10,920. RUDIMENTS, pt. 355

RUDIMENTS, pt. 355
(Avenel Academy, pt.1)

Once you're in the hospital

a long enough time, I found

out, in Perth Amboy anyway  -

which was kind of way low-key

as far as hospitals and rigors

and routines go  -  that they

all love you and welcome

you around. Like having a

healing pet or something,

as is done now. I just waltzed

around on my crutches, went

where I chose, mostly, and

got to know people. It must

be like an orphanage or

something, where, yeah,

even though it's sad, people

get by, and manage to smile,

survive and 'be.' It was like

that for me  -  in fact the

only crummy people I kept

kept really seeing were the

visitors, mine and all the

others, who would come

and go all miserable and sad.

I figured you can't be too sad,

at least you still have someone

to visit  -  ain't dead yet. Cheer

up, Kemosabe. (That's also a

cancer joke, 'Chemosabe' but

the Lone Ranger and Tonto

hadn't gotten that ironic yet).

-

I think I already told that story

about my mother getting that

TV guy, 'The Merry Mailman',

Ray Heatherton was his name,

to come in one day and do a big,

fancy visit. He cheered everybody

up. Frankly, I didn't much care,

but lots of others did, and he was

good about it. I always considered

his stuff to be below my grade-level,

as it were. He was like a pre-Mister

Rogers in an era that had as yet

called a need for either. When

he came in I was still bed-bound

and all laced up with tractions

and stuff, and my stupid mouth

wired shut too. So, I got by with

just grunting; kinda' pretending

I was a retard, back in those days.

(You could still do that). It was

weird too  -  have you ever really

tried to talk while keeping your

mouth jammed-shut? It's like

all you get is some strange roving

tongue banging around on the

back of your front teeth, trying

to make some definite noise but

failing. I had to do that like forever,

and it really sucked. (No pun,

but it's a good one),

-

Another thing about the mouth-shut

braces : I had them on for a time

after I was released too. I remember

well the day I went back to the

dental place within the hospital

to get all the hardware removed.

(Afterwards, through life, when

people would say, about something,

'keep your mouth shut,' I'd still

shudder). Anyway, they did

eventually get all this metal out

of my mouth, and wow what a

new world again I had. It was a

very weird situation  -  being able

again to flap my jaws, chew,

breath in, at least better than it

was. I was told, oddly enough

to chew gum, lots of it  -  to get

the jaw muscles revved up again.

(I guess they didn't know me very

well). My father was a Chiclets

guy (to stop smoking) but I

disliked them, with that hard

candy coating over the gum. I

went with 'Dentyne' instead,

which was a little weak-knee'd

on my part, but they worked.

Later I got cooler about it and

started buying, from Murray

and Martha's Candy Store at

the local corner, this licorice,

black-flavored, gum they sold.

It was called Black Jack, and

came in sticks, just like Doublemint

or something. It was neat, and

I treated it like I was chewing

some gruff cowboy chaw, and

spitting black crud. And then,

some years later too, I was

surprised when I started seeing

some product that kids were chewing,

called 'Big League Chew.' It was

a pouch of gum, in slivers, that

you could stuff in your mouth

and chew  -  just like baseball

guy did with tobacco. Pretty

cool; except they themselves

can't do that. Sometimes I wonder

why'd I ever even waked up from

that coma  - to be able to come

back to something like all this.

Kids can't do shit today, and they

don't want to anyway, but even

adults now can't do the ordinary

stuff that just plain old living

used to afford  -  like chewing,

for god's sake, whatever you

damn well please, as an adult,

while playing your stupid-ass

baseball game for which you

get like 35 million a year. What

the hell goes on anymore?

-

It's all gone from us, like some

mentally challenged Yogi Berra

saying 'Me-He for Yoo-Hoo'

while pushing some chocolate

and sugar drink concoction on

unwitting 8 year olds, or some

John Wayne marshmallow brain

pushing cigarettes, to the point

where any normal media star

or whatever can't even any

longer admit to farting, for fear

someone will take offense.

-

Also, when they unwired my jaw,

the doctors told me right up front

my teeth were going to be crummy

and smashed in the rear, and that

later in life I'd face teeth troubles.

No thanks to all that gum I had to

chew either, I suppose; but at

least they were upfront about it.

I'm nearing 70 now, and, yes, my

teeth are all mucked up, but I still

figure, or hope anyway, they'll

outlast me to the finish line. So,

due to money, I don't much get

anything on that count done.

