10,830. RUDIMENTS, pt. 325

RUDIMENTS, pt. 325

Making Cars

It always amazed me how there

was a large 'Domino's Sugar'

sign right across the river  -  

a little ways up, by the bridge

that's at Corlears Hook. I'd

always figured sugar for all

that sugar-cane harsh labor

stuff, like in Cuba. But there,

right across the way, was a

refinery for Domino's Sugar,

which was the same name that

was on everyone's table, and

everywhere one went. People

worked there. It was a big

factory, with chutes and large

buildings, and, being as it was

right on the water like that, I

figured 'use' too  -  barges maybe,

or ships, from the tropics filled

with raw, or processed, or

unprocessed sugar  - maybe

still cane or needing crushing,

or whatever they did to make

sugar  -  which process I most

certainly didn't know anyway.

It was just odd thinking of sugar

being made, processed or packed

right there. Just another of the

odd juxtapositions you'd run

across in New York City. If

you go to Corlears Hook now,

it's all gone  -  probably the

kinds of locals who live there

now wouldn't even know what

I was talking about. The Domino

factory is condos, but I think

they salvaged the sign, or some

part of it, and kept it displayed

ostentatiously  -  as if it still

meant something. The only

thing it does represent is loss,

and no one cares about that.

You can't take loss to the bank.

-

The whole section over that way,

east to the river, from like way

down and right up through the

teens and 20's, was long ago

Robert Moses-ized for projects

and low-income housing. Any

semblance of real river use is

long gone -  there are parks and

runways and fences over which

people fish. People even stay there

all day  - eating and cooking

outdoor stuff; ballfields, soccer,

concerts. Old people wobble

about, lingering past their years;

Hispanics and blacks fill the

place up, and, of the last few

decades, regular white urbanites

live there too  -  the kind who

jog, and do ballet, spandex,

aerobics, Tai-Chi; all that. It's

a different world now. When you

finally get up to the 20's, there are

huge projects, Stuyvesant Houses

and all, whatever it's called  -

income targeted, small-sized

apartments, from the end of 14th

all the way through. It used to

be mostly poorer Jewish people;

now it's everyone, and even

glamor people fight to get in

there. Waiting lists. Income

battles; and all the oldsters die

off. There's also a Con Ed

generating facility there. You'd

be hard-pressed to find anyone

there who knew about the past.

One of the odd things about

New York  -  I found early on,

and especially disconcerting,

and it's all even worse now  -

is, two blocks in one either

side of the island, if I were

tell you then  -  much less now,

of course, when there's really

little trace left  -  that a block

away was an entire, other,

busy, waterfront culture  - 

of ships, freighters, cargo,

workers, fish, and all that

went into it, you'd not

believe. Manhattan itself,

and New York, has become

so isolated and removed

from all, that that the

complete experience is

no longer believed or

understood. Now it's all

sports piers, parks and

walkways, bicycle paths

and the rest. BUT, and always

the clincher, on the eastside,

and on the west too, now, in

order to get to any of this,

whatever's left, or to find

any of the few remnants of

it, you first have to cross,

on the east, the FDR Drive

(there are walkways over it,

really crummy, but they work

-  netted, fenced to prevent

jumpers and debris from

raining down on the highway;

and on the west side, a tad more

people-friendly, cross walkways

controlled by 11th Ave. lights

and stops. But you're still taking

your life into your hands. And,

once there, on either side. you

are effectively cut off and

isolated from the rest of the

city, and the city experience.

It's like, maybe, the New York

City motto, on the license plates,

should read: 'New York. Good

at parks, bad at city.' I guess it's

all perspective, because I was

able to take it either way. The
ring-road can be seen as a
prison-perimeter on either side.
But,in my later years, I can now

only envision an island full of 

people, trapped there, and

mostly no longer there of

their own will; growing more

and more artificial and frivolous

as a people and a culture, taken

over somehow my monied

elites who handle nothing ever

but dreams, and who sell those

dreams to dummies, and make

millions. Certainly, unless it's

a film or some slimy docudrama,

no one knows anything about the

old waterfront, or the real, true,

old crime syndicates either.

John O'Gottie, come home.

-

I was always able to use the

Fish Market area as a marker 

anyway, as something to hold 

me to the authentic values of a

place that once was; being there 

and still so much present. When

I was present amidst all of that,

it was as if I talked the language

of 'seafaring' and knew all its

ins and outs, ways and wants.

Certainly the law was different:

The cops and coroner people

were always dredging some poor

schmuck out of the river  -

weighted canvas sacks, pieces

of people chopped up or busted

all up. Weighted down with 

bricks or concrete. A regular

free-for-all, and everyone knew

it, no one was ever surprised.

Sometimes it was two people at

a time, tied together in some

miserable final moment, or after.

The Daily News or any other

silly newspaper would always

manage a photograph and play

it up big-time with some half

concocted story. There was this

mysterious, crazy-looking, sneaky

crime photographer, or the scene

of the crime anyway, named 

'Weegee'. He'd take some photos

and beat it; you knew when he

showed up it was a good one.

He had a real name, but I forget.

He liked shootouts, jumpers,

suicides, rub-outs, and  -  of

course  -  these always 

highly picturesque (?)  body

bags of river-eaten stiffs.

Weegee got pretty famous about

that time, mostly just because

he was so weird and mysterious.

A regular Joe Gould (I'll tell you 

about him sometime).