11,033. RUDIMENTS, pt. 393

RUDIMENTS, pt. 393

(on your church-knees, avenel)

There wasn't a great deal of

excitement to ever tell about

at the seminary. And believe

you me it wouldn't have taken

much. Most every moment

was controlled and set out, so

that not could happen. There

was always laundry day. (See

what I mean about excitement).

One day a week, I think it was,

a laundry service truck would

show up. Each kid had to

have readied a laundry bag

of dirty laundry to give to the

laundry guy. So, we never

handled the clothes per se, 
just the laundry bags; and I got 
involved too in the 'laundry 

crew,' but whatever day of the

week, or every-other week, I

forget, we'd get about 120

laundry bags full of laundry

and we'd fling them down the

open area of the stairwells  -

The ones where you could

look right down, like in the

old movies, and see all the

stairs. By the time we were

done, of course, there'd be

a huge pile of soft, landing

area, laundry bags just sitting

there like a big cushion. So,

yeah, we'd jump. I don't how

no one ever died, but I think

there was a broken arm, or

two. Some guy named Don, a

first-year guy, who was soon

gone. Gone Don, in fact. Yes,

some people didn't last long,

for various reasons  -  we had

the homesick, the weak, and

the too-nasty. Not everyone's

presence there worked out.

We never had the lovesick,

but  - wouldn't you know  -

the year after I left I was told

they somehow began having

girls on campus (beats me why

that would be, but whatever).

I heard stories of one or two

guys getting the boot then, over

'love matters,' let's call it.

My damned luck again.

-

When the laundry bags came

back, the drudgery of the unload

and distribution bore no fun or

resemblance to the outgoing

process. Our building anyway, 

which is all we covered. Some 

guys, get this, even did the 

dry-cleaning route. We'd

get their little, fussy, shirt

boxes back. The whole idea

was to have a money-draw

bank account in your name.

There was actually an office

room with a service window

referred to as 'The Bank' and

some chubby little monk guy

in there as the official Banker.

Brother Bucks, I called him.

I did all I could to to try and

keep 20 or 30 bucks in there,

except for textbook time,

when the home-folks would

have to send a hundred and

fifty or so. Some kids though,

they were rolling in money; 

no second thought ever given 

to the vending machine fiesta 

of candy, ice cream soda, 

and all the rest. Including 'dry
cleaning,' I suppose. One of the 

more well-used areas and 

popular too was the 'canteen'  

-  stupid name  -  which was 

a group of vending machines

with tons of junk to be had.

First year out, I remember a

chubby guy named Peter

Flaherty spending a majority

of his time right there.

-

As I remember Gone Don now,

I seem to remember his last name

as Czatkowski, from South Amboy.

Not that it means anything here,

like 60 years later. He kind of

stood out though; like a rifleman

in a roomful of people knitting.

-

Back in Avenel, my mother and

my aunt were  'overjoyed' when

I selected this seminary line of

work. I think they felt an instant

holiness of their own and a free

gate-pass to Heaven by having

a 'kin' in the priesthood; not that

it was ever going to happen. My

father was instantly suspicious

and morosely dejected, that his

spineless son wasn't going to

carry on the family name, (I

suppose that was to mean

impregnating some lassie,

which I ended up doing

anyway, and eventually.

So, the cracker, broken

in the middle, turned

out equal on both ends.

[What the heck does any

of that mean, Mr. Author?]).

To my father it was pretty

much alike to losing the

first-born to some weird

superstition. Then we

switched, years later, as

he turned out all churchy

and I'd walked away from

a burning  ship named

McCarrick. so, whatever

any of it all means, there

you have it. I try not to

dwell on it because, really,

my life has not been defined

by it, yet its presence is

curiously reflected in the

background of many of

the things I do. Conversely,

the minute I left that joint 

and entered my 'next' life 

chapter, it was always 

anchors aweigh and no

looking back.

-

The sanctimonious piety 

of Avenel was a bit 

disconcerting, mostly

because I realized right

off, in an immediate manner,

that it was poor-people piety.

Serfs and slaves, the kind

you'd find at the hired-hands

and indentured servants section

of any old Southern farm.

Avenel just didn't know any

better, and neither did I!

