RUDIMENTS, pt. 284
Making Cars
Everywhere we go we are part
of something - or so it seems.
And that's some weird stuff.
Back in Elmira, when I was
mixed up a little with that
Seth Group stuff, one of the
points Jane made coming
through was how we each
'select' our historical group
to come thorough (each) life
with. On paper it makes no
sense at all - but in the
rational sense none of that
stuff would anyway so it
doesn't really matter. And
that's beside the point. At
some level it had to be crap,
but I can see it having some
validity too. But, like back
to all those childhood chums -
that's a 'group' somehow I
chose to come through life
with? I haven't seen 1/25th
of them since age 15, so
what's that mean? After I
came back from the seminary
everyone I did meet was just
a finish-school pain-in-the-butt.
And the same goes for the
seminary guys - I knew them
all, they were my 'group.'
But then I lost all track of
them too. And, here in late
life, there are lots of people
here and there I 'know' but
don't much distinguish between
except maybe for 10 or 20
who've withstood the present
with me. We clutch. But is that
my 'group?' The word was, as
well, that we select our 'parents'
and 'family groups' too, so as
to experience and go-through the
fulfillment with some life-lesson
thing that we still owe on. Beats
the hell out of me, all that. Just
another example of how I don't
often understand things. I probably
understand my dog better. And
they have crummy, short lives
compared to my memories and
expectations and hopes. At some
point, anyway, it all gets interrupted
when you become sex-crazed
in late teens or whatever and
just want to spend the next ten
years searching out the right stuff.
Is that then a 'group?' Nothing
makes any sense.
-
Like rounding second at the
portables, in that baseball-game
from yesterday, the person I'm
about to run down to reach the
bag and not get tagged out -
he's some poor sucker I somehow
selected to run through life with at
some arm's length connection?
And I'm about to cleat him in the
gravel-rubble face just to get a bag?
And then we're still in the same
heap in an afterlife? To compare
notes on how we did? See, I just
don't get it. Male and female,
then, another thing was, is all
immaterial because after this
life we all go back to oneness.
That too is tough, because there's
certainly a friend or two around
here I sure would hope would
remain female, for the ostensible
purposes of afterlife happiness.
Get it. I'm lost.
-
In the middle of all this, how
was I supposed to meddle with
anything else, get through this crazy
life? New York City was like an
inbred cat-farm, there were people
all over : everyone was curious and
unique. I was stunned and agape
like some religious fervor guy at
a huge revival tent. 'Brother Love's
Travelin' Salvation Show,' as Neil
Diamond had put it. All I ever
wanted to do was learn the story
behind everything I saw - the place,
the person, the year, the day, the
times of old. And I did. I crafted
a bizarre life just earning everything.
One time my father asked me,
'Who do you look up to? Who are
the important figures in your life?'
I guess he was hoping I'd say he
was, or blurt out his name in a
list for 4 or 5 names. Poor fellow.
I stupidly said, 'All the best ones
are dead.' How does someone top
their own stupidity?
-
If that - my father, my family, my
kin - was part of a selected group,
how and why did it get so crossed up?
I related to no one and no thing. If
I was part of something it was a
onenss-of-self. I see now stuff like
that is called 'solipsism.' So be it.
Look, the way I figured it everyone
has a story, everyone comes out of
something, heads somewhere, closes
up shop, and leaves behind a name.
If there's any group identity there,
I'd like to know about it. All the
crusaders and diatribe people I
ever saw in NYC were always
rounding other people up for their
cause, to come along, add numbers
and voice, to change things. You
know how distasteful that is? You
find yourself hoo-hah'ing next to
some pimple-faced ground-squash
from Long Island who wants free
library cards for life, just like in
Sweden. ('Dude, already got that
one figured out.'). Or some bra-burner
from Ozone Park screeching about
human-rights-equality and not
knowing the first thing of which
she speaks. Yeah, sure, come on
board, this is my 1967 wagon-train.
-
I'm not happy. I'm not sad. I'm
not angry. I don't care. I read
that on the back of a cereal box
one day when I was twelve. The
cereal's name was 'Life.'
No comments:
Post a Comment