adventure, the new, well they meant

about 50 blocks uptown. That was all where
 magazine and TV New York was, the 
Batman Gotham high-society bullshit, 
which the average Joe couldn't touch with a 
500 mile pole.  Truman Capote, Gore Vidal, 
and Norman Mailer and all those bravado-
faggot-creepfest types of that day. You'd 
never get near it, and any Holly Golighty 
Audrey Hepburn cockamamie horseshit 
would never cut it here.  Like I said, 
these people were dead.

-

Thing was, I mingled with everyone; 
which was kind of cool. I could ride the 
subway uptown, looking like a slouch,

some out of touch artist bum, and get

up to the Fuller Building, 57th and Lex.,

wherever it was - 5 solid floors, back then, 
of class A art galleries, get off the elevator,

and mingle like the rich among all the art 
schmoozers. Or, a few blocks away, at 
another corner, some building above 
Bergdorf Goodman's, as I recall, right

by The Plaza Hotel, and do the same 
thing there. Layers of rich people, the 
day-wives with jewels and binoculars, 
swishing around looking at an Arp 
for the living room, or a Picasso for the

dining chamber, all that crap. No one

there was hurting about anything, 'cept 
maybe a leak in the yacht. And they 
weren't even the really, really rich. Those

people would have agents out, buying

for them, or scanning the art-auction 
houses and placing enter bids and 
threshold bids from the cataloques or 
in-person viewings. Yeah, like some

bizarre funeral home. I always had

fantasized about some filthy-rich

person ambling about, looking for a

schmuck artist to subsidize, take on as

a patron; sent 7 grand a month to just to 
make and produce art. Never happened, 
and not even one of those rich babes out 
for the day ever asked me to go home 
with them for an 'afternoon tea', like the

sleazy storybooks had it, happening all
the day, everyday, every afternoon at 
2pm. 'Horny rich housewife boffs new
and upcoming artist on speculation of 
future merit as an artist.' Talk about 
misplaced faith. Too bad.

-

Years later, what astounded me

was how motorcycle guys, Bikers,

when I got involved with them, a

lot of them fell for the very bizarre

practice of a yearly 'Bike Blessing.'

Like those people with their kittens 

and ducks on old Polish St. Marks.

Pretty much the same thing as those

old food and pets people; a remnant

of some medieval, quaint custom 

from the Vatican hierarchy in Rome. 

Selling indulgences, anyone? I

wonder, did the Teutonic Knights

have Father Jimeny Althazar bless

yearly their horses? Strange world.

I was free, or free enough, yes, and

determined to stay that way. Plus,

sort of, you can't step backwards

too easily when you cut loose the 

rope bridge over which you've just

crossed the hellish chasm.