I had fallen right into the trap

I detested. My mother and aunt

sewed a hundred plus name-tags

into each stupid bit of clothing

I was taking with me (it was all

required  -  for the laundry-service

purposes I've just mentioned),

yet it was done joyously, by

them, while it seemed laughable

to me. I was ring-leader of a farce.

There was an entire sort of gayness

factor, I can see now, which was

not public profile in 1961. The

requirements included, with

name tags on any cloth item,

a napkin ring, and 12 cloth

napkins. Excuse my 12-year 

old French, but what the

'putain' was a napkin ring?

That was my first reaction.

The entire napkin and ring

thing was beyond my 

comprehension and what

it had to do with anything

was beyond me. It certainly

seemed to have nothing to

do with God, Salvation, or

the afterlife. Just a fussy,

damned napkin ring. I

should have seen these 

shitheads coming. Avenel,

AND Blackwood.

11,032. THIS IS NOT A PIPE?

THIS IS NOT A PIPE?

You get to tip the scales at

9001. When you're that fat

nothing matters any more.

(except perhaps the width

of the door). I've always liked

skeletons myself, they rattle 

the bones much better, and

skulls look great on a desk

by the pipe-rack. Now someone

sends me a photo of, what! 

my own fat self? Getting there 

buddy. Ouch! It's not me, I

hardly eat  -  I'm just now 

filled up with experience. 

Ain't that a treat oh

Mother Magritte.

11,031. CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO, JEZEBEL AND ORION

CHESAPEAKE AND OHIO,

JEZEBEL AND ORION 

That slow train went by so fast

I couldn't read the words. I think

it was grain for Biafra  -  those

dumb farmers want buy-outs for

everything. The government then

buys their 'surplus' and gives it away,

only AFTER we pay the farmers their

competitive rate. Try that with cars

and trucks. We'd each have something

new. Outside the Taco Bell, some

Paki guy stares at the sky. Oh well.

11,030. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS

YOU KNOW HOW IT IS

And I bet you do  - scalawag

trumpeter, lying with no nose

left. All those people in power

wanting to be known as what

they're not : People in Power.

Not really. The reaction is

always behind the curve; as

rear guard as a horse's ass.

11,029. RUDIMENTS, pt. 392

RUDIMENTS, pt. 392

(avenel:seminary days, pt.1)

When I got to the seminary, it

was like coming from nowhere

to go (also) nowhere. The place

was situated in a fringe area of

the Jersey Pine Barrens, just

out of civilization, which was

always lurking, out along the

fringes. Seriously odd. There

was a series of small towns, one

jumbled-down heap after another,

that you'd pass through on your

way inland from the Turnpike. Like

Exit 4, or 3, I forget. (But I think

it's 4). These were all, (in 1961)

still towns of mystery and with

cross and in-breeding too. Not too

much with the God stuff. Berlin

(pronounced BER-lin), Blackwood,

Runnemede, and others. With

nothing in between them except

killing fields of high grass, old

strange homes, rambling oases,

and mysteries and more mysteries.

All connected to nowhere, meaning

if you took the wrong sandy lane or

hard-pack, down the end of it you'd

surely be beheaded. Enjoying life to

the fullest was everyone's local goal.

-

If I were to tell a local I was from

'Avenel,' they'd just scream. It

must have meant something in

their language. The seminary

itself, all through the 1900's and

up into the 40's, have been a

Buffalo farm. Yep, you heard

it right, bison grazing. I never

knew if it was for meat, fur,

hides, or leather  -  or maybe

just for their version of fun. It

always confused me, since all I

could ever picture was Indians

and cowboys fighting with

shrieks, screams, guns, arrows

and tomahawks. None of that

around there, though there may

have been some scalps hanging

from pine-barren trees. (That's a

personal joke I won't get into

[no pun] unless maybe if

somebody asks). In any case,

for seminary use there were

still some evident remnants of

the farm days and  -  as I said  -

some of my time there I worked

the farm  -  pigs and cows detail,

and that Brother guy I told you

about previously, the one who'd

slapped our young Mr. Hitler. On

the whole, it was all I could do to

stay cogent by immersing myself

deeply into this farm-life stuff, or

the Drama Dept. stuff. Other than

that it was prayer, meditation,

mass, food, stilted discussions,

Christian history lessons, Latin

English, music, and only the

the barest of math and science;

endless ruminations about those

angels and how many fit on the

heads of pins and all. The kitchen

staff, run by some crazy Spanish

guy and staffed by a bunch of

southern-type blacks, was pretty

cool, except mostly all they were

ever serving was southern-dish

staples; things with gushes of

maple syrup on them. I suppose

to sweeten it up and disguise :

scrapple, very peppery scrapple,

chitlins, kale, southern baked

this or southern baked that,

flapjacks, pancakes, corn-bred,

and milk, always milk, everywhere.

