RUDIMENTS, pt. 383
(the past at the bottom of the hill)
I think I've always tried to
maintain my own sanity
fairly well. But there are
times when it all gets to
me. There was this story
I read once - poignant and
effective I guess the words
would be - called 'String
Too Short to Be Saved.' It
was about this guy who
was in his grandfather's
attic, after the grandfather
had died - picking through
possessions, musing on each
old thing he found, memories
and experiences. His grandfather
was a bit of a unique sort, odd
with habits and ways, but anyway...
he comes across a box of pieces
of string - labeled, 'String Too
Short To Be Saved.' When you're
reading the piece it's not as obvious
as I just made it - by telling the
title first - and it catches you
sudden. I had a moment of that
yesterday, at an estate sale I
stumbled upon. One of those
old house jobs where you
sort of can surmise that the
people are dead who've lived
there a long time and their
possessions, having really lost
all value and any meaning to
others, are just strewn about,
all out of context, and being
sold off at some modicum of
a reasonable price. It's all
pretty sad, because really no
one looks 'good' in that sort
of hindsight. Old people have
hurts and issues that they take
away with them and that leaves
all sorts of orphaned things and
ideas around that - of course -
no one else left here is going to
have a real understanding of. But
as I see it, that's were respect and
intelligence comes in to play;
on the part of others, in this
case, myself, there. The story
that I got was that this guy's wife
had died some 5 or so years ago,
and he'd stayed in the deteriorating
house, slowly 'losing it.' The
evidences of neglect were apparent;
leaks and a ceiling hole, masking
taped up and stuffed with insulation
as a stop-gap, really poor, repair.
The rooms themselves were a
shambles, almost at hoarder-levels.
There wasn't anything really up to
date or modernized, with the house.
It was like a wreck of the 1980's
maybe; probably their prime years :
tapes and telephones, and weird
things too. I saw a box of various
brand-new flashlights, still in
their boxes and never opened.
They were like three bucks each,
and some bonehead kid was in
the room, while on the phone
with someone else, complaining
they 'didn't have batteries.' Fool.
Think of old people, with their
fears of calamities and natural
disasters and all that, and then
weigh the overabundance of
a uselessly obsessive collection
of unused flashlights. It was
like that too, for other things.
But everything was also drab
and dirty - and cave-like.
Poor guy. I found myself trying
to think for him, find out what
he must have been about. There
was no modern-day in there
at all.
-
Some real estate lady did come
pushing through, trying to find
out, or get her deal in, about the
house, but it was already 'spoken
for,' the guy said. She started
going on about how she hates
to see deterioration and all
that real estate drivel stuff.
Like she would know the
first thing about any deeper
reality other than the turning
of dollars and scents (in her
case) - she smelled like a
two-bit whore. Probably
some 'eau de real estate'
let's-make-a-deal perfume.
Makes me sick. You know
all the usual Avenel/Colonia
shit-skanks are already
circling that place. They'll
have that house torn down
or completely re-done in
about five minutes, these
real estate geeks, and
cookie-cutting politician
blowhards and their lame
ass followers; cutting too
the page of that old couple's
life experiences right out
of the book of the world
and never looking back. So
they can live their shitty
tax-supported municipal
and education jobs screwing
everyone else up just like
them. There's simply no
understanding of anything
any longer - like that jerk
kid complaining about no
batteries.
-
The guy had a few really
interesting and primitive
self-made tools he'd rigged
up. I was talking with one
of the people running the
sale - he was probably
60 or 65, a pleasant little
white-bearded guy who
said he'd been grown and
raised in Rahway. He knew
all the old stuff, and we
talked about it. And he
went over these homemade
things with me too. Little
motorized pulley sets and
generators and pumps the
guy had rigged up on wooden
bases. Really rigged, and
made, like old tractors, with
a larger flywheel on the side
onto which you could hang
a belt or pulley to connect
to any other mechanism you
wanted to power up. They
were cool; there were 3 of
them. The best of them
was already hooked
up into a grinding wheel
and brush format. Really neat.
No one else gave a rat's ass.
-
This was right on 'Chain o'
Hills Road' too, almost at the
dividing corner of what's called
'Avenel' and 'Colonia.' The
people living around here
now are most all your basic
know-nothings, or know-
very-littles anyway, and this
all passed right by them; no
thought given, to what really
could have been some beautiful
lesson for the current day. I
took total enjoyment from it,
I will say. Even that name of
the road, what they call 'Chain
o' Hills' has real resonance
and they know nothing of it.
Down the bottom of that hill
now there's a little triangle of
land, where the road splits.
They've got it all done up
too (in stupid-ass typical
American fashion) as a
'monument' to war, soldiers
and the military. Like there's
nothing more important than
that to which people should
be aspiring. Back when
this was Indian lands that
spot was a central point
where a few major trails
crossed, and the red-rocks
section of the waterway there,
now a park, chopped and
sluiced and greatly reduced,
flowed strong and was a
central watering hole for
the various local tribes
and encampments. That
whole ethos and world-history
is all gone now and no one
knows the difference, but
you can still get a sense of
the early geography and its
importance by the way we
(regular, silly, white people
settlers) have the streets all
named for geographic reference -
West Hill Road, East Cliff Road,
Valley Road, etc., etc. All that
stuff once mattered and was
important. No one today has a
bead on that stuff at all - the
stupid-ass schools don't teach
it, and anyone knowing of it
is already dead and buried -
and probably left their box
of string too short to be
saved somewhere too.
-
In the city, I often went to
these same things - the
estate sales and the auctioning
off of possessions, in grand
old brownstones or cool
150 year old walk-up
apartments in small, old
buildings. These interiors
were always amazing, with
books and artworks and
collected materials that
would amaze. I never much
anything, but came away
always agape and in awe at
that I'd seen - the doorway
to a past, the portal to a time
and place when everything
meant something different
from what it means now.
A world apart, and, in all
respects, surely something
too short to be saved. No.
I never agreed with that idea.
No comments:
Post a Comment