RUDIMENTS, pt. 298
Making Cars
I was always up for learning,
and I went right for the gut -
not too much other stuff ever
got in the way of what I was
seeking to do. I even went
to the extreme of, partially,
going to the seminary just
to get away from all the
rest of the mess and be
able to concentrate on
what it was I was doing.
Seeking solace and privacy,
as it were. I've been asked
a hundred times, why did
I ever do that, go there,
what was I thinking, how'd
I get mixed up in that church
stuff, so young, was it my
idea? The answer to all of
it is yeah, yeah, yeah, and
yeah. I wasn't a dummy
about this, I kind of knew
exactly what I was doing.
For all I knew every
twelve-year old kid in
the world wanted to be
doing what I was doing.
Getting away to think
was a fact of my life.
I had had it up to here
(imagine my hand at
my chin, I guess) with
everything - Bozo the
Clown and the Three
Stooges to the NASA
astronauts and all the
hooey about their unity
and patriotism. It looked
like it was was all disguised
as propaganda for pushing
group-effort to me. Way before
it took a village it took a
moron. I was reading, and
what I was reading made
me a better, thinking person.
Blake, Sartre, old ancients,
new hipster writers, urban
philosophers, worker priests,
rabble-rousers and revolutionaries
too. I didn't care. (Not to get
too haughty about it, you ought
to know that, by 1971, one
of my favorite books was The
Happy Hooker, by Xaviera
Hollander - and it wasn't
about knitting, and it wasn't
so high-brow either). No one
hardly even knows of Picasso
now, but in the early '60's he
was like the end-all and the
be-all of painterly internationalism;
and Salvador Dali too. Whatever
their worth now, and its faded
a lot since those days, they
stood out as media-creations
of what the 'Artist' then
currently was held to be.
If nothing else, a madman,
apt to be leap-crazy at any time.
Internationalists like that
were OK, I dug all that,
but I esteemed even more
the lay-of-the-land guys
all around me. The American
iconoclasts, the bastards
ripping the nation apart
through their bohemianism,
hedonism, negativity, and
bliss. That's where I was
headed - angel-headed
hipsters get ready.
-
When I first got to
New York City, in this
vein, the entire first year
- that cold, cold Winter
of 1967/'68 - there was
a Hudson Hornet that sat
at the curb on Fifth Ave.,
by 10th Street. There are
two churches right there,
big-time, old NY. Fifth
Avenue Presbyterian, and
also the Church of the
Transfiguration. They
each try to outdo each
other in how famed they
are - both have been there
a long time and still represent
a certain glamour of an older
time and space that once was
New York City. But anyway,
this car just sat there, all
the time. Never ticketed,
never used, never anything.
I'd see it nearly every day,
and it always bolstered
my invisible and strengthening
solid faith in the unknown
qualities of the creative life
- I'd figure it was just sitting
there, again, waiting for Sal
Paradise and Dean Moriarity
to once again start it up and
dash straight-off madly west.
The fact that it never moved
soon had me convinced it
was awaiting me too.
-
It struck me as funny that
anyone would write a book
using as a main character
someone named 'Sal Paradise.'
It seemed so obvious . But it
stuck and seemed to work.
I remember watching him
somewhere - Kerouac -
I guess at home, younger (me)
by far, on the old Steve Allen
show. It was an early, early
attempt at hip-interview-format
presentation, and Kerouac was
a wreck and Allen himself
was dutifully off-key; missing
the point but trying to do it
in an oh-so-cool fashion
and manner, something
befitting beatniks and Village
hipsters. It was after that by
a little bit that I realized I
was out of place everywhere
and that nothing really had
any authentic value and the
only people really throwing
any spears that counted were
this intransigent outsiders
running the fringes of what
I knew. And I knew I wanted
to be there and have that.
Little caring for anything
else, I used to dream of
the girl I'd get for my
very own. I had two
other idiot friends,
believe it or not, who'd
sit around talking checklists
of what their dream girl
would have to like and
accept, for marriage - one
of them actually said she'd
have to like 'paneling.' I said,
'Say that shit again? Did you
say Paneling? What in the
wrong is world with you?'
That's a true story, I didn't
just make that up - the rest
of it was not much better,
running the gamut from,
like, pipe-smoking to
having a bar in the basement,
to double garages and cars
and motorcycles. Just
crazy stuff.
-
One of those guys is dead
now. The other one had done
a few stints on Vietnam, as a
Medic - and he had plenty of
tales to relate, and did so. The
Montagnards, hill people who
made some sort of amulet jewelry
and traded for other things with
it. He'd brought a number of
pieces back with him and each
piece had a story. The funny
thing was - and I've noticed this
a few times with these veteran
guys - he came back just fine,
all interesting and happy and
a regular guy getting right back
into the swing of things (except
maybe for his weird fixation on
paneling). It wasn't until later -
and a pretty long time later too -
that these veterans-counseling
groups and government health
clinics and people got hold of him,
that everything darkened and got
wrecked. I've noticed that a few
times, as I said, and it's always
a damned shame how (we) let
that happen. Not that I ever let
it happen (I hate the bastards),
but more how we as'society'
have adapted the stance that .you
must-needs be miserable, stricken
and morose over the battle-time
we've enforced upon you.' And
then everyone falls for all that
and goes along with it, and
does become morose and
dependant and battle-scarred.
Government-made cripples, if
you ask me. And you know why?
Because government-doctors and
clinic people and rehab-people
and counselors and the rest, hell
even morticians and funeral-
directors, all make money off
it once they get onto the
Government gravy-train of
payment for treatment. It's a
scam, and it's a scam that's no
different than war is a scam.
Ali I ever knew, from my time,
was that Sal Paradise and Dean
Moriarity, they'd have had
none of it. They'd have
whooped and hollered, and
set off west in that curbside
Hudson Hornet, just waiting.
And with me in the
back seat too.
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