10,806. RUDIMENTS, pt. 310

RUDIMENTS, pt. 310

Making Cars

Right off the bat, I think I can

state here that in today's world

the instant I hear anyone use

Harry Potter as a reference, in

any way, I simply tune them

out. To me, it is a false classic.

I wasn't brought up, or have

not groomed myself anyway,

to use that level of 'discourse'

as a bona fide cultural reference.

It seems to be happening more

and more in things I read  -  real

opinion pieces and news articles  -

as the level of national discourse

self-destructs. I can recall, after

1972, as well, all those glib

fanatics beginning their useless

badinage as to how The Godfather

movie and saga follow-ups had a

relevant quote and phrase for

everything. Now the same

ridiculous equivalence is

being done by the younger

crowd of false intellectuals. I

hesitate to use that phrase, but

can't really be bothered to think

any deeper about it.

-

The one thing I will say is that,

to my mind, dereliction of duty

is underway everywhere. As a

kid, I'd spend library hours,

sometimes even under the tutelage

of Mrs. Muccilli, the librarian,

who  -  knowing my interests,

even as a youngster, would put

books aside for me, new history

and social-studies (civics) type

books  -  she knew my interests

and the young literature (fictions)

I liked to read. Never was a question

asked about 'fitness' or proper

reading material for me. I was

never contradicted, just always

expanded. There was no TV type

magic or social effects or movie

secondaries to the titles around.

The Avenel Library was about

20 feet by 60 feet (guessing),

and it filled its little slot real

well. Exemplary. Rife with

quiet, good learning. With

respect for word and language

and information. For twenty

times the tax dollar nowadays,

all we get are romper rooms

and computer stations, movies

and sleaze. The back-list titles

of the libraries here now around

me are pathetic. I would have

been a juvenile delinquent for

sure if that was now! No wonder

today's kids find the world so

distasteful as it's presented to

them, and so perplexing that all

they do is run and hide behind

game consoles, telephone patter,

and elementary, at best, inter-

personal communication and

references.

-

I can't remember the first time I

entered that little library, in its

first building, which was removed

about 1960 for what's there now.

Colloquial, banal architecture-of-

box. Normal stuff. There was a

girl on my block, Linda Napoli,

perhaps 5 or 6 years older than

me. Once the new building was

complete, they (of course) to mark

the historic passing (gag me) put

up five or six framed photos of

it, and in one of them, as a girl,

there she was. Holding some sort

of plaque or framed document

about the old library. The black

and white photo had been taken,

with four or five other people,

at the step and entryway of that

old building. I felt proud for her,

but all it ever did for me was

make me grumble about what

a mess they'd made of the whole

scene with this new building.

Right off the bat, they went from

small-town realism, homey and

folksy, to some awful, cookie-

cutter version of what some

bureaucrat had implemented as

the current version of what a

library should look like. Twenty-

five or thirty years later, they did

it again with the 'Main Library'

here in Woodbridge  -  a most

awesome facsimile of a fortress

of sprayed stone, pebble-finish

brutalism of an idea that is an

affront to learning and knowledge.

Yes, once again, that is the progress

to which we have been led. And

everyone accepts it. Good old

Linda Napoli  -  whatever name 

she may have now and wherever 

she ended up  -  to her I always

extend my salute as I pass that

crummy little building. All of us

kids, in the little clutch of the 

turn of 1950, we each came out

of, in those years, a completely

different corral  -  and had a totally

different grazing ground  -  than 

the crud that's extended out today,

ephemeral, ethereal, virtual, or not.

-

I suppose that's where the root of 

my personal conflict has always 

stemmed from [I don't think that's

correct at all, and probably just

more loose and sloppy writing  - 

a 'root' doesn't 'stem' from anything,

actual, and maybe the 'stem' stems

from the root]. Maybe. I always

sought authenticity, but all 

anyone ever extended, and 

extends, to me, mostly, today 

even, is unauthenticated twaddle, 

inauthenticity, faux reasoning,

and all the assumptions of a

bad-ass salesmanship. I demand

better than that. (That sounds

like 'inauthentic city,' which it

could be too, the way they tear 

things down and rip up and 

overlook and ignore history).

The best thing about New York

is, for me (I don't do Food; I don't

do Theater; I don't do Money;

And I don't do Snob stuff), is

the way I can go there now and

leave my normal time and space

references. Knowing things I

know, I can simply slip time off

and return to the stories and

themes of the past; just by
walking. With the knowing of

who did what, and when, and

where. It's an entire other, and

rich, kingdom to me, and not of

the present day at all.

-

By the time I was 16, I was

ready for anything and the

rest of the world beware. By the

time August, '67 came around,

I was done with Avenel, done

with being 17, and out of there

as quick as a 'bride gets out of

her pajamas.' (I think there's

an old phrase for something

like that  -  the joyful and the

exuberant; when people actually

waited for sex. Ha). 'Off like a
 new bride's pajamas.' I think 
that was it. Anyway, I made
sure no one any longer 

had a claim on me, except

for the stupid, constantly

lurking Uncle Sam, who I

simply kept eluding; until it

I did finally get caught in that

wringer too. I've told that tale

 twice before ('Twice Told

Tales,' Nathaniel Hawthorne?),

and maybe will try a twist on it

again here soon. When I'm

in one of my moods to

have a go at goodness.
Right now, it's the last
thing on my mind.