10,585. THE PEACH PIT GOES TO HELL

THE PEACH PIT GOES TO HELL

Like any authoritative document balancing

on the plebisite of nothing, those who don't

know and those who don't know they don't 

know what it is they don't know are seen as

quite different from those who know. Or,

at least know that they know what they know.

(All this is so difficult too say, to put into 

words). Each word after all must mean

something. I'm waving my handkerchief,

yes, but not doing my best Peter Handke.

Now, isn't that a dainty dish to put

before the King?

10,584. RUDIMENTS, pt. 240

RUDIMENTS, pt. 240

Making Cars

I learned to juggle valuations.

That sounds like a trendy thing

to do, now, but back in 1963,

it wasn't done  -  especially, I

guess I should say, in the bowels

of a boy's seminary. Catholic

doctrine proclaimed things to

be one way, and that's that. No

deviation. It soon became

apparent to me that they were

wrong; very wrong, in their

dead-reckoning by stars that

no longer existed. Like starlight,

all those ancient and tribal

meanings and lines of thought

were still in thrall to light that

was far off and old, and had

originated many, many, years

before. It probably reached us

a little bit off-course, and, for

sure, out of breath and out of

meaning. If time bends things,

as it surely does, than the merits

of each unknowing moment 

which came to us was being 

misinterpreted and misunderstand.

And passed on to us, in that

erroneous state, as doctrine, and

belief and reality. Those are the

things I saw and noticed, and the

ones that really irked. I hated error.

-

This became most apparent to me

one night  -  as part of the seminary

crew of whatever  -  cleaner-uppers,

gatherers, scavengers  -  we'd ended up

with a truckload (1952 Chevy pick-up

truck, driven by some black-guy,

round-faced priest) of scrap metal

and debris. It was determined that

the next evening we'd be taking this

truckload of scrap into Camden, to

a scrap yard, salvage-yard, for

weighing, dispersal, and payment.

That was cool; I'd never before 

known that they even did that 

stuff. So, there was the driver, 

myself, and three other kids, and

this truckload of junk. I forget the

exact arrangements, but myself and

two others ended up riding in the

open truck bed with all this junk.

We were supposed to find a way to

be sure nothing rolled out, or got 

blown around, and, it was hoped, 

we'd find a way to somehow sit

or make ourselves otherwise

comfortable. I remember it being

dark out quickly, maybe a November,

or a late February. It was chilly 

but not terribly cold. Nor am I 

sure exactly how far off Camden 

was, 25 miles maybe : I knew 

nothing of it, what roads existed, 

nor how long it took.

-

We made our way to Camden as

darkness entered in. It got dark

quick, I recall, and the lights of that

small city were already on, everywhere.

It was quite a site; an exposure in

fact, for me  -  still a young kid, in

a large-by-comparison city. I was

taken. We my have talked a bit

among ourselves, but I can't

recall. Our route took us actually 

'around' Camden more than right

into it. All the scrap heaps and

junkyards  -  and there were many  -  

were on the outlying areas. The 

place we were headed, I'd been 

told, was an old scrap dealer with 

whom they'd dealt for years, Max 

Weiskopf, [or Weissman, I forget; 

nor do I really know the spelling],

Scrap Metal. He was a short, 

brusque, cigar-chomping, 

no-nonsense guy. He took the 

order slip or weigh-station thing, 

whatever it was, looked the load 

over, grunted, looked over the 

truck, and us, said 'get out' 

and had the truck driven off 

about 100 feet or so over to 

some sort of scale. I think they 

weighed it laden, and then 

un-laden, after being emptied. 

I don't know what metal it was, 

iron scrap steel, or blends or 

aluminum, or any of that. 

We didn't have to handle 

anything  -  there were people 

there for all that. We boys 

just stood around, looking 

things over, sort of reveling 

in our free time, unleashed 

and untethered, to take in 

the sights and sounds of 

something else, anything 

else. I myself was watching 

very carefully, and noting. 

- 

In the seminary a certain 

whiteness prevailed. Students

there were white. Not much was

ever said at all about race; we 

never had to face that off, in 

those race-years, '62-'66. The 

driver of our truck on this trip 

was black, an oddity in itself. 

