RUDIMENTS, pt. 153
Making Cars
Life is a crunch, a smash of nerves,
an alliance of sensations we each
need to learn to read. I sort of
made the assumption early on
that there wasn't really much you
can do about anything. Being
born into a lower station than
most, into a household filled with
the conflicts of ethnicity and all
the awarenesses that brought forth,
I just walked along, mostly in a
form of shock, only sometimes
worrying about what was to come
next. It was a little vexing. The
place of this 'Avenel' was nothing
with any class or allegiance to
improvement. For those here, and
for those like my parents, who
started out here, and ended here,
it was a Paradise of achievement.
Yes, really; hard to believe. My
father never found a person to get
along with. It was a constant, and
embroiled, battle over who was
no good, who was a Polack, or a
Jew, or a black person - he had
a word he used, supposedly it was
Italian for eggplant (?) meaning
the color - I haven't a clue. The
way it was pronounced was like
'moolenyann.' I'm sure, linguistically,
my father didn't have half a clue in
Hell what he was attempting to say.
Eggplant? Deep purple? If someone
didn't reciprocate a hello, or a nod
and a smile he'd go on proclaiming
how that person was prejudiced, biased,
angry. He had fights, arguments, and
a long list of grievances; hating the
few fancy guys on our street with
commuting, office jobs. He used to
seethe seeing them walk down the
street from their train, well-dressed
and dapper. One of them, in fact,
always word a top-hat/fedora. That
alone drove him nuts. In Summer,
the evenings were always the same,
mostly anyway - he'd sit on the
stoop, hose down the lawn, have
two or three beers (somewhere in
here, dear reader, let's fit in a few
moments for the grumbling about
the passing, commuter guys), and
then, eventually and often, out
would come the box of Shop-Rite
Ice Cream. He loved that stuff, and
it always had to be what he called,
or they labelled, 'Neapolitan,' which
apparently is three vertical in-line
rows; vanilla, chocolate, and
strawberry. By their terms. I have
since myself tasted better versions
of these flavors in more quality
ice creams, and the Shop Rite
flavors were pure gimcrackery.
Just because something is 'called'
what you're told it is, that doesn't
make it so - the strawberry was
hideous, and the vanilla was simply
white. I always have detested
chocolate anything, including candy,
so I don't know about that, but I
hear-tell there's some real quality
chocolate - and chocolate ice cream -
out there. This wasn't it. They should
have just it called colored and flavored
'guar gum.' (That's a food chemical
used for stablization).
-
What this is leading me too is a very
broad point. I was brought up in
Avenel, as I keep telling you, and
from that so many of the concepts
of my life seem to have developed.
I've met others, been to the cities,
seen how they operate, done good
and done bad, got in some fixes,
and fixed some 'gots' too. But
never far from me has been that
original intent of what I learned
in the place I was raised. The
early years, I'm talking; up
through maybe 10, 11. Then
everything else took over
and I went my other ways,
but before that, as the child,
the humbled mastery of
listening to and abiding by
what others tell you, is foremost.
That's just how kids grow up.
It all comes down to words.
With each word, you take the
concept it brings, or the concept
you're told goes with it, and
by all that, incredibly, you build
a world, an actual paper-palace
that you truly think exists, while
you know nothing about it. In
sixth grade the big thing became
'projects' - these make-do
applications of 'knowledge'
as we were told. One time
we had to make this huge
'papier-mache' thing of the
Mesopotamian area, and the
'Fertile Crescent' (all I ever
thought of that dumb phrase
had to do with the girl next to
me's private parts. Tough being
a sixth-grader). We got this
large piece of plywood, had
it on the floor in the space
between classrooms in the
'portables' - (which were but
extended, temporary shacks that
were used as classrooms and were
about as temporary as pregnancy,
and about as portable as lead)
- and worked on it there, where
it stayed for about a month.