We ate three solid times a day,

no messing around, and you had

to be there, though you could

eat as sparingly as you wanted.

Or, as much as you wanted, and

we had a couple of heavy-duty

fat guys too. I was always bored.

(Have I mentioned that before?).

Some twerp reading from 'The Lives

of the Saints'  -  or, as I often called

it, 'some saint reading from the

lives of the twerps.' Oh, forget it,

you had to be there. We'd eat in

a sort of silence while Earnest

Lackaday there would be reading

to us, a different 'saint' each day,

about St. Alphones Du Touri of

the Five Roads and the Stigmata

of St. Jane Muir. It was so

bogus and self-righteous that

you could actually eat a real lot

because you knew you were

going to barf it up in about

a minute when this story got

rolling : Some crazy saint, who

in our day would be in a mental

asylum with a straitjacket enfolding

him, who'd take a daily Jesus bath

in flaming hot coals and remain

unscathed except for the flaming

image of a cross on his back and

who saved his entire mountain

village from the Devil by reciting,

randomly and jumbled, all 55 words

of the Lord's Prayer nine times nine

times and by that collapsed the Devil

into a heap of manure. He'd then

leave his fire bath and retreat back

into the hills of - where else, Antwerp.

(Pretty fitting). And he did this once

a week for 300 years! Yes, we were

sent out to believe all this crud and

preach the word to Bingo Halls

and Sodality matrons.

-

Like I once said, perhaps, all of

this may have driven me, early

on, over the edge. I was pretty

certain I was crazy at some point.

Every so often my parents, and

my family (very young sisters,

and a brother I'd not really even

seen), and they'd bring with them,

sometimes, some creature from

'Avenel.' I wasn't sure who was

the zoo-exhibit, them or me, but

the visits always went OK. It was

just very difficult, because, in a

sort of psychically mathematical

or algebraic sense, my 'X' no longer

matched their 'X' in whichever

equations we were each living.

So, when the basic incidentals

don't match, you can't do the

equating, or the solution, or

whatever it would be. One time

they came down, for a field-day

or some sort of family day thing,

tons of people everywhere, all

sorts of cars parking on the grass,

picnics everywhere, families

and kin of all those kids I had

to eat and sleep with, and my

father had complete and total

laryngitis. No voice whatsoever,

just some weird whisper. I swear,

it was the weirdest moment of

my life to date; like one of those

Lives Of the Saints moments.

-

Leftover from the buffalo farm

days was a round barn which the

monks and brothers  -  since it

was right next to their lodgings  -

used for a storage shed  - lawn

stuff, rakes and plows and things.

It was cool because it WAS round.

There's also one up here, now,

in this present day, over at Cook

College at  Rutgers (their separate

agricultural school), but they have

it set up with arena style seating

inside and a front lectern area,

and use it for speakers and such.

When I lived out in the wilds of

Pennsylvania (also written of

lots of times here), there were a

few of them, larger by far. They

were called 'Russian Style,' barns.

My farmer friend, Warren Gustin,

for whom I worked for a year or

two, on his large farm, used to

laughingly say they were built

that way (round) so that a farmer

couldn't go off and find a corner

to shit in. That was a big laugh

line out that way.

-

Out back of the seminary farm

area, were the pig lanes; really

sumptuous paths leading to

the pigs  -  sows, boars, hogs;

whatever they were. Perhaps

20-30 of them, young included.

I'd get there when I did with

their buckets of slop  -  food

leftovers and peelings  -  and

these crazy animals would

bee-line for the fence like there

was no tomorrow (I think for

some of them there wasn't  -

since I think we wound up

eating them eventually. Oh, 

yes, we ate a lot of southern

style pork dishes). Barbed

wire, electrified fence, nothing

really stopped them until they

started chowing down. They

were noisy, smelly, and chewed

like maniacs, grunting. If anyone

ate like that at The Plaza, they'd

be summarily executed. For these

things it was par for the course.