(I remember this priest fellow,

as black only because I used 

to get fascinated, as he spoke, 

by the thick pinkness of his 

tongue. It was quite noticeable). 

The workers in these junkyards 

were all black. In fact, I realized, 

driving out, Camden itself was 

a huge, black enclave. As we 

slowly passed, in and out, 

along the deeply jutted and

rough dirt roads and lanes which

led to these junkyard areas, there

were rambling old houses, down 

on their luck but inhabited still, 

as well as shacks, sheds, and

other marginal domiciles, along

with dogs, wrecked cars, debris,

old furniture, and piles of junk.

On each of the houses that had

a porch (most all of the large

ones did), there were people.

They were just hanging around, 

hanging out, as if Summer was

neigh and they were standing

or slouching around waiting for

ice cream. The truck slowly plodded

through, with us, maybe a little

uncertain and nervous, in the back

in the half-light of lamps and 

porches and occasional streetlights.

The people simply stared, endlessly

staring; gaping at us. It was, except

for the lack of any 'real' heat, like

driving through some part of the 

wilds of Alabama. I realized, in 

a flicker, and by design, a strange 

and secret relationship between 

things that I'd not realized before. 

Unspoken codes, secret meanings.

Our driver was black. All these

people were black. (Of course, 

we boys were all white). Was our

driver chosen because he was

black, to deal with these workers,

and locations, more easily? Was

this Weisskoff guy one of those

literal, old-world, Jewish guys

relegated only to this dark 

underworld of junk, scrap-heaps,

ghetto areas, and black people?

Anyway, all those ideas jumped

out at me that night. Unspoken

codes, secret meanings.

I had a lot to learn.

10,583. REASON

REASON

I gave all my happiness away, when 

it was still in buckets. Now I'm just 

a grump. Delicious ovations and all

that, but, still, a grump. I think, when

they bring out the poison gas, then you

have a real reason to fight. Before that,

it's all just noise and quarrel.

-

When you are consciously in it, you

have a reason to fight, and can fight.

When you're unconsciously in it, you

are simply a victim of something you

don't realize, not having established 

a theme or a reason. Innocent ways

of falling are many.

10,582. CARRIERE

CARRIERE

'You're a strange man, Carriere,

and I can't quite figure you out.

You think you are Lewis and Clarke,

together. I can't pay you for your deeds,

but they are always good, I've noticed.

And there must be something for that. 

I knew a woman once, long ago. who

kept a skeleton in her front sitting room

to scare suitors off. It's something like

that, I think, what you do  - to others.

Their reactions are ordinary, but their

reasons are not. You scare them off.

10,581. CAPTIVE

CAPTIVE

I capped the pasture so the sunlight

couldn't leave. I enameled all the

trees so the leaves would never leave.

The rest, I suppose, I leave to you.

-

Here's is my stitched hand, worn to

near death from paddleball burns

Why I ever got started, I do not know. 

10,580. THE MAN ON MARIGOLD STREET

THE MAN ON 

MARIGOLD STREET

Living as cornered just doesn't work.

You've got to break out of that one.

(Like the Kenilworth bus burning

out on the Boulevard, it's not worth

a thing if it doesn't run). Stravinsky?

Walking an alley in Venice? Where'd

I get that, I wonder? OK, right, these

are not brainy people, but people wth

enormous feelings. And that's OK.

-

14 dogs and a treasure hunt in Echo

Lake Park. Like jewels, the faceted

arrivals of women reflect light, and

the dogs are yet barking. (The author,

you feel, is pushing you around)?

-

Big things always have 

little things around them 

10,579. RUDIMENTS, pt. 239

RUDIMENTS, pt. 239

Making Cars

How many layers deep is a normal

life? I often wondered about that too.

I couldn't use myself as a guide, I

figured, because I never felt myself

normal. First off, and technically, I'd

been deemed dead and came back,

when hit by that train. So I had a

bias towards the other-side, having

had a glimpse (It's really nothing

more than roomfuls of different-aged

people doing endless crossword 

puzzles from these enormous books 

and each puzzle being done is made

up of clues from that individual's 

own life, and some of the answers

are apparent while others aren't. There

are some really startled expressions

going on when these spirit/people,

as in a big, boring library, find some

shock or surprise over what a clue

is getting at for an answer. It was

pretty cool. The other thing that was

weird was, in all these rooms, there 

were no rest-rooms and no sort of

dining areas or foods available. But,

at least no one needed glasses). So,

looking to others I sought to see

what sort of layers there were -  

I found that lots of people had a

lot of layers, some not so many.