Over time we built mountains and
hills, rivers, a whole topography
of 'Mesopotamia', from where,
Mr. Ziccardi inelegantly told us,
all civilization had spring, all
our concepts and ideas, Gods
and demons too. We had pink
colorations, and blue, green
deltas, tan hills and mountains,
everything we could figure up
went into there - and came out
as a pure state of meaninglessness
to me. Mesopotamia? What a
meaningless punk-tribe of losers.
This guy was trying to pull rank
on us and ascribe the complete
nature of our present lives and
beings on this place from which
biblical history grew. Once again,
it was all w-o-r-d-s. His words,
and I wasn't buying. I'd go outside,
walking home, just to see the
daytime or evening sky above
me, and I'd already know that
my own star-dust had more in
common with up there than any
of that scrap-metal crap he was
giving us. This entire street I
was walking : pink cars and
blue cars, green lawns and
black driveways, people
coming and going, family
afternoons, barbecues and
pools, TV antennas and
vacations, it ALL had more
in common with my current
day fix that did any paste
and clay survivalist civilization
worshiping cows and bulls,
and Gods too. Anyway, I
always thought what they
were pushing was a new
religion of 'Self' that I was
supposed to get converted
to - like everyone else. That
meant immediate dismissal
and concern for any of this
rot about places and people
5,000 years ago. Or 2,000.
Or 14,000. No one ever even
knew what they were talking
about in numbers, let alone
concepts. The big three, to
me, Ziccardi and Roloff and
Raisley, those three teachers
had everything screwed up.
There was a lot wrong, everywhere.
And they were false idols, just
as in their Mesopotamia there
were the same.
-
I somehow managed to keep my
father in check - or at least from
going off the deep end in that period,
(he did, later, anyway, go, but that
was 40 years off) just by playing the
dutiful son. It was OK. His rancor
about things mellowed, for a time,
and then by his late-life, came raging
back all over again no matter. My
ow life just moved along, I got to
thinking though - thinking how
so much of everything is both
misunderstood and incorrect. St.
Jude, I somehow was able to learn,
was the 'Patron Saint of Hopeless
Cases.'
-
(It's funny - when you write yourself
into a corner you realize the task ahead
of you is, with some sort of ease and
grace, you hope, to write yourself right
back out of it, without leaving too much
of a hole or a trail. Here's goes): You think
you know about atoms and space and
Mesopotamia huh. (I owe it all to School
4&5?). You don't know anything at all,
about any of it. It's purely words and
concept. Remember, maybe as a kid,
when Grandpa died? Or Great Grandpa,
or someone? What were you told?
Dead. Gone to Heaven. Over. Life's
done. Grandpa's dead and buried. You
were being fed concept : the glimmering
momentary 'belief' in something by
which to fill out your life. What if,
instead of 'dead' you were told
'scavali' - Grandpa had scavali'd
on you. See, from that point on you'd
already know more, based on what
you'd been told Scavali meant :
"You see, Johnny, Grandpa got to
live here a while, with us, and
when he was ready it was time
for him to Scavali, to his other
place, to finish out more of his
work and meaning. Grandpa had a
very important Scavali to finish up,
as we all do, in our own way, and
when we're ready to move on, our
Scavali calls us and takes us back
and all our pasts and all our futures
get put in together and we see all
the concepts and ideas, people
and places, and things we've done
and thought, and they become our
other things and we become them
and divide and life spreads out
and we see all our Originators
and meet all the terms and the
happiness we've made and brought
with us, Johnny. And if we didn't then
we see and become all the darksides
of things we've done and experienced,
and Grandpa's Scavali was a real
good one and now he's working
hard, into the next and more.'
-
So, you see, had you been taught
all that, instead of dunned with a
heavy, clonking concept of death
and dread, you'd realize it was all
just words and the concepts they
bring forth; Like that papier-mache
Mesopotamia so many insist upon,
like that table top, weirdly spinning
and made up of atoms and swiftly
rotating charges and the spaces
between them, which appears to
us as a rock solid table, like the
things you believe and speak of.
Words - words to make worlds.
Better, and better, and,
eventually, best.
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