RUDIMENTS, pt. 208
Making Cars
I was talking about absolutes
in the chapter previous and I
forgot to make mention of the
items that originally were
going to be included. Two
absolutes that I tried sticking
with, as silly as they seem,
were/are deliberation and
keeping the proper air in
one's tires. Simplest stuff in
the world and it almost sounds
comical, but it's taken a lifetime
to learn. At the most basic level,
the ease with which a person -
it seems to me anyway - goes
along with either of these two
things is a good glimmer of the
rest of their life. My father-in-law
was a ramp manager at United
Airlines, at Newark Airport -
right from 1950 until something
like 1986 or so when he retired.
Anyway, he said that - in
managing - he'd learned
that accidents happen most when
something is done out of the ordinary
process. Something different crops
up that has not been deliberated
over, that the doer's mind has not
put into the operation. Thus, the
nasty cut, or the broken ankle
when something falls on it, etc.
(He didn't put it that way those
are my words). I think his point
was meant to say 'don't change
routine, do what you know.' His
basic premise here may be true, in
respect to my initial point, and it
then in turn leads to things (the
deliberation does) like properly
inflated tires. You do one of those
things, then the next, and the next,
and it always seemed to me that
life should fall nicely into place.
Of course, I was the very worst
example of that there could be.
I was always changing routine,
more in fact never even having
a routine, and just impuslively
darting off under one forceful
impulse or another to get something
done. Impulsiveness just was always
one of my categories. Impulsiveness
can oftentimes really wreck things
too. Which is funny, because
deliberation can just as well - a la
Hitler, say, deliberating over how
to 'cleanse' Germany and advance
his wanton agenda across the face
of Europe. That's deliberation
run amok, the deliberation of
the madman purveying his
psychoses.
-
So, I guess in the long run it's
true that everything, in all runs
of life, can get screwed up. Or
it can run perfectly. I've seen
examples of both, and never
have been able to figure either
extreme (absolute?) out. I've
always been wildly in the
middle.
-
Lots of things have confused
me over time, as well. Starting
at the very beginning. When I
was 3 or 4, before Avenel, we
lived in these projects in Bayonne
- a whole string of 4-story apartments
for returning veterans and other lower
income people. Maybe two hundred
apartments in 8 or 10 buildings, with
a center park-like bench seating area
and play-space. So, I guess, that sort
of living was my introduction to the
world. And we had a lady living
below us who would - whenever
my sister and I would generate too
much noise by running around or
whatever kids do - start smacking
her own ceiling with a broom handle,
signifying that we were making too
much noise for her. I can understand
her point, I guess, about hearing our
foot-tromps above her, but when
you're a kid it seems a little weird.
That noise and that thunder-like
presence always kept in reserve,
with our never knowing when it
might break out, pretty much got
into my young brain, early on.
(We moved when I was 4 1/2
years old). I've often thought
back to that, sort of overlooking
our behavior and just more to
concentrate on that lady with
the broom. Godlike almost,
with the thunder (from below,
in this case). What would bring
someone to the point of doing
that, smacking a ceiling with a
broom, and not just walking
upstairs, or maybe even calling?
I guess there were phones. In her
thinking, did this method that she
used incur more of a sense and
feeling of efficiency in her mind?
I wonder now if she ever gave
any thought to what she was
instilling in the minds of little
kids. In a way, because of her,
I've held a grudge against adults
my entire life. At least adults
who get sullen and surly without
explaining themselves, or at
least trying to. Let's face it, how
many things like that, one after
the other, ruin kids - make crazy
mass murderers or maladjusted
adults out of them? Up and down
Park Avenue, NYC, all those
shingles you see for psychiatrists
and analysts and all that, this is
perfect talk-it-out fodder for any
number of endless one-hour by
the clock sessions. I've been
wounded and screwed up my
entire life and I'd bet some of it,
if I really delved, could be
traced back to this incipient
insult to my being. I spend half
my time walking around sorry
for things I've done to other
people, unwittingly, stupid
ambushes I've just stumbled
into. It's a constant and painful
plight, and some there are to
hurt that I'd just go crazy over if I
did. A part of me wants to blame
this little rat-bastard lady, whoever
she was (see, see the rage), and
yet another part wants to see her
side, take her role, and just love
her back. Craziest stuff ever.
I'm always either a saint or a
sinner, and I never know where
to turn. I'm running out of time,
and I'm running out of nerve too.
As Shel Silverstein said, 'Bury
me in my shades, boys, bury
me in my shades.' I guess he
meant sunglasses, but I'd like
to think just as well that he
meant 'variations' and not
absolutes.
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