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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