Sunday, February 18, 2018

10,540. RUDIMENTS, pt. 230

RUDIMENT, pt. 230
Making Cars
Along about 7th grade, I can
well recall  - still being local
to Avenel schools and not yet
having departed for seminary
days  -  I spent nearly an entire
deep and dark November and
December doing an in-depth,
highly detailed, almost bizarrely
so, report on Moscow. The city
in the then U.S.S.R., Moscow
River, and the rest. I concentrated
most heavily on the ornately
styled and architecture'd St. Basil's
Cathedral. So much so that for
all practical purposes it stood
in for me as the absolute symbol
and icon for Russia. Well, one
did not refer to it as 'Russia' in
those days. It was The Soviet
Union; U.S.S.R being simply
the Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics. Americans apparently
would not forgive that, even
though it was really no different
than taking the 50 states (48 was
the number I grew up with, until
1959, when Alaska and Hawaii
were suddenly added) and calling 
them the United States of America.  
That striking national alteration
of flag and country-line, along
with the changing of the penny's
design, were perhaps the most
momentous yet momentary things
of my youth. I leave out the space
shots, the dual-headlamps on cars,
the design models of fins, tails
and swoops, sugar'd cereal, Tony
the Tiger (the stupid tooth-rotter),
Eisenhower's heart attack, Nixon's
'Six Crises,' Marilyn Monroe's skirt
blowing up over the subway grate,
allowing my perhaps earliest glimpse
of a female's underside, Gary Powers
and the U-2 flight that crashed, with
its ensuing crisis, Cuba, Kennedy,
Doctor DeBakey, Christine Keeler,
The Profumo Affair, Seven Days in
May, by Fletcher Knebel, Splendor
In the Grass, Pope John XXIII
(Cardinal Roncalli), Twiggy, and
Rudi Gernreich. I'll stop there,
and I'll call this, again, the
 United States of America. 
But, no matter.
-
I was way caught up into all this;
of my own doing, my own impetus.
And, yes, perhaps it was an apparent
symptom of my own sloppy obsessiveness
about things. I had subscribed, well
before this, to the monthly 'Soviet Life'.
It was an equivalent version of Life
Magazine, if Life had been a mouthpiece
for the rash of Government-controlled
story and photo lines extolling ONLY
the system and the Government,
(which it may, in fact, very well have
been; Henry Luce, media, etc.). As
'Soviets,' no one ever concentrated,
at all, then, on 'Russia' or 'Russians'
nor the Russian 'volk', the everyday
burden-shoulderers of the large, harsh
and confusing land. Back then one
had to have given up any 'Russianness'
in order to become 'Soviet Man,' as
it was called. It was all a 'system, not 
a 'people.' And I never got a feel for
what the mailman ever thought of
this  -  it was still not that far removed
from McCarthy era stuff, and I was
but a 12-year old kid. Anyway. The
thing about my over-the-top devotion
to the cathedral was  - besides its
bizarrely enticing design and color  - 
the idea that the Soviet State was
Godless, officially atheistic (these
were once the more pious people
on earth). And they had all these
great Russian Orthodox churches
and cathedrals and buildings being
used for secular or governmental
purposes; or for nothing at all.
-
My little room at that time, at home,
was in the rear of the attic, atop the 
stairs and to the back, with a little
desk built into the wall, which desk
my father has somehow built in as
forethought. It became perfect for me.
A haunt, from which I almost, it
seemed, never emerged. For some
strange reason I'd tacked up a large,
National Geographic map of the 
world, upon the wall, and in the 
that map were 10 or 15 colored 
push-pins denoting places, cities, 
and locations I'd grown fond of 
(from reading about). Places my
dreams perhaps had me visiting
someday. Strange, boyhood stuff, 
mixed with baseball items, a Pope 
thing, also on that long wall, and 
a poster of some car-design and 
models of the last 40 years, then,
or so. I say strange, now, because
from what I've seen over the years,
kids' rooms now, of this ilk, get
filled with posters of stars, entertainers,
robots, babes, girls, bosomy stuff,
pin-ups  -  certainly none of the
junk I was entertaining here. I
would burrow down on this Moscow
report thing like I was writing a
new Bible. Only later, by 15 or 20
years, did I get involved with
reading the other side of all this;
Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the Gulag 
stuff, Lenin, Stalin, Trotsky,
Malenkov, and all those mishaps.
That was a lot to atone for; and about
1980 or so there was a movie called
'Reds' which  -  after 'Doctor Zhivago'  -  
made pretense to try and cover this
material in their own, lighter-hearted,
Hollywood blowhard way.
-
As I think back now, after all that 
toil and work (construction paper 
backers for photos, text typed in 
place, drilled and grommeted binder), 
I have no idea what this report was 
or for what subject or teacher I turned
it in. I have no recollection of the sort 
of text I may have written to accompany 
all these references  -  my point of view, 
what I  included, etc. Complete mystery; 
but a young boy's lasting fascination 
for the remainder of the big, fierce 
world. And now, in looking back, the 
closest I can get is a Turkish writer 
named Orhan Pamuk, who has a 
wonderful sort of childhood book in this 
vein entitled, quite simply, 'Istanbul.'   
Thinking back on any of that
now brings a small sort of heartache;
I guess part of the realization of a 
life being over and with it all this 
backwards compensation for things 
done and achieved while yet being
essentially without value except to
me. In that vein Life isn't fair at all.
You give, give, give, and get nothing
back except junk. Sugar Frosted Flakes
to rot your teeth; trips to Disneyland to
look at fake, ersatz, make-believe,
bullshit towers, castles, and 
crenelations. Not worth
a darn; nothing.









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