So, now, it was almost two years

on, and I was in pretty good shape.

I could bicycle again, run, slowly

at first, get around, everything

worked, I had full extension of

bones and arms and all. I used

a line, once or twice, on bar girls,

if the subject came up, that the

train had severed my you-know-

what and all they had to graft in

its place was a horse-dick. It was

funny, perhaps, but I never got

anything out of it. The last piece

of business, which was probably

the most troubling, was that they

told me I had a problem because

'spinal fluid was leaking out my

ears.' WHAT!?? I asked my

parents, like, what did he just say?

They knew less then me, which is

about right, since it wasn't their

spine anyway. The good doctor

said it would require some watching

and some treatment. And then  -  get

this  -  he ordered me up for a series

of 'brain-wave' tests. Oh boy, that

was more fun. So they shave these

7 or 8 little spots in my head, and

affix some sort of suction-cupped

electrodes to my skull, wired to

some console, and whatever thy

did, they did. I never felt anything,

honestly, but then again I never

knew what the world they were

doing to me either. I had to sit there, 
like a lie-detector test guy,  while 
they juiced some electrical current 
or something through my humbled 
brain. It's pretty funny, but for 
the rest of my life, even now, 
if I get near any electrical stuff, my 
presence can cause static or make
things mis-function. After a few times, 
all this  testing stopped, and I never

was told anything about my leaky

ears (?), what exactly I'd been

leaking (?), or what the results

of my 'brain-wave tests' had been.

Weird, weird world. Talk about

some Area 51 stuff, for sure.

-

Now, lastly, and all these years

later, I want to present something:

A man doesn't have much to do

with the end of his life. It sputters,

runs out, OR, it goes out big time.

I'm by choice pretty much right

back where I began my conscious

life. A real, blurby, space-capsule

nodule of a place, this Avenel.

People in strange shapes and 

dress, walking around all

discolored and in fifteen 

different shades of K-Mart 

colored loose clothing that

makes everyone pretty much 

resemble an inmate. Those

muscle-bound, tattoo-freaked

guys, the ones wearing cargo

shorts all year 'round, the

shortstops and the long-tops,

wandering around endlessly,

looking for something. Cigarettes

and booze, yeah they both

still have a current and lively

life 'round these parts, as well

as do noisy cars, revved-up

street cars, motorcycles too.

The place is a real dreamlock,

running downhill fast. I got

out of all my own mess pretty 

good, and most all of my life 

has been spent thinking about 

what I could impart to others.

The way I see it, every other local

political rat-trap is always busy

spinning some shit to them which

they accept lock, stock, and barrel.

Putting true faith in false morons,

in a way. But only in a way because

I'm not so sure about the 'false' 

morons stuff. They might just 

BE morons only. No matter, my

point here is my own dream : I

always wanted to open a school,

an art gallery space, wherein

selected people would learn. I'd 

like the white-washed, open walls

feel of Art and plenty to be put in 

place, and then discussed. I'd like

6-8 students, maybe three months

at a time, 600 or 800 bucks a head,

as attendees. I'd give them a solid

5-hour day, and the rest would be,

in-place, reading and some serious

writing about the lessons and the

discussion. I figure the kids need 

be maybe 14 years old, to 18; no 

riff-raff, just serious kids with 

well-intentioned heads, no 

run-off cultural bullshit, no 

half-assed jeans. They'd have to

work, and listen. Some discourse,
a few road trips (transportation
provided, and well-rounded,
real-life, experiences. I can

guarantee they'd learn, and

learn to think differently too, 

and would leave there not at 

all the sort of person they 

came in as. Actually, the very

place I mentioned, Murray and

Martha's corner store, is again 

open and going unused, and

could be perfect for my use.

I have a curriculum already

put together, Amazon books

to be purchased, or from 

wherever, I don't care. 

Discussion, master-notes,

re-reading, and re-writing 

of conclusions and ideas, 

philosophies and cross-currents.

Yep, my wandering Platonic

ideal could really get some things

moving, get Avenel back on some

more-rightful map, rather than

the sludge-hole it's now relegated

to, and in time we'd have a true

coterie of enlightened beings 

with pointed, well-honed minds

and thought and exposure. That's

how revolutions-in-place begin.

Not in the swirligigs that get built

and then robbed by Governments.
We start them at home, right here.