-

I early on developed an interest in

drama; read a lot of plays and all.

but they just ended up bugging me.

Drama and plays are OK when you're

acting them out and they're becoming 

a production, But there's little use, 

really, in actually just 'reading' them.

How much can you take of all those

stage directions, lighting instructions,

descriptions of candles and their

light, sounds, cups and saucers, looks

on faces, emotions, 'sounds in the 

distance,' etc. Egads it's enough to 

drive you mad, and it's not very 

manly either. Yes, that sounds

really crude and old-fashioned for 

me to put here, but it's how I feel and

always felt. These playwright guys

were always suspect to me, though

I loved reading about them  - Eugene

O'Neil, Tennessee Williams, Bertolt 

Brecht, Max Frisch, there were a

bunch. I ate those stories up ('he

sits beneath a dangling lightbulb, in

a sparsely furnished room. The sink

is dripping water, a noise to which 

he shows no reaction; drinking 

endless cups of tea, while cigarettes  

-  unfinished  -   burn in two different 

swan-shaped ashtrays nears his sister's 

collection of toy stuffed koalas and 

a couch-pillow that reads, 'Acapulco.')

...But, reading those plays, dryly and 

in isolation is not much better than

the endless lists of names and begats

in some 10-inch thick bible. You have

to wonder though about all the overly

'precious' stuff that's portrayed. It's

bit too much for me; I mean how

could a guy write all that. It's tedious

and almost psychologically raw. 

-

I never liked romantic stuff, or emotive

stuff, or second-guessing, adventurous

stuff. It's all just words and they're 

each predictive and worked out ahead

of time by the playwright for effect and

so as to 'elicit' the desired result. It's

all fake. Why can't they just get over

Mama and all that precious-memory 

stuff and just jot down their material

leaving out all the overwrought and

tense portrayal stuff? On the other

hand (and here's the problem) actors

love all that. That's their careers,

embodying all that fakery, pretension,

and smarmy stuff. There are entire

schools of acting means and methods.

There are 5o people per square inch

around these stages and schools and

acting classes, and in those spaces 

each crowded little person is sure

they've found the way to best burst

out with all their personal histories 

in dramatic form. Embody the 

intention. Read the character. Act

not just the instant, but that instant's

past as well. Pull in all that's led up

to it. Mine the angst! 

-

Glutton for punishment, I guess. I

loved all that. In 1935 (I learned all

this later, once in NYC, burrowing 

down into  a million tons of information

which was flowing everywhere.

The New York Public Library was

like a new wall of heaven, ever

outwardly expanding, and you

could just hang there, like a pigeon

perched on whatever, and coo to your

heart's delight) [Is that image too

precious?] Clifford Odets wrote a

play called 'Waiting For Lefty.' In

the context of its days, it embodied

something we'd now call 'Agit-Prop'  -

short for agitation-propaganda; kind

of like Depression-era propaganda

for what were considered 'leftist' 

politics. It's mostly about activism

for organizing, union-activities, 

rallies and speechmaking, a decrepit

and disappointed home life, a 

low-quality doctor who causes a 

death by incompetency, but his 

appointment being based on local

politics (he was someone's, nephew),

thus bouncing the competent doctor,

who becomes embittered and hostile.

The play, in the language of theater,

does manage to pull in lots of issues 

and topical occurrences. At least

it 'addresses' something, unlike a

cartoon or a western of the same 

movie era, which just filled people's 

heads with fluff and kept them

FROM revolting. This play had

different aims. I used to walk the

streets of New York seeing people

and imagining each of them as

embodied in a role in this play.

And then I realized how little 

people knew or cared about 

anything anyway. They'd rather

have a car. 

- 

I was a million things (layers,

I guess), all wrapped up in 

one myself : I thrived on the 

adventure and excitement of 

the dramas wrought. I was 

writing, I was doing art, if not

BEING an artist fully, I was 

experiencing all sorts of things. 

