10,188. RUDIMENTS, pt.138

RUDIMENTS, pt. 138

(my story of alice)

Well, recollection is the key;

otherwise it becomes anarchy.

An anarchy of the mind that

takes over will simply cover

and spread over everything  -

unless it's controlled  -  the way

old people phase out, and it

just gets called a disorientation

that goes with aging. People

like that and will accept it all;

given an excuse, they can live.

I like to keep my stories in a

perfect order, written and mused

over. Steadied and in place. To

me, that's a better representation

of order.

-

One day a girl came up to me as I

was sitting on the stone wall along

Central Park West  -  that's a rich

area, big apartment homes and fancy

people with tons of dough  -  about

63rd street or so. Even back then it

was pretty ritzy; it's improved even

more now. I don't even think they

do 'apartments' there now; it's all

2.7 mill condos  -   Rock stars and

the legends of Wall Street and stage.

A few of us used to hang around

there, the area; and it was a good

place for hand-outs, passing a hat,

quarters and things, spouting poetry

aloud and things of that sort. We'd

been there for a while, and I was

just sitting there. This is a true story,

by the way, the girl was cool and I

can remember each instance of what

went on. There are lot of things I did

that, oddly enough, involve people I

only saw once or twice and then they,

and I, disappeared from each other's

radar. A few times I could have keep

things going I suppose, yeah, but

who wants to sleep with someone

only so as to keep the contact going?

(OK, OK, don't all jump up at once).

I was a young, 18 year old kid, newly

splattered on these streets of what

seemed like an international/global

world city to me. Scary. Now people

go to Belgium or Amsterdam for

a 3-day weekend, by comparison,

just to get laid. In my mental days,

there was none of that; and to speak

truthfully, it was all past my real

comprehension  -  all that politics

that went on between people was

not for me. This was a very chaste

moment. Especially for 1967/68,

when clothes were dropped at the

toss of a hat. (Or is that not 'hats

were dropped at the toss of 

clothes.' I don't know).

-

It turned out she lived, this girl

who came over, on the twelfth

floor of one of the buildings

across the way and she wasn't

real happy with either of her

parents right then or with her

family life either, and she'd

been watching down to see

what we were doing. So I ran

with that a little and said we

were a 'theater troupe' out

practicing some routines and

trying out ideas on the street.

She bought it. It was untrue

and yet it did encapsulate sort

of how we were living : the

great expanse of hippie days

covered a lot of sins. So she

started to go on about how, to

her, all we represented was

freedom and a way out, and

how she couldn't be free at all

under the rigid hand of her parents.

She was a rich kid, probably 16,

and  -  to be honest  -  I wanted

to explain to her how she probably

had it made, how she should stick

it out and take the money and run,

later, when the more grown-up

opportunities came her way  - 

family and inheritance and all

that crap.  She wouldn't have

listened, and I wouldn't have

said that either. My own thinking

had not yet 'advanced,' let's say,

even to that agreeable point.

-

I was always investigating things,

trying to learn, moving ahead. It

had, pretty much, become my life.

That September and October were

probably real high points for me; '67.

Then it rolled into Winter and the

small differences of darkness and

cold, idleness and escape, any of

that, took on  a life of its own and

kept me going really good  -  but

in October it was all still glorious.

I've always been a pretty highly-sexed

guy; I'll admit to that. I'm  human

being, in that regard, and the aspect

of human life that I've always liked

the best had to do with the feeling

that came up from the gut, the heart

and soul of being alive  -  which is a

always pretty much 'sex.' Not the doing

and the pounding and the getting

naked or any of that, that's almost

automatic by the running clock. What

I mean is the serene sense of inner

self that walks around with all this

going on, as the body entertains and

carries on with its thoughts of sex

and Nature and procreating and

passion kept only as an unspoken

undercurrent. You bring all that stuff

up  -  and out, constantly  -   and

everything turns to shit. Troubles

abound. It's all just like 'silence.' A

person knows, serenely knows, what

he or she is carrying around with them  -

you can see it in  a girl's eyes, I could,

at any time, that most high presence

of the female within  -  why else do

they bat an eye or smile, if not for

the glowing self-possession of their

own, eternal, sexuality. It's just always

present, part of the human scenery.

Guys too  -  the great grunt and roar

of their drive comes out in a million

ways, from design and cars and

buildings, and their attitude and

aggressiveness and all that. It's

the same as a great, sloppy bull elk

or something pounding through the

woods. How women control men I'll

never know. But, that's the human

condition.

-

Granted, the sex people have today is

different  - intermingled, people no

longer sure about that they even are,

or want to be, assuming it's just a 

'choice.' Those are rare moments, 

and even the crossover ones end

up with the same characteristics, 

no matter how it's played out. We're

captive to fluids and juices. And

then we die. This girl was just

entering that smoky time of life,

and I could sense that a good banging

wouldn't have done her any harm, 

but that I let go. Not my concern.

She said she'd finally gotten up the

nerve to come down and talk to us,

except there was only me left. For

better or worse (like marriage!). She

said her name was Alice, Alice Notley,

in fact  - why she even told me that

I didn't know. A rich person today

would never let out the information. 

We talked a little, and she handed me

a piece of paper and told me to read it

and she'd be right back. I asked why, 

and where she was going. She said

she was gong back upstairs to get me

some food, things to eat, and that her

father shouldn't know and she hoped 

he'd not see nor catch her, and that, 

even so, the doorman was a friend 

and he'd cover for her. Long story.

