RUDIMENTS, pt. 219
Making Cars
Over time - and it's been a
long time now - I've concluded
one thing. In all walks of life, if
you express or write something
that isn't already the opinion of
the reader who's reading or
hearing it, they'll say you had
no right stating something like
that all. Think about that a
moment. In the old days, long
time back, it used to be just
the tyrant or the ruler or the
dictator who could make
that presumption, and kill
hundreds or thousands
over it. Now, by contrast,
it's anyone, or everyone, or
'Everyman,' as the concept
goes. That's certainly a raw
difference, and I guess we do
tolerate all of that. The social
comity is not made up up the
unity of all that mass-think,
and not so much by the fury
of the dissension. Charles Simic,
the poet, once put it thusly: 'He
who cannot howl will not find
his pack.' So, I howl.
-
When I first got to the seminary,
that was the first I heard of
'Everyman.' Technically entitled
'The Summoning of Everyman'
it was an old morality play, and
when I first arrived that year,
some of the guys in the class
ahead of me were staging it. It
had been written as a play. The
whole idea broadsided me, for
I'd never, ever, given a thought
that in the seminary there would
be an active, over-reaching even,
theater group contingent. These
were guys - a changeable bunch
- always staging something, and
people came to see it all. There
was a box office, a real stage,
proscenium, lights, all the high,
overhead pulleys for scrims
and scenery to drop down.
They'd be busy painting and
making their own props and
settings, hammering and
sawing, practicing scenes,
memorizing lines, taping
the stage for position and
entry and all that - marks
and cues on the floor. It was
all surprisingly professional,
and impressive, and all done
by 16 year olds. I was in,
immediately captivated. I'd
never thought about there
being anything but the usual
religious drudgery and rites
and mass and learning and
the dudding thud into one's
head of doctrine and prayer,
etc. And that was all there
too, but this offered a real
respite. A few hours each
day, evenings, whatever, it
was a selected place to go.
Be; learn, see. There were
scripts and books, and plays;
a piano in the alcove, a
music room, a record player,
early 1960's, and 1950's jazz
albums. Coffee on tap.
Everything 'beat' and hip,
except for there being no
girls around - which absence
left a huge gap, yes, (well,
should I say, for some anyway).
The rest of it was as easy as
eating popcorn off a coaster.
The 'Theater Director' guy
was some hipster priest in
from NYC, and he knew
all the rap, every little bit
of what to do and what
went on. Some of it all
was pretty gay, but that
didn' really exist yet, and
I didn't much care - it
had nothing to do with me.
I was groovin' in my own
reverie - John Coltrane,
Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck,
all sorts of cool stuff For a
tiny, little wonderboy like
me, it was miraculous -
and forget the church
stuff, I had my own
miracle right there. it
changed my life. At that
point, whatever it was
13, or 12 going on 13,
my whole life switched
gears, made its big turn,
and I was on my way.
-
When something like that
happens to you, as a young
kid, you know it immediately.
It's like first love, or getting
swept off your rocker by some
girl you meet - completely
consumed, speechless, head
over heels. I didn't need much
else, and from that point I knew
I was there for the ride and the
free meals. The whole church
thing all around me quickly fell
apart. On another 2 years, all
that would get me chucked out
of there anyway, but by then
I'd lost my way, as they
would have phrased it. Back
then and there, losing one's
'vocation' - or even shirking its
call - was a big, nasty deal.
They needed like 300 new priests
a year to keep that rollicking good
spinner spinning, and the new ethos
sweeping the country was killing
all that off real quick. By 1967 (I
was and year and a half gone by
then) the church was probably
losing priests as quickly as it was
gaining them. Priests started bonking
Nuns, for goodness sake, and even
marrying them. Leaving the church,
going native, living together, sinning
up all gay and stuff - all that had
been previously deeply hidden.
There was always a deep, gay
undercurrent to the seminary
anyway - most people knew
it and what was going on. You
just kept your distance and said
nothing. I knew who the guys
were, and where they went
to do their stuff. The rest of it '
was all medieval junk anyway -
the weird procession, candles,
Latin, prayers, chant (this was
before all that modernization crap
that put everything into English
and guitar and folk music and
neighborly shakes and kisses
and all. This was serious, and I
might be complaining but I liked
the medieval stuff way better
than the new. Any number of
times I'd walk the fields, with
a friend of mine from Maine -
Leo Benjamin. He was crazy, fun,
brash, and loud. Leo know, out in
the fields, where the other guys
kept hid, under a pile of old
tree limbs and partially buried, a
pirate's chest, half in the ground,
filled with what passed for, in
1965, girlie magazines. The few
times we sat there, daydreaming
and mesmerized, while he'd tell
me all he knew - Maine country
ways - that was, really, the only
sex-education courses I'd
ever had. Dumb church.
-
Anyway, it went from Everyman -
my first exposure ever to something
really cool, to a few of the Shakespeare
Henry plays - war and intrigue stuff.
Once they did a big production of
a large staged version of Twain's
'Huck Finn' - fake river and fake
Nigger Jim too. It was a massive
success, for the players anyway. I
wasn't in that one at all, but just
watched, carefully, as it was developed
and staged and practiced. It was the
first place I met another friend there
too, Kirk, who had the Huck Finn
lead. For that half-year, man he was
everybody's darlin' - really
something to see.
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