I did not yet have a camera, but

oh if I did, and how I now wish

I'd had one. I was broke, penniless,

I was stealing, scrounging, sure

of nothing, involved in activities

which only invited trouble, running

from the draft, helping run a 

safe-house for draft evaders,

getting people off to Canada, 

there were drugs and drug money,

my 11th street apartment had 

become a mental ward, there were

two dead hippies, at least, that I

knew of, sourced out of a place

rented in my name. I won't go

on. My entire operation was a

needle-shot to the brain, a

dramatist's paradise. The whole

idea, by the way, of 'Waiting

For Lefty' is that Lefty never

shows. He is killed, somewhere

way off-stage and out-of-script,

organizing, or trying to maintain

the organizing of, a taximen's 

unionization effort. Taxi drivers

are debating a strike. One man, is

against it (Harry Fatt), the others

turn on him, a debate and rally

ensues. Fatt brings in a goon,

violence bubbles, coming close.

There are flashbacks, there are

'Where's Lefty?', their elected

leader, moments; other subplots are

the Dr. Benner episode; the home

life of a guy named Joe; Florrie,

Clayton, dances and socials. At 

the end, a worker rushes in with

the news that Lefty has been shot 

to death. Ready to make a new 

world, the workers in unison yell

'Strike!' 

-

This was all big stuff through the 

30's and 40's, and it was being

re-staged often, right through the 

60's in various hotbed playhouses

around it. Reading it now, everything

fits, it's so put together as to seem

pandering,; it's predictable and

makes one feel uncomfortable. It's

just not 'modern,' or up to (this)

date. But there's so much within

it that it's worth studying just to see

how it was composed. The workers 

all talk a little funny; poorly, stilted.

'All we workers got a good man

behind us now!'  -  sloganeering,

odd phrases. They want to destroy

order, saying that they are being

'trapped by the government and we

can't get out.' All that, by itself,

would be tendentious and boring.

So there's a romance angle thrown

in, tensions in a home life, poverty

markers, competitions, with a 

brother and a sister feuding...

- 

I know I can't keep rattling all 

this off, because I become as 

boring as what I'm trying to 

explain. Most of us never get 

the opportunity to go on  -  

complaining. All the stuff we

ever get, through school and the

rest, is always 'uplift,' on some

weird trajectory  -  happy, stupid

things. We never get the good 

roles, the dark and meaty stuff 

with which to portray a truer, 

more solid reality; the dense 

matter of life  - which is, after 

all, what should really be taught 

and portrayed. It stays fresher, 

and dates better, then fluff. Maybe 

someone should write a play, titled, 

'I'm Sick Of Your Happiness.' Of 

course then, some spunkhead 

like me would probably come 

along, criticizing it to death.

10,578. FACING ANKOR WAT

FACING ANKOR WAT

I am a poor man again and I beseech you:

please talk to me. I was blessed-twice born

into this world with ears and sight, and a

mouth. With these great tools I considered

all things. Having reached a most personal

conclusion, I shattered my lanes with a

silence. Now I need to know, from within,

which of those it is to be : sound or silence? 

How will I alter my world?

10,577. TABLE-SERVICE

TABLE SERVICE

And I see you're hoarding the

gravy-boat again, even before 

the move to Tuesday. If that

clock strikes forever before 

we're done, I volunteer to kill 

it and tell you later. However, 

having killed time, I would

have maybe negated 'later' 

as well. So don't wait 

around, waiter.

10,576. I'LL CALL IT ART

I'LL CALL IT ART

The tangential frequencies are all of what I

see, thank you. And. I'll Call. It. Art. 

Thank you just the same  -  for stepping

back a few feet to see better; for not

commenting on an errant line; for keeping

quiet even if your stomach grumbles.

-

Yes, there are two other rooms of this,

and a history behind it all too. Brooklyn

Museum this isn't, but then again neither

is it Elmira's 'Arnot Art Museum.' Boy, 

did I have trouble with that one, while 

living there. They'd never show my

work, unless it was for some short,

cottage-cheese event. Always a cause.

