RUDIMENTS, pt. 209
Making Cars
I used to think someone always
had it in for me - then that feeling
went away, and I turned it around
and started feeling that way myself
towards others, and then it all got
turned over again and headed back
at me, over a course of years. And
then miraculously I was a 'grown-up'
and it hardly mattered any longer.
Free-standing barricades, something
always in your way. I'd talk to people,
like even those NYCity draft guys.
trying to drag me into their cycle of
mayhem, and I'd see in their eyes that
they were probably just as scared as
I was, and perplexed too, about the
whole idea of what they'd gotten into
or were promoting. I'd probably
busted up their entire picture by
showing up as I did. Intransigent
about my own goals and features.
They, of course, didn't know it, but
I'd further rubbed it into their faces
by showing up on a bicycle and
leaving it downstairs at the lobby
doorway. In 1967 no one but a
madman, no 'adult' aged person
anyway, rode a bicycle. Everyone
was comfortably positioned into their
addiction to swoop and power, cars
and travel, even if it meant an extra
55 minutes of traffic time waiting to
get in or out of the city. Beats me what
they were ever thinking about. Now
there are traffic lanes and special curb
areas and rideways for bicycles, and
they'll even gladly rent you one for use
along your way. Back then, as I tunneled
along Broadway, I was probably as
apt to get run down as I was to get
shot in Saigon. There were trucks
snorting and taxis turning; every which
way up and down - you had to look
both fore and aft to be sure there was
no hammer coming for your head, let
alone people - who weren't aware these
things existed. Anyway, Chinese and
Vietnamese, they rode bicycles all
over their countries and cities. So it
was my way of rubbing it in. I lost
more than I lost my life - thinking
ahead - and I was certain I'd not
have that happen. (I wrote that
awkwardly on purpose, just like
that, to show that there are certain
places 'between' words, wherein ideas
and conclusions can slip, just by
writing wrongly and opening up
that rare space of illogic, where
these things thrive - like war and
armaments, battles and sides). Why
utilize the ineffectual 'right' way,
when you can do it wrongly and
have it handled with power?
-
In fact, I once told a friend of mine,
Jill, in a poetry thing I used to teach
and present, at Barnes & Noble, that
I wanted to write a sentence someday
that no one could understand, and
yet they'd be able to glean the meaning
of and from. It was a cool idea, and I
still harbor it. So, watch out. The hand
might come for your maestro and your
music would be had.
-
The problem with America has always
been its lack of ideas. Any ideas it did get
were always derivative. I used to to say
America's favorite philosopher was
Schopenhauer, but they pronounced it
'Shopping Hour.' Good joke, right? Except
that no one ever knew what I was talking
about. And anyway, it's OK to work with
derivative ideas but I'd figure you first
should at least know they're derivative,
and from what. World as representation,
and the rest of that Schopenhauer stuff,
is really raw and a difficult way to get
oneself through life, but face the facts
about it and you've got something to
work from. 'Working from,' in this case,
means a lot, creating space and life.
Everyone always talking their way
through things without saying anything.
Stand on any train platform, or sit in any
short-stop restaurant, and all you end
up hearing is the usual dimwit patter
of who's doing what, where, to whom,
and the weather too. It's always the
same and I notice it all the time.
Self-announced phone assholes have
only made things worse. Everywhere.
If you simply keep detracting substance
from everything, from everyday life,
and do it by supposedly the most
'advanced' means to date, all you're
doing is destroying life because it's
on no real path except the arc of
trying to sell more of the newest
and latest thing, and probably the
one that you don't yet have. There's
no salve to that conscience. Why
even go on living? It used to be that
we'd laugh and scoff at the sloppy-bag
ladies at supermarket check-outs who
would peer into and then purchase
those weird newspapers and magazines
arrayed at check-out - 'Martians Ate
My Children,' or 'Proof That Elvis
Is An Alien,' or 'Michael Jackson Is
Alive and Well In Setaucket.' Now
everyone does that and no one says a
word - or that's all they say: words.
The same string of empty, nonsensical,
vapid, useless words that maybe I'd
use to write my sentence that no one
could understand but which would
have massive meaning too. You
may remember, way, way back and
somewhere here, I wrote about my
philosophy teacher at Elmira College
to whom I said I wanted to find
the word that would make the entire
world come crumbling down. I thought
it was monumental as an idea. He said,
'I'm sure many writers have had the
same idea.' (Hey! That balloon I was
holding used to have air in it. Where
all the air go?)...
-
I like quiet spaces: Like my Chinese
friend Liu, in Chinatown. He used to
come out each morning and hose down
the front of his little store - the sidewalk,
the gutter, the front, the glass. Sometimes
he'd find things from the night before, I
guess items lost in the dark - though
it was never really 'dark' - you learn
that quickly in NYC - 'dark' is but
a concept. Other times nothing. He'd
say it wasn't of any difference to him
whether he found anything or whether
it was messy or needed doing or not.
It was more the exercise of his moment
within the doing of it, each day, regularly.
The front of his store had an overhang
where he sold Chinese newspapers and
other 'imported' 1970's items. Chinese
stuff, for the local Chinatown community.
They were funny like that - and I loved
it. Very partial to their own stuff, when,
back then, it was exotic and difficult
to get. In the same way as bicycles,
no one had access to much of that
stuff and it was, as I said, strange and
exotic. Only limited access. Chinese
people wanted, like brushes and combs,
FROM China. I'd go to that store too -
the things were cool, and really cheap,
like 60 cents for a 12-pack of
Chinese pencils; or pins, soaps, and
scarves, or gloves and little dishes;
even playing cards and toys -
nothing I'd use or need most often,
but just cool things in cheap packaging,
with peacocks and flowers on them,
for logos. They hadn't yet advanced
into that modern export world of
perfect packaging, logos, and even
transliterations. They'd have toothbrush
cases that said things like 'One, wrap,
teeth scourer clean.' You knew what
they meant to say but, whew man!
Scissors. Paste. Yes, combs and brushes.
You had to see it to understand what
I mean. Anyway, he was very
meditative about all his stuff, and
it was really a lesson to watch -
spraying the sidewalk, or he and his
wife setting out the papers and magazines.
And there was, in fact, a store just
uptown some, at 23rd, in the old base
of the Flatiron Building that was
even cooler, and intense, in the
same way his place was laid-back.
It was called called China Books
and Periodicals. They had Chairman
Mao stuff, little red books, quilted
jackets and endless revolutionary
tracts, usually in either French,
English or Chinese. Sometimes
I'd buy a 20 cent French tract of
their usual revolution gibberish,
just to see what I could get from
the attempted read; like a language
lesson. One time I proudly bought
a Chairman Mao Red Star pin,
really beautiful, almost jewel-like,
for my beret (which I wore during
those years, or some of that time).
I pinned it to the right-side front,
and it just sort of hung there, and
dropped the hat just a little at that
point. Really cool, and I was highly
stylish too. Revolutionary jerk that
I had pretensions of being.
No comments:
Post a Comment