Sunday, June 3, 2018

10,863. RUDIMENTS, pt. 335

RUDIMENTS, pt. 335
Making Cars
If you got to the other side
of Manhattan Island, it was
the west side pier that greeted
you. Down towards the bottom,
the island is narrower and you
can get quicker in between
places, running if you wished,
between east and west. There
was a whole lot of difference
between the two sides and
a whole lot of history too.
In 1740, in fact, right there
at the west side area where
I mostly frequented,there
had been a meeting-place,
subversive tavern location
where the soon-to-revolt
slaves (there were about
1600 of them on an island
of, what, 30,000 people?).
Word got out, people were
followed and harassed, and
then it broke out anyway
and the entire small island
settlement of wood buildings,
homes and businesses were
mostly burned to the ground.
Hangings ensued, trials and
mis-trials and betrayals. It
wasn't the first, nor was it
the last. New York's always
been a crime-pot. That territory
and just below was eventually,
like all the rest, was developed
and all this early stuff forgotten.
By the then-modern era I'm
now writing of, 1967, etc.,
everything had been turned
over to the more utilitarian
purposes of commerce and
profit. No one else cared a
whit about the past : ships
and oats, trucks and freight,
cartons of this and that, they
all came in here, for trade
and consignment, purchase
and resale. Counting houses,
recording centers, transcribers
and stores (the original word
and definition) of the goods
for later sale, after distribution,
which necessitated better
roads, a stabilized growth
of land and place (leveling
and re-routing, and the
better movement of both
people and domiciles)  -
thus the implementation
of the grid system, after
the land was neutered and
drained, the right-angled
cross-streets, each with
their legalized spacing
and frontage and rigid
format.. Nothing eccentric
or twisted, strange or unique
(except for 'people'  -  there
were always the people,
those weird, unique, singular,
solitary types. Probably the
place's only saving grace,
when you get right down to
it. New York thrived on them
too), would be allowed in.
Commerce and the passage
of goods took importance
over everything else  -
markets and emporiums,
the start and the growth
of shops and merchandising
and palaces, shared ownership,
the possibilities of stock
and shared interest; this
all grew up around what
just used to be land,
woods, water and space.
We've long ago lost all
that. Baby, just look
at us now.
-
The west side was
lively and active with
docks, piers, trucks,
exchange. I'd sit there
for hours, or, after some
painting and Studio School
work, myself and another
would set out, bicycles
mostly  - still odd then,
not like now. She'd be
very adept, it never failed,
at swiping things we could
eat from the fruit stands
and vegetable tables as
we passed. I never tried
it. Funny, she did all the
thieving.  -  not that I
was any goody-two-shoes.
I just never stole food.
Eating things  like cauliflower,
raw, was also a new experience
for me. It was cheap and it
was easy. Now there are
entire diets that  people live
by, of raw foods. In 1967,
to me and to most of the
world, this  was still an
outlandish thing.
-
In my head, I was always 
a drifter  -  and adrift too. 
It may have been a disease 
or an illness : lack of any 
real sense of meaning or 
value to the regular parts 
of life that everyone else 
seemed always to be 
worrying over. I was intent 
to make my own way, 
internal compass, internal 
clock, all that crap, and 
never needed anyone to 
instruct or impart to me. 
Others often seemed to 
live for that; their tongues 
lolling at the thought of 
getting help and instruction. 
I was a nut case, and so were 
my street friends, and my 
regular (few) friends too. 
The hoity-toits would come 
in (Studio School) from their 
way-better lives uptown, and 
start jabbering about their 
most recent hour with the 
analyst, and the rest. I got 
about as far with any of that 
as the anal part. That was 
all I had to hear and I knew 
a real asshole had started 
talking. My little clutch of 
maniacs had convinced each 
other that analysis kills any 
driven, creative spirit that 
you possess. The entire idea 
of it is to get you to fork over 
some good dough to talk to 
some pipe-smoking smurf with 
the last name probably of this 
Berg or that Stein (ice and 
beer sufficed as prefixes for 
me in either case here. Like 
Rimbaud had put it, about 
all that derangement of the 
senses stuff, and Blake too   
-  anybody too shy to live 
their own lives and who'd 
rather talk while staring at 
some ceiling to some 
pressure cooked psychoanalyst 
had to be, well, yeah, crazy. 
Go figure.
-
It was no wonder the 
whole world was right 
then falling apart. Abandoned 
trucks all along the wharf-side 
there held homeless vagrants  
- not today's kind, I mean the 
old reedy bastards who'd kill 
and leer. Knives in their teeth, 
sharpened edges for a personality. 
Some of the other trucks had 
dingy, filthy mattresses in them, 
to be used by the night-girls 
who'd work the area. In the 
midst of all this  -  hot dog 
vendors, stevedores, even the
supposed 'night-watchman'  -  
which is all they really did, 
watch all that stuff going on 
all night long  -  came truckloads 
of vegetables and meats, all 
the time. Somehow, within 
a few, five, blocks, it all 
became soon enough, by 
dawn, a market  -  tables, 
separated displays, piles 
of this or that, commerce 
at the call, at the drop, of 
a greasy hat. Even filthy 
old sludge-hole New York 
had to eat. Besides with 
some 2000 restaurants on, 
all the time, somebody had 
to get them all that produce.

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