Monday, January 22, 2018

10,452. RUDIMENTS, pt. 203

RUDIMENTS, pt. 203
Making Cars
Somehow, as I write and
'fess up to things, I still hold
back  -  a part of my hand refuses
to be seen, jacks against aces, as
it were. I have many stories and
twists, even conversational things
I can write about, as if we were
just talking. Does that make sense?
Most people think writers should
be aloof, high and austere. It's not
that way at all. One time, when I
worked for Barnes & Noble, one
of the fine ladies there with whom 
I worked began reading my weekly
'history' (sort of) columns in one
of the locally distributed, small-town
weekly papers. It was called  -  my
column, not the papers  -  'Oft-Told
Tales' and it was illustrated, logo-
wise, with a line drawing of some
rickety old, Model A or T Ford.
(I never really knew the difference).
Each Thursday's paper, which came 
out in about 19 different towns, as
'Forbes' newspapers, with that
town's name printed ('Metuchen-
Edison Review' or 'South Plainfield 
Recorder' etc.) The local new holes 
were filled with local stories, yet in
each one, at the Editorial center, my
own column and one or sometimes 
two others, ran the same for all. I
would scratch up some local history
lore or tag, and  -  pretty much as I
do here  -  ring into it with all sorts
of peripheral and collective thoughts,
musings, reflections, etc.  It was fun, 
and for a long time  -  ANYWAY, 
this woman, getting way into it after
a month or so, nabbed me once as
I was passing  -  she was with a few
other ladies of her acquaintance  -  
pointed me out to them, introduced 
me as 'that guy' they'd been reading,
and said, 'Look at him! He writes
just like he talks! No difference!'
-
That was a wipe-out comment for 
me, and I admit it really threw me  - 
I'd not thought like that before, and
realized I knew instantly what she 
meant. (Actually, I thought if she 
only knew, she'd not have said that).
The ribald and the profane were
not allowed. But it was a cool
moment for me, and I realized, yes,
that was probably a proper enough
consideration. I could write as
obscurely and heavily as the next
guy  -  don't get me wrong  - but
continually being obtuse and obscure
is about as boring to write as it is to
read. So, to hell with diction, I
write the way I talk. I guess. 
-
The funny thing too was that the
tales I wrote were not oft-told at
all, in that they were brand new 
and once-told, or untold until
reading. Goes to show, I suppose.
The trick is to be able to garner
something  -  an exploit or a
notice  -  from some occurrence
of the everyday, something that 
happens, and agree with it enough
to bring it into a story-line focus.
To run with the fire, as it were, 
not the water bucket.
-
I've spent most of my life fairly
opinionated, but only if I could back
myself up with writing  - I had to
be able to convince myself first, in
writing, that what I was saying was 
absolutely the truth, and real to me. 
That, in turn, takes and took a lot
of discipline  -  towards the craft.
Anything that takes a lot of discipline,
I've found, usually will not make you
the most popular cat in the box. It
requires a peculiar form of 
statesmanship wherein you respond 
and relate to your own specific 
levels of rules and protocol and if 
that means the rest get shunted, then
so be it. There's a lot of isolation
and a lot of sadness in it. In one 
respect, statesmanship again, 
you are the diplomatic representative 
of your own country, and you are 
that country too. Others won't
necessarily like you, nor understand
you, and you'll certainly not get 
far in the ordinary sense of the 
word. The corner office, the 
12 weeks paid vacation, the 
six-figure salary and perks 
will not be yours. In the sense 
that most ordinary clinks know 
them. Disneyland was made 
for them  -  let 'em go there.
-
The house in Pennsylvania,
interestingly enough, was built
at the side of a hill  -  a long, slow
incline, so that the precise location
 of the house itself was, into that 
slope, built sort of as a cut-in.
The land on one side of the 
house being higher than on 
the other side. Because of 
that, as an example, the 
lower underside of the house 
was essentially a basement but 
a basement to which, by walking 
around the house, you'd get to 
with the rest of the house being 
above you. There were also stairs 
on the inside, for descending 
to the basement, but they weren't 
really necessary  -  and the 
basement, huge as it was, was 
also a 'garage-door'd (two gigantic 
old swing out doors on huge hinges 
and latches) car-space. That was 
large enough for two cars, to drive 
in and sit there, in a garage setting. 
With plenty of room left over. 
Pretty cool, but MOST amazing, 
and constant awe-inspiring, was 
that the house, and this entire 
lower portion, including the 
'floor' was one huge slab of rock. 
Probably from the freaking 
Pleistocene era, or whenever 
dinosaurs are said to have 
sat around on rocks. Yep, my 
claim to fame  -  my house was 
built on solid rock. It was hard 
to believe, and even harder to 
believe when I'd see (and still 
do see) some of the shit-ass 
puddles of mud new houses 
are built on, or into, by today's 
contractors  -  developments 
thrown up on simple slabs, 
in swampland and with no 
basement because of that. 
Crazy stuff. Might as well just 
build an ark and stay ready.
-
In fact, as a kid, I knew that 
there was a guy in Rahway, 
some street there, right off 
of Rt. One, who for some 20 
years, at least 1955 -1980, 
had an ongoing project of 
just that. Truly so. The guy 
was building this massive, 
wooden-ribbed, tall and wide,
gigantically-proportioned 
boat, or ark, or ship or something, 
in his yard. It was always there, 
unfinished, for years, and for 
so long that the wood was 
no longer new and had turned 
that weather-blackened whatever 
tint that wood gets after about 
12 years of exposure. I never 
knew the guy, nor what was 
up with that, nor what he 
was exactly thinking about  -  
or how he ever meant to get 
it transported later on  -  and 
to where. One time, I returned 
home, and it was gone. Just 
no trace, though the 
yard is still there.
-
Regardless, living on that 
slab of monstrous rock meant 
a lot to me. I developed my 
personality around that idea  
-  strong, unmovable, stalwart. 
That's the same as my writing 
habits, and my outlook. I won't 
budge. Instead, I just go about 
my unending tasks, thank you. 



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