I didn't know anything about the 

doorman-living set-ups of rich people

and because of that I really didn't

follow her anyway. She went off, 

saying she'd be back with a box 

of food, and I started reading. It 

was in the format of a poem, 

but wasn't at all, just more like 

raw girl-thoughts from someone 

a little sensitive and young. I'm 

paraphrasing some, but using 

quotes, from  what I recall and 

have written down from then 

(notebooks)  -  "I wanted to tell 

you many things about my life 

and interests, writing things down, 

but every time the moment has 

conquered and come through I'm 

strangely unhappy because the 

pattern of my life is complicated 

and because my nature is 

hopelessly complicated and 

out of this to my pain and 

sorrow must grow the center 

of me, an eternally complicated 

and troublesome thing. Out of

 this my sorrow and pain must 

grow. The center of contains 

something I'm not yet sure of 

but it changes me and pushes 

me forward and I know it can 

make something from me, out 

of me, into something greater 

and better and more beautiful.  

I have a pain, a terrible, wild 

pain searching beyond what the 

world contains, infinite and 

transformed and if I don't find 

it I don't think it IS to be found. 

It's passionate love for a ghost 

sometimes, and at times it fills

me with rage and wild despair 

and at other times a peacefulness 

and love. I want to be, and just 

can't have the chance if no one 

will let me be. It's the source of 

gentleness and cruelness together..." 

There was more, but romanticism 

when written wears thin quickly, 

but, this was hers and I found it 

painfully attractive and it made 

me sad too. 

-

She came back down, with a box of

food, real food, the sort of stuff I'd

never see. There were things to be

eaten immediately, and other things 

to keep for later and other times. 

The girl knew food, for sure. So, 

what could I do? I've regretted this

moment for the remainder of my 

days, and it all haunts me like pain.

I've searched for her a million times,

but never found again. I've seen her,

as well, here and there, in others, 

girls, and all it does is hurt again. 

There really are moments that you

lose forever. What could I do? I

looked at her and said thanks, 

and said how I thought they 

were really great words from a 

young girl like her, impressive, 

and how I was happy she'd brought 

it down for me to read and that I 

wished her the best and all. And I 

let it drop. Fool that I was. I  let it 

drop. She never showed up again

and nothing more was ever heard 

from her  -  how could it have been. 

I've always wondered where she 

ended up or what happened. I've 

searched out Alice Notley names

wherever I could. On my walks, there

have been times when I've passed that

very doorway, and sat on the benches

along the walkway at the park wall.

Just to watch, thinking about the

directory there, and the doormen, 

but it was so many years ago, how 

can I even bother, even if it is all

still a raw and a live subject?
-
If I had to, and I've thought about this
a lot, I'd have a message now for her,
from then. It's maybe a little strange, but
stay with it : "Alice, I've always wondered
what happened to you.  I hope you had some
fun in your life and got to understand things
on your terms. Better anyway. I want to tell
you something I've learned, and maybe if
you've had kids, they'd learned too. It's good
kid-stuff, maybe you've even got grandkids.
Trees and lumber, and defects in timber  -  
'heart shake' is the most advanced degree of
shake, especially in old trees. First there's 
'cup' shake,  which is a natural splitting in
the interior of the tree between two of the
annular rings (which rings give you the age
of the tree), and then 'star' shake, which
occurs as fissures radiating out in several
directions, and finally 'heart' shake, which is
often found in old trees and extends from the 
pith or heart of the tree outward to its 
circumference; and there are three parts
of a tree trunk  -  pith, heartwood, and
sapwood, and bastard sawing and
quarter sawing  -  I want that to show
to you, and them, how we can change and
grow, and really do, and can become 
something  other than what we fist thought
we were, and that disappointment and
sorrow can be made over. Life really does
have its possibilities, and they can be
sometimes great or sometimes simple
but often they're the same and there's no
difference between them. So, you got that,
Alice? I hope all is well with you."
-
And then maybe I'd tell her about myself,
friends, poetry, writers, 'angel-headed hipsters
burning for the ancient heavenly connection
to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,'
as Ginsberg put it, and how, when he got to
Heaven, Judas Iscariot was refused entrance, 
and he asked why, and they said 'Because you
betrayed our Savior for thirty pieces of silver,'
and he said, 'What! Can't anyone here take
a joke!' And then I'd mention God and darkness
and light and innocent silver eyes, and killers, 
and the ringing in my head and the tight 
winding of chains, and all my thoughts
forever. I'd end it up telling her how people
now call me Danton, which means 'The man
who churns things out,' and I would leave after 
giving her these words from a guy named Lord 
Alfred Douglas, who said, 'When in dim dreams I
trace the tangled maze of the old years that held
and fascinated me, and the sad ruling of Memory,
from which the old-rime roads and misty
time-trod ways and the timid ghosts of dead
forgotten days gather to hold their piteous talks,
chiefly my soul bemoans the lack of thee, those
lost seasons empty of they praise'; and as I left
I would shout out  -  'A tree is like a man, Alice,
remember that, and once arrived at maturity
the heartwood occupies the largest part, and the
sapwood is firm and elastic, and it takes
threescore years and ten to arrive at
maturity and it's useless after a hundred!
Bye Bye, Alice!' And that would be
my story of Alice.