10,686. RUDIMENTS, pt. 273

RUDIMENTS, pt. 273

(Making Cars)

It has been said that there's

a range of emotions we all

have, or share, or go through.

I don't have that; I've never

felt I had. Basically, outside

of myself and my own 'fears'

about things, I don't have an

emotional range over other

people, or their deaths. I

can apparently remain steely

and cold and unemotional.

The few times, maybe 7 or

8, that death has touched me

-  parents, in-laws, friends  -

I've been unable to grapple with

it directly or even approach the

person soon-to-be-dead and speak

face-on. That's kind of sad, but

it's me. Life is such a perplexing

quandary to me that I find my

defense, my dealing with it, by

not dealing with it. Otherwise,

every five minutes it's something

else. If not this, than that. So, let's

say two things : I own up to what

I am (which I've just said) and I'm 
not really proud of it. Insignificant, cold, 
steely aloofness isn't really that cool. 
Everything else surprises me. Death? I

want to just say, let's get it going, and

not dwell. My love for my fellows
expands in each direction: really
good-hearted and tender-soul stuff.
I wish I could have a one-on-one 
with each. It's painful to own up
to what  am. 

-

There's an ever-changing franchise

of things always going on. Not much

of it do I like, or even understand.

I kind of reach out for consistency,

at least on the simple matters  -  water

that should be clear, not murky.

I remember one time, in midtown

Manhattan, by the Haeir Building,

I was walking along with some girl.

She was just a few years younger

then me, kind of a reprobate, in

fact, en exceedingly crummy one.

A high-school teacher who,

believe this, in some thirty years

of teaching, had had two different

children with two different

high-school boys. Today, I'd

most imagine, she'd be locked-up

for sure; pilloried, insulted, and

probably have a forced hysterectomy

or something (I think that's an

old word, and I'm not even sure

it's done any more. I'm just talking).

Or, maybe she'd be a tabloid, scandal

millionairess. Anyway, right along

there, by the building, they were

busy constructing a huge, ground-floor

fancy-ass place (no pun). A Victoria's

Secret flagship store, actually  - so

they had these flashy underwear

ads, with thin, hot babes, in all

the windows. I said, 'Victoria's

real secret was that she didn't wear

any.' My joke. Our talk turned to

that, however it  went, and we

reached a point of my saying

something like  -  'Do you even

wear stuff like that? Why? What

do you wear?' It was just babble,

and she replied, 'Yes, sometimes,

but it depends on whether it's going

to be seen, or not.' I replied, 'Huh?'

She said, 'You know, what kind

of date is it; if it's not going to be

seen I just wear anything I have;

but if there's a good chance it

is, yes, I wear things like that

- it's difficult and uncomfortable

to me though, because I have a

very large, wide back, and that's

stuff's all made for skinny-boned

girls.' Again, I just  wanted to

babble a 'Huh?' The point I want

to make is how different and

involved all this gets, and I don't

wish to be involved. At the time,

I pretended it was ordinary, talk,

and that it hadn't flustered me at

all. But actually it had. I think

I'd have a different reaction today.

It's taken a lot of years for me to

become 'flip' enough to just say

what I mean to say. Like  -  'Oh,

so who are you, Lola Falana, but

always on her back, or what?'

My way of saying, 'what the hell

is wrong with you?' All these

years of hell, my own life has had

me whipped and battered mostly

afraid to just blurt out what's on

my mind. Getting old has freed

me of some of that. I often now

sit around thinking about the old

men I've seen over the years  -  the

gruff, frankly brutal ones who've

always said just what's on their

mind. That's what I want to be.

-

It gets me mad, all these shifting

lines of uncertainty. I spent a large

portion of my early life under the

thumb  -  of parents, seminary

tyrants/guardians, doctors and

teachers too. It took me 50 years

to realize it was all just bunk; that

they didn't know a thing worthwhile,

and were just repeating the same

twaddle that had chained them. Now,

all of a sudden this wicked Pope is

around, and the other day he says

Hell doesn't exist. Oh, just a minor

Papal detail....I think this guy must

have fallen off the Infallible Express

as it was leaving Rome. Something

stinks in Denmark. The smoldering

fires and ashes of the Inquisition

aren't even out yet and now the third

in a new series of bizarre Popes is

monkeying with Hell as a concept.

If you walk past or into St. Patrick's

Cathedral, or any Catholic Church,

for that matter, what you're going to

see is ordinary people who've believed

in all this stuff for years, and called it

religion. The light in their brains

hasn't yet gone on. Too bad. 'Sinners

who die without achieving eternal

salvation are not punished,' the

Pope said, in an interview with

Italian journalist Eugenio Scalfari.

'There is no Hell; there is the

disappearance of sinful souls.'

What's that, I wonder? And whatever

a 'disappearing soul' is, where does

it disappear to? Some celestial

Rahway Prison waiting room?

-

It's the equivalent of me suddenly

saying I'm no longer sorry for the

mess of books and papers I leave

around : Because it's just as stupid,

and because it has no equivalency

in any terms. The meager dispensation

of my short years on this earth was

always presented to me as duties and

details, troubles and woes, things to

abide by and watch out for. A

veritable AT&T of the brain, by

and with which I was supposed to

watch every item, dot every I, and

leave certain matters completely

alone. Edicts and lists of things.

In the seminary, the same rigmarole

was always underway, except with

whippings  -  large rosary beads,

belts and hammers too. For what?

For rules and edicts and lists of

things. too much crap to put on

any platter  -  and I don't even eat

crap, being a vegetarian. [Editor:

file under 'comic relief' in index].

so...whether you've got a broad back,

or whether you chant Gregorian,

like the Pope, in the shower, please

make it consistent. I'm so sick of

running and having things running

me down. One thing I noticed today

(It was Easter today) was that up

in the Woodstock Hills, with all

those quaint little old-America

steeple churches dotting all the

hillsides and villages  -  place no

one goes to anymore  -  there were,

at best, 9 people I saw all day

doing anything having to do with

'Easter' it all. I really don't think

the old, American 'country notices

these faux-country holidays. Not

until I'd driven back here, in to

very hear of the central beast of

NJ, did I see the swarms and the

police-protected honoraries. All

running back and forth to their

sanctimonious churches of choice

to greet the newly risen assemblage

of their faith. 'Imagine there's no

Heaven, it isn't hard to do...No Hell

below, above us only blue.'

-

Have you ever wondered why country

folk would have less of a need of the

visible markings of tending to their

God? Why only these suburban

festivalalities of roads, cops, crossing

guards, shopping plazas in the

gross suburbs would be the ones 

to care? It's because country people

live with God, it's all amongst them.

In the suburbs it's so bad that all that

has to be made up to over-compensate 

for the dreary loss of their senses of

place and being. They have broad 

backs, these suburban folks, broad

from lugging all that crap around.