RUDIMENTS, pt. 348
Making Cars
Well, for what it's worth,
I never died; survived most
things intact. An un-noticed
prey, perhaps, who snuck by
death. The word un-noticed
is pretty dumb here, since, as
it was, I did get broadsided by
a train at age eight, five months
into being eight anyway. That
took a chunk of time right out
the middle, but there's a lot to
be said for being comatose.
I didn't have to bother with
anyone for a good long time;
had the cosmic swells of light
and darkness to deal with, took
some travels, saw the in-between
side of things - not quite the
'other'side, even though there
are a hundred of those religious
pranksters a week who will claim
to tell you they have. This was
a separate temporal locale, as
I said, in-between the senses of
Being and Death itself. I can tell
you a lot about that place; it's all
a bit like, maybe, reading a scratch
and sniff Bible. More vivid, all
those tales and stories. It's not
like I can tell you I saw the papers
for the ownership of the universe
(even though, again, yes, there are
and will be those who say they
have seen all that. Bogus rot,
all that), but from the atmospherics
I came away with as I re-entered
this Earth-O-Sphere, I can say
I've got some good, solid
information, and an approved
mission to tell some of it too.
That file's name was, as I recall,
marked: 'Operation : Tendentious' -
in whatever language they
were using then.
-
One thing I can say is that
unless a person is perfectly
convinced of the rightness of
or her cause, the rest of the
is all just a bit of decoration or
window dressing. People who
are never 'convinced' of the
rightness about what they
are doing end up wallowing
about, getting twisted this way
and that, achieving no real end,
and amassing nothing. It's a
terrible paradox, especially
inasmuch as it's usually the
most corrupt and foul among
us who carry the harshest
self-commitment about their
own selves and causes : wtness
the endless screaming matches
and bulging neck veins of the
contentious types who will
never stop until everything
is transformed into their
way or nothing at all. The
ash-heap of history? Perhaps.
-
When I slowly re-arose
from the dead, it was with
a complete commitment for
the rest of my days to do what
I was about to set out doing.
Yes, even at age 10 or whatever
it then was. You may scoff, you
may laugh. I may not care. By
age 12, actually at the end of
11, I was entered into those
swirling seminary years -
which did probably have some
formative effect, be they for the
good or not I can't say. But as
an observational practitioner
of this reality, they worked
wonders. The isolation hardened
me and allowed my internal
workings both the recuperative
and growth spaces needed. I
arose far different from when
I fell. Every so often I hear the
same sort of freight whistle
on local tracks near here, a
busy Port Reading terminal
- from which my own collision
train had started in the same
manner - and when I hear
the sound of that approaching
bell I still remember those last
and near-fatal moments. Don't
get too close, for this iron is hot.
-
It was only when I got to the
seminary, I'd have to say, that
my life somehow very quickly
turned adult. I don't know how
it happened or what set it out to
seem that way - perhaps it's all
programmed to go in that direction
no mater : adult things are, after
all, fairly plain, stupid, and
automatic and the changeover
is fairly easy. . Who would have
ever thought of enrolling in a
place such as that, just to cut
and - as it were - 'reboot' my
still young life? But, somehow I
knew what I was doing, and mainly,
I'll admit, because I had turned
my life over to forces greater than
me - forces that at one time right
after that accident seemed all
crystal-clear o me in their intent
and explanation and presentation,
which, to me now, 60 years later,
I have difficulty understanding
or seeing clearly, let alone trying
to retell. I guess you've all heard
of the stories and tales of Faust
and Everyman and Mephistopholes
and all - selling one's 'Soul' over
to someone else in exchange for
some stupid, ephemeral, worldly
success or pleasure. Those stories
are legion and they're all fairly
dumb, one-dimensional weavings
of a 'meaning' meant to be, but
a meaning that sources itself
from that other place within each
of us and which resists re-telling.
So, I stumble. Suffice it to say,
I never really made any deal,
the deal fell through, my life
turned out to be a freaking, basic
waste of time, and I'm about
finished, dumb, doubtful and
ticked off as ever over the
whole shooting match.
-
So, what's left? What's left
then for me to do? Go out
in a blaze, at the corner
clock-tower? No, we don't
have them anymore. We get
stupid electric sign-boards
flashing time and weather (uh,
excuse me, that's the very weather
we're in, why do we need to know
it? Just be.)and local ads and
congratulations too for Kendra
on her menarche or to
Kaneshtomeena upon her
graduating Fourth Grade.
Love. Mom and Dad too.
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