I loved those fat bastard pigs.

I used to just stand there, or

sit on a bale of hay or whatever,

and watch and wish I was one

of them, at that moment anyway :

free of all guilt, unknowing,

viciously hungry and way into

it. I'd try to see the world, I guess,

through the eyes of the pig I was,

or at least my inner pig. I figured my

inner pig didn't need any doctrine,

no Salvation, no degrees of right

or wrong, no pig God  -  or maybe

they did have one. I never figured

that out. Yeah, I was coasting,

and often far gone.

-

Weird thing too, about the seminary,

and it took some getting used to, 

straight out of Avenel as I was, was

all the 'commonality' I had to

put up with. All of a sudden. I'd

never been exposed to that before.

I'd always done everything alone.

It wasn't about 'privacy' per se,

more about space and silence.

I found myself sleeping in a 

roomful of some 20 other guys,

all exactly like me, but different.

Stages of maturity differed, for

sure. That was one thing I wasn't

keen on at all. Long common

sinks. Common showers. Soap.

Razors (only some shaved). It

was all way too weird. I'll

leave it there.  All that prep 

school crap too  -  lights out,

silence, the jerky guys in the

dark (there's always a few), to

whom the big joke is farting

under the covers in the dark.

It could be big trouble if 

laughter broke out. Lights

back on, Joe Fart gets 

identified, and whooped.

11,028. THE COMET IS A FLYING DOUBT

THE COMET IS A FLYING DOUBT

All the plebes have done their

deeds and the river keeps running

red. I can't determine the origin of

anything. That being said, how much

of any of this can I really take? There's

an ice pick in the scarecrow's head,

but I don't think straw can bleed :

That being said, how many more

messages do I need to heed?

11,027. RESTIVE SOULS

RESTIVE SOULS

Next time, when you're going home,

let me know or tell me first. I'll give

you a package to take with you. As

it is, all I ever get to remember is the

absence :  Gone again with a hole 

in the brain.

-

And make sure you bring the batons.

11,026. RUDIMENTS, pt. 391

RUDIMENTS, pt. 391

(avenel slide show)

After a while all of life is

just a question of memory  -

what you have, what you

want to, remember. Not have

to, just 'have. It's like, in the

1960's, you'd get stuck at the

homes of people with slides.

And slide projectors. And

screens  -  that's all gone now,

because people have instant

and different means here of

grabbing moments; phone

snaps, on-line stuff, etc. There

are other ways, a million other

ways, of doing memory now.

Nothing really 'matters' any

longer. Mostly even if you

kill someone, or were born

a boy but want to be a girl,

whatever, nothing simply

matters any longer. Back then,

what I'm talking about, things

were way different. The Jones

family, back from California

and Waikiki too, had about

80 photos, as slides, and they'd

be determined to show them.

So you'd go over there, and the

room would be set up, the adults

would filter in, and us kids too,

and the lights went out, after

the drinks were poured, or

beer, and the 'slide show' began.

Each stupid one, with Mr. Jones,

and Mrs. too, and maybe even

the kids, adding their running

commentary. It took forever,

it was boring, and who cared.

In fact, it became one of those

cliched banes of all 1960's

household existence, those

slide things. The only thing

maybe that saved it for me, but

without any comment, was that

I'd get to see Caroline, or even

Mrs. Jones, in a wet bathing suit 

while they ran some beach area.

What was anyone supposed to

say? 'Caroline's got a nice bod'

going there, Mr. Jones.' Let alone

the wife. You'd get beaten with a

broomstick. Spare me. I'll buy

a magazine....

-

I used to think about things, I

mean besides all the Carolines

of the world. There wasn't really

much else to do in a place like

Avenel in the years I'm talking

of. If you listened to the Lovin'

Spoonful you were considered

weird  - it was all that basic. My

neighbor guy across the street, Ed

Bauer, he worked for one of the

Newark Airport airlines and he'd

every so often bring me stuff he'd

get; found objects, left behind,

unclaimed, whatever -  just little,

odd, junk; he kind of knew the

sort of person I was becoming,

and, in the same fashion as Mr.