-

Their stupid name too  -  are these things

art or not? Are not Art, Museum. Who

thought that up? Well, anyway, what

do you gravitate too? Floral art or the

heavy conceptual stuff : where they tell

you what's there even though nothing is and

you need to imagine it first, and then they

paint the wall some bad shade of teal

and throw a bullet-proof sackcloth at it

that sticks onto velcro-held patterns.

-

Believe me, if you give them the right

wine and cheese, they'll applaud by the 

end of the night  -  even with a strolling

violin trio with a stand-up bass thrown in.

10,575, RUDIMENTS, pt. 238

RUDIMENTS, pt. 238

Making Cars

I wanted to be a philosopher too;

not much of a category  -  Philosophy.

And certainly a strange line of work.

Without real application, outwardly,

except for publication and academics.

In Elmira College my philosophy guy

was John McLaughlin. There was

also a jazz-guitarist name of large

renown then, with his 'Mahavishnu

Orchestra,' but no connection. It

was just funny to see the overlap of

names. McLaughlin held philosophy

classes and really not much ever

got done except endless talk. In

thinking about it, what else could

be, really, and what else was

'Philosophy' about?  Talk. History

of Philosophy, that was one thing;

there's a whole medley of historic

personages and schools of theory

and all, to go through. But this wasn't

exactly that. This was more just long

talk. We'd skirmish and try to rattle

one other, pirouetting around without

disclaimers, and land-bombing whatever

ideas we could find. The entire class

was crazy people. Well, two types, either

crazy or mute. The mute ones, I did

find out later, were mute from fear.

In fact, they approached their entire

life in a state of fear   -   which I'd

grown out of, seeing it as pretty

useless. The others were, at best,

often outlandish. But a good

outlandish, not the rubbish stuff

you often run into. Yet the fearful
ones had led themselves into a
dead-end. The cultural time of

life that this was  - you need to

remember  - was still the smoking

aftermath of the resultant hippies

and commune craze that had

descended upon enclaves around

New York State and overstayed or

never left, until much later. Ithaca,

for instance, just a bit up the road,

and Cornell University, were still

hotbeds of community-living,

group homes, and militants. The

countryside all around was still

set up with old farms and places

which had become communes,

experimental communities of 'bakers'

and artisans, and artists too. Bread

was baked and paints were mixed.

There was some drugs, and some

'mothers' who'd conceive and then

willingly turn their child over,

as parentless, to the commune  -

group-raised, nonmaternal and

non-paternal too. I often wonder

now what became of those kids,

these years later. Most of the

communes had a way of becoming

disaffected communes, with the

usual factions and breakaways,

quarrels, spoils and problems.

When they eventually all broke up,

who went where was an unknown.

Communal living, for kids, anyway.

was more in line with the way you'd

treat a dog  -  group ownership,

throw it some food, it runs freely,

answers to none. For people, not

so cool. Many of the 'Commune

Leader' types anyway were your

basic one-step-off lechers  -  in it

for power and sex, allegiance and

vengeance too (which is the Lord's,

by the way, not really theirs, to claim).

-

John McLaughlin's big issue all that

time was to teach John Rawls and

Rawls' book 'A Theory of Justice.' It

had been published in 1971, and thus

was a 'new' book, relative to things.

It bore the characteristics of a new

and reworked 'Social Contract,' John

Locke, equitable distribution, society,

fairness, justice and all that. None

of that was really anything I much

cared about, but I had to hear it for

probably six months straight. I was

more interested in theoretical aspects

of things, conjecture, daring statements,

etc. Worrying about the distribution

of goods and services within the fixed

concept of Society' as we 'practiced' it,

wasn't of much concern to me, though  - 

because I had to  -  I played the game.

I wrote my papers and did my researches.

Nonetheless, it became very dreary

to have to face up against the rigors

of linear philosophy such as Rawls'

when, in my own turn, I'd made

Philosophy represent all that I could

against that. Social policy and equitabe

distribution, viewed within a quotable

'theory of justice,' well perhaps it

all was fine, Jeffersonian, and the

rest. But for me it still smacked of

the Enlightenment and all those

really square, be-wigged, guys.

