RUDIMENTS, pt. 261
Making Cars
I often wondered what it was like
when I was born - because I
couldn't remember a thing.
Anyway, who'd really want to?
I do suppose no one else does
remember either, about themselves,
but I've read some reports of those
who do claim to remember birthing.
More power to them, I guess.
I never believe any of that stuff
anyway because they're usually
entertainers or stars on their way
up - so of course the usual self-
absorption would bring them to
the point of 'dwelling' on something
that probably isn't even true, just
to advance their publicity and their
ideas. No matter, but upon any
reflection it always seems that
no one really has bad things to say
under these conditions: Somehow
no one ever says 'it was horrible,
I was born in an ambulance, my
mother was a dying addict, they'd
dragged her out from behind the 7-11
dumpster where she was having me.
Someone had called the police after
seeing her.' The reports I ever hear
about are all sunny and glorious.
-
Wonder why that is? Me too.
Here's an answer I found : there's a
difference between 'taking' a picture
and 'making' a picture. And it's
substantial difference. When I 'write,'
I'm making a picture. It's as much
as when I paint something. The
resultant construction is a product,
of sorts, a way, precise or not, or
seeing Reality as I wish to present
it. On the other hand, 'taking' a
picture is something else - it's
quite glib, any fool can do it. These
days you don't even need a camera,
and I see the result. Phone people
taking clicks of their meals and
cloths, selfies and friends, locations
and party-pals. There's little
forethought involved; just the
happiest part of clicking and, 'Hey!
Look at us and look where we are!'
A person needs no knowledge' of
'photography' or its history and
people. It's not marked as
'important' in any way - anyone
can have the equipment needed.
And the key is - the life we
get in return is the one we've
created. So, you can make your
picture, with depth and meaning
and philosophically careful
undertones, and appreciate the
richness of that reality, OR, you
can simply TAKE a picture and
live with what you get and be
happy with that. In restaurant
meal terms ('Look what I had
tonight, at Mirabella's!') you
get meatloaf flambe forever.
-
These people are 'making' the
memory they want. And that's
very cool because, unwittingly,
that's what we're all doing all
the time anyway. That's the stuff
we walk through at each moment.
That's the gift of God, given freely
to each of us, so make something
of it before you go back.
-
In my Biker days I had to do enough
compartmentalizing to put most
of this sort of thinking behind me.
In a way, I spent a solid 9-year
stretch role-playing my way out of
insubordination. The created 'me,'
the character I was working on,
had very little really in common
with the 'me' that had gone before
it - and to which I returned after
a near breakdown. The breakdown
may or may not have saved my life,
and that's not the point now. What
I did was live fictitiously, and for a
long time - meeting so many disparate
(and sometimes desperate) sorts of
people that after a while it all got
pretty amazing. Like that guy
Alex in 'A Clockwork Orange'
who gets his eyelids pinned back
so he can't turn away from seeing
what's being projected before his
eyes, I had to take it all in, and
participate too. The summation of
my dress-rehearsal-created character
had to go on and perform. And for
many long years I did. In the period
from 1967, which I usually write
about here, the crime and grime of
e11th street was replaced by another
form of crime and grime, this time
Biker version. I thought I'd left all
that behind in NYC, but this did just
slap me all right back to it. It took
20 years, but it had popped back
up, this time on rubber wheels,
and dragged me right back in :
All of it. Dead bodies. Cops.
Drugs. Lewdness, and sarcasm.
All as one.
-
At this time, struggling to contain
myself all I could do was to keep
it all running on. Over time, I did
manage my way through quite a
morass of darkness to find at least
a sliver of light. And there was some
good come out of it too. I helped a
lot of people, proud to say, brought
the reticent and the meek out to finally
take control of their own characters.
I spoke with and befriended enough
in-between people and lost souls on
their way to something, to bring a
form of blessing all around. Funniest
thing was, for Avenel, with 100
motorcycles and Bikers behind me,
I helped a wonderful old lady and
her sister resuscitate their shabby
and run-down bar enough to keep
it alive another 10 years and bring
each of them something to carry them
to the ends of their earthly existences.
The Maple Tree is gone now, and
so are they. There's an old-people's
residence towers in place there now,
and a really silly little black plaque
that tries its best to say 'something.'
Whatever they'll own up to anyway.
All those Bikers and motorcycle
riders and drinkers and funny people
are scattered and gone now, but they
each know the truth and have the
memories. I made much of that.
-
And the 'I' that made all that, you'd
never recognize, because he's dead
now too. I wrote another script and
took another role. I managed, somehow
successfully and to this day I don't
know how, to survive, to not die or
get killed, to walk my own picture
stories and BOTH take and make
my pictures. Leonard Cohen, another
dead fellow sings a song here that
I think always has best encapsulated
that me - the jerk in front of the
mirror shaving, a face covered
with white shaving cream, fingering
a razor blade and realizing that, in
an instant, he can turn all that white
face-foam red. But doesn't.
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