Bomback from the other chapter

previous, bringing me the old school

window shades, to paint upon, they

each somehow had gotten into my

corner, instead of wrangling with

me as most others did. These were

the sorts of guys I liked. Soulmates,

though worlds apart. Anyway, cool

thing, one time he came over with

two record albums he'd gotten. One

was 'poet' Robert Service reciting

his 'poems of Alaska.' Some crazy

stuff that was. I'd never heard it

before, nor even of it or him. He,

this Robert Service guy, turned

out to be kind of a joke, but

whatever. I've never heard of

him again. (This was like 1966).

The other one was gold. Michael

Olatunji, an LP of 'Drums of Africa.'

I found out more about him. He was

a famed and real African musician,

flamboyant clothing and rhythms,

and he had a big following. It was

just tribal drum stuff, with some

'music,' I guess, thrown in. Cool

thing was, some little time later

he was actually on tour and I caught

his show at Columbia University,

live. Just like the record : people

loved him cheering and stomping.

This whole African tribal thing I'd

never known of  -  it wasn't primitive,

just raw and authentic. He was pretty

cool. He died some time ago, I

remember the obituary and the

follow-ups. Babatunde Olatunji,

I think it was.

-

When I got back home, after 

getting the old exit papers 

from the seminary, for that 

bit of time left to finish regular

high school I had a little room 

in the attic area of the house   

- one of those attic rooms my 

father had built. It was small,

but I liked it, and the one window,

if I opened it, led me right out 

to the slanted roof of the new 

section of the house. I'd go 

out there often  -  with a

book or a pad or a sketch-sheet  - 

and just sit. It faced rear  -  the 

tracks and the area that used to 

be the prison farm, now those 

miserable retard-village huts.

I'd just sit there and watch the 

trains roll by. Go to be I almost 

learned the schedule, from 

watching all those home-commute 

trains. In the dark, it was totally 

cool too because I could see 

the inside illumination of the

train cars  -  all those people,

sitting in their light, moving 

along the ground and not even

realizing it (actually, that's a

writer's conceit, because I

really have no way of knowing

what they thought about or

not), as they each read their 

newspapers or magazines, 

or  -  for my  fleeting moments 

of glimpsing them  -  just

seemed to be staring 

straight ahead.

-

All these silly trains really

meant something to me, and 

when the time came for me to

beat it out of town, even though

I really, really, wanted to be the

train guy instantly, I ended up,

for reasons I forget, on the bus

out of Carteret. It was only later,

and with a vengeance, that I got

into the train thing. Back then

believe you me, trains were 

adult. Maybe 75 cents, I forget, 

to NYC, maybe less. At some 

point it did cross the one dollar 

mark. But  they were real, 

and reserved  and quiet and 

clean. You just 'felt' important 

by being there. Nowadays 

(I still ride the trains), they're

they're noisy pigsties, even the

'quiet' cars, which is a joke.

Food smells and drips, people

endlessly chatter, in other 

languages too, hordes of

Hondurans  -  to be alliterative

about it  -  and mobs of Mexicans 

too. And they don't shut up, nor

do their 20 kids, and they simply

apparently, don't care or disregard

regulations as well. But it's OK, 

because they have that right. 

I suppose. Like I have the 

right to suspend their posteriors 

out the nearest traveling train 

doorway. Life's somehow become 

Calcutta, (or Mexico City then), 

everywhere, and  we've now 

allowed it.  Carry on, 

Toonerville Trolley.

-

What a long, strange trip it's

been, I guess that works fine.

I like things, even though I

disdain things too  -  slide show,

Avenel : Here's me, at the train

station. Here's me at the old bench

that used to be at the corner by

Rt. One and the old (small)

firehouse. Before it became a

condo. Here's me walking into

Murray and Martha's. And here's

me again, back up on that roof.

thinking about things, picking up

on everything I could before I

split this gingham-dress, 

horse-manure pretense of a

place for good. Here's a slide of

trees: Did you know that trees

compete with one another for

light and nutrients, and that

they support one another when

a tree is sick or injured, and that

they communicate threats to one

another be sending out electrical

impulses or by releasing chemicals

into the air? Here's one, from the

old marsh-meadow along Avenel 

Park, (gone now, hundreds of 

apartments) : The daisy closes its 

petals, or even droops over, if 

rain is on the way, and the

flowers of the swamp water-lily

close when they sense rain, often

hours before it arrives...Yep, life

is just a question of memory. What

you want to remember, and what

you choose to forget.