10,833. RUDIMENTS, pt. 326

RUDIMENTS. pt. 326

Making Cars

There was a long period of time 

where I was lost in space. I admit

to that now, and even while it was

underway I felt something was

amiss. I realized (slowly) I hadn't

really 'washed' in near to a year, my

hair was a slab of old, oily string,

and my clothes were fairly disgusting.

BUT, let me say, as you experience

this, as you are going through such

a period, you aren't really aware of

it. The mind sort of turns all that

stuff off  -  as in knowing that with

little to be done about it there's no

sense in dwelling on it. Your personal

horizons just begin to shrink, circling

closer and closer only to what's then

around you. Have you not seen those

homeless sorts and the street-bums

who find a public restroom or space

and hover over it, running the water,

almost bathing themselves, with a 

bag or two of pathetic travel-possessions

as they make their way? Any moment

of that sort of time becomes precious  - 

the same as an Edenic ideal. (It was

far worse, too, for females, with their

more demanding hygienic needs,

and concerns. Always a sad-sack 

sight). For myself, I would just

wander about  -  the Studio School

had others just like me, and, of course

others not at all  - the more monied,

capital class. Two types of Art things

going on  -  the professed 'I shall

be an artist,' types, and the low-tier

scrapers (like me then) who seemingly

face no choice in the matter, and are

pinned to their situation by the

driving force of inspiration, a forced

dedication, a drive and will, and 

(of course, yes) the messages coming

to them from the stars above (watch

out for the ones with the aluminum

foil antenna hats they make, to better

receive their messages and commands)

I never smelled, or at least no one

ever drove me off saying, 'Go away,

you smell. If that counts. In the

Studio School, and in some of the

better-crust New York uptown types,

that selected, drawing-room, 'I shall 

be an artist' sort of thing was often

the equivalent of 'slumming.' A few

years maybe, before the real trust-fund

money-pot opens, for some younger-days

of interesting frolic. You could tell by

the shirts and the supplies, for one

thing. Hats too. No one really wore

hats of the traditional sort then (1967),

but they did. Sorts of Bing Crosby

toppers, feathered fedoras perhaps, 

(not the flamboyant things, I more

mean the understated men's hat that

often had a small feather tucked into

the band at manufacture. It was all

pretty funny  -  cloth coats and nice

shoes). It was an indeterminate

level somehow of fashion and status

little seen these days  -  something

maybe between the old Izod shirt

urban-yuppie thing, when that

existed, and the children of 

privilege and pride look. Or more

perhaps it was simply people slightly

old before their time. ('Should I 

wear my trousers rolled?' - Eliot 

reference).

-

Also, for all practical purposes, time

didn't exist  -  because I had no use

for it, no need of schedulings, and

there was  -  other than day/night  -

no real difference between. One

knew morning by the sounds and

the air  -  the roaring scrape of a

garbage truck, the can-toss brigades

of old. People stepped out, warily

too it seemed, to get to and begin

their workdays  -  buses, trains,

taxis, walking. Briefcases and

shopping bags. The light was 

long and low, as it slowly crept

up over the east side  -  still today

that first early illumination, to me,

is one of life's more stirring times  -

I try to capture it often. The unreality

of a place like New York City, 

easily missed and glossed over 

by the ordinary concerns and

activities of a normal day, can best

be seen as the normal world gets

refocused into light : clouds and 

streaks of illumination, objects

slightly altered and highlighted

by light; moments to steal your

breath away. I take that now, and

hold it all  - back then, I couldn't

savor it in any other way except

for the momentary. When you're

lost you're lost  -  you're reading

feelings, not quite sure what they

are or what you're getting, but without

a home base or a notebook or some

way to stop yourself and record the

fleeting moment, it's all lost, as are 

you, as deeper into the morass of 

a fuzzy and lost time you wander.

Like a dreamscape, something

quickly fading upon awakening.

You KNOW you were just somewhere,

but it's gong away fast, and you can't

place it, and everything about it is

mixed up and without logic.

-

So, you have to train yourself. 

We all get glimmers of other worlds;

knowing how to recognize and claim

them is the hard part. They need to be

integrated into the world of everyday,

and they need, of course, to allow us

each still to function. A good instance

of this, last Summer, I guess it was,

was when a rattlesnake crossed my

path. Just like that, out of nowhere.

While hiking and exploring some

 portion of the high woods, along

rocky, forested land, a few of us,

(two others and myself) were 

walking along taking it all in, and 

there  -  right before us, along the 

pathway, was a rattlesnake. Real.

It was slinking along (snaking?),

over the sunlight rocks and path,

unmistakably a rattler, tail shaker

and all. I'd grown up only with the

most basic, stupidity aspects, of all

that  -  Yosemite Sam, cartoons, those

endless cowboy films, the crisis

moments of the snake-bit person,

hero or not, out along the trail, the

little knife cut to better suck the

venom back out, before it hits the

bloodstream  -  all that. It was a

parody, almost, of real life. Here,

however it actually was, right before

us. My mind was preoccupied just

as quickly. Here was another world,

presenting itself to me, and now I 

had the time and interest, resources 

and equipment, to stay with it : on

one side of us, off a bit, was a 

large lake; people boating, a few, 

and fishing, a few more, on the 

other banks. Across the path, 

on the more rocky-strewn side, 

to which the rattler was headed, 

was high-forest, rocky and wooded 

land, lots of broken old tree-limbs 

and logs. Rattler Heaven, I'd guess  

-  slabs of rock on which to sun, 

outcroppings of stone and niches 

and crevices in which to burrow. 

The level of rich, ancient dirt, 

the leaves even of last year were

still strewn about, covering the

ground with its rich load of soil.

At our backs, some ways off, the

Appalachian Trail itself 'snaked'

over the rocks and trees past the

ranger station and rest-spot. People

from all walks and places were

there - walkers from Germany,

leather-clad super-hikers, and

even people who'd left Georgia

in March and were intent on

reaching Maine (the terminus

of the trail at Mt. Katahdin), by

September. The presence of that

rattlesnake brought me up short  - 

realizing that, back whenever, 

any New York person in the

situation I was in when there

in 1967, would not have had 

a clue or a realization as to 

what was underway or what 

they'd witnessed; what secrets 

to another form of living was 

before them. Worlds apart on 

the very cramped and supposed

'Island Of the World.'