-

Nowadays, years on as it is, again it's

all different. Just as the communes 

have closed up and all those fragrant

girls are now elderly women, with 

maybe just distant memories of their 

own free, no-undergarments, days,

so too has philosophy forgot about

itself and plowed onwards. Habermas

and Sloterdijk, and all the others. I

can hardly keep up, though I try,

and  -  as I said before  -  it's really 

a small academic industry now, of 

philosophers writing, spouting,

publishing, and claiming a 'school'

of their own philosophy as a 

movement. Narrow as all get out, 

but vital as an undercurrent. The

lines are no longer so precise. A

philosopher type can cross boundaries 

and say things, about 'things,' and

have it go at that : "The car is like

a uterus on wheels. It has the 

advantage over its biological model

for being linked to independant

movement and a feeling of autonomy,

The car also has phallic and anal

components  -  the primitice-aggressive 

competitive behavior, and the

revving-up and overtaking, which

turns the other, slower, person into

an expelled turd." (Sloterdijk).

-

You can't really pivot away from that 

stuff  -  as, in its own way, it's no

longer 'high' philosophy in that old

way of the essential thinkers. now it's

glib, and streamlined, flip and hip,

takes in all things and categories, and

swipes broadly in all manners of a

pastiche, an almost-willing rape of

society. Philosophy (again, I missed

out), has become not so much a cerebral

thought-circle as an active sport, a 

blood-splatter and a squeeze frenzy

out on some play-court of the half-

drunk world, out in the open and

visible for all to see. Like those

hippie girls again. How crazy has

everything become!

-

Sloterdijk, for example, runs as a

blast furnace of heated ideas :  He

has his own unique coinages too  - 

anthropotechnics; negative gynecology;

coimmunism. He has an established

career-rebellion against pieties of

liberal democracy, which has grown

tired, flaccid, fey and foolish. One of

his points is of the persistent nature

of ancient urges in supposedly advanced

societies. He's made mention of, as a

for instance, the contemporary revolt

against globalization as a misguided

expression of 'noble sentiments' which

rather than being curbed should be 

redirected in ways that left-liberals

cannot imagine. That's sort of what

I was getting at when I mentioned,

some chapters back my whole

annoyance at the 'moral superiority'

air which so many people put on 

when taking up lefty or snooty

causes. He's also written this, of

the choice between, in 2016, Donald 

Trump  and Hillary Clinton as: "a choice

between two helplessly gesticulating

 models of normality, one of which 

appeared to be delegitimized, the

other unproven." I think he's a good

example of what I was saying about

bringing philosophy out a bit more to

the normal, offensive daylight of

life. (Missed out on that one too).

He keeps a comfort with social

rupture. "The problem with

Sloterdjink is that you're always

eight thousand  pages behind."

-

None of this makes or breaks an

everyday life, don't get me wrong. But

for me, what it does is vitalize something

otherwise pretty dead. The hulking

cadaver of the life that most people

lead is a pretty humdrum affair  - because

of its routine of exaggerated efforts

and claims  -  and it's being willingly

mixed up into  -  the production of a

national product which only then 

benefits others. Power-beings, fakers, 

and other top-dog bedevillers of the

rest of the commonfolk. It's too bad.

Most men leads lives of quiet desperation;

a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of

little minds  -  Thoreau and Emerson,

respectively. Have you ever seen any 

of those humdrum lives? Take a look 

sometime, in any suburban, or urban,

(there's no longer much difference) 

mall parking lot or large store lot. 

It's pretty amazing the levels of 

paralytic consistency you'll see : 

really nasty people; engrained

bad habits and poor presentation, 

and not a care in the world over 

any of it; just a need for 'more.'

I'd always wanted to be the sort of

philosopher who's slap people in their

faces a bit, to unsettle them; or at

least to wake them up and to revolt.
-
There comes a point at which you have to
reach 'becoming  - when the concept and
the potential meet up and conjoin, and
are somehow actualized into the reality
we know. Take the monkey  -  the poor
monkey, really  -  locked in a cage for
experimentation purposes, just so humans
can determine whether or not that newly
developed eye-shadow or lipstick causes
cancer. I ask you, is that any way to prosper?
On the backs of other creatures; dead,
as food; or alive, as compatriots.
(And certainly a strange kind of work).