11,082. RUDIMENTS, pt. 412

RUDIMENTS, pt. 412

(an avenel lesson)

It never took me long to learn

things. I mixed right in real well:

Quick on the draw, glib, a character,

elusive too. I never let anyone pin

me down. Like in the Avenel

schoolyard once, where there

used to be an open passageway

between Schools 4 and 5 (it's

long ago been closed over with a

covered shelter-way, and you can

no longer get through) that Mr.

Lund guy, the principal back

then  -  he nabbed me one day,

right there in that open space

between the schools, for throwing

snowballs. It was in the midst of one
of those intense friend-kids recess

snowball fights, but we had been

bombing people indiscriminately.

He hauled me over and asked if

I'd been 'throwing snowballs.' Of

course I had, but I wasn't about

to tell him  -  let him ferret out his

own information, if he was such a

big deal. Of course, I had a quality

snowball in my hand at the time.

I put both hands behind my back.

The one thing I'd already learned

was that applying pressure to matter

energizes the atoms, which then,

in their new activation, produce

heat, which heat, in that activation,

then would melt a snowball. So with

my gloved hands I pressed real hard

on the snowball while he went on

(never asking to see my hands),

and managed to have it dissipate

while he was still babbling his

teacher-principal spiel at me, and

that then allowed me to 'produce'

my hands, without a snowball

in them and without him having

seen a  snowball drop to the

ground. My internal 'all-clear'

sounded and that fool was none

the wiser for all his cackle. As a

young kid, I'd absorbed all my

lessons pretty well and the one 

determinate of this 'snowball'

action was based on the conclusion

that, for the most part, adults 

didn't know a thing about any 

matters-at-hand except for 

control and manipulation. So

he was easy for me, and presented

really no intimidation at all. And,

besides, what adult would allow

themselves to approach a kid in

that fashion  -  blatantly asking

them to self-incriminate?

-

I'd taken my measure of things all

around me, and they'd really come

up wanting. So I decided on a role

to assume, and that role I played,

and went through all this with.

The only hang-up, and one which

really bagged me good, was the

intense physical collapse of all

this, which did eventually cause me

to collapse. I was like totally sick,

out-of-it, for a number of days

and finally, in lieu of having others

have me dragged to St. Luke's (the

old hospital that once serviced

Greenwich Village), my father and

a friend came and dragged me out.

All I can remember from that is

a delirious ride home on my

back in the rear seat of his 1960

Chevy Station Wagon. The rest

right now is un-remembered  -  but

I did recover and got back at it,

promising I'd take 'better care of

myself' and eat like a human.

-

I can now only remember those

days in fragments of writing, the

small bits and pieces of things 

I'd pick up along the way  -  'The

Joyous Disease - charging restless

mute unvoiced road keening in

a seizure of tarpaulin power.'

That about sums me all up. 

-

The thing was, I mingled with

everyone; which was kind of

cool. I could ride the subway

uptown, looking like a slouch,

some out of touch artist bum,

and get up to the Fuller Building,

at 57th and Lex., wherever it was

- 5 solid floors, back then, of

class A art galleries, get off the

elevator, and mingle like the rich

among all the art schmoozers. Or,

a few blocks away, at another

corner, some building above

Bergdorf Goodman's, as I recall,

right by the Plaza Hotel, and

do the same thing there. Layers

of rich people, day-wives with

jewels and binoculars, swishing

around looking at an Arp for the

living room, or a Picasso for the

dining chamber, all that crap. No

one here was hurting about

anything, 'cept maybe a leak

in the yacht. And they weren't

even the really, really rich. Those

people would have agents out,

buying for them, or scanning the

art-auction houses and placing

enter bids and threshold bids

from the catalogues or in-person

viewings. Yeah, like some

bizarre funeral home. I always

fantasized about some filthy-rich

person ambling about, looking

for a schmuck artist to subsidize,

take on as a patron, send 7 grand

a month to just to make and produce

art. Never happened, and not even

one of those rich babes out for the

day ever asked me to go home with

them for an 'afternoon tea', like

the sleazy storybooks had it,

happening all the day, everyday,

every afternoon at 2pm. 'Horny

rich housewife boffs new and

upcoming artist on speculation

of future merit as an artist.'

Talk about misplaced faith.

Too bad.

-

Years later, what astounded me

was how motorcycle guys, Bikers,

when I got involved with them, a

lot of them fell for the very bizarre

practice of a yearly 'Bike Blessing.'

Like those people with their kittens 

and ducks on old Polish St. Marks.

Pretty much the me thing as those

old food and pets people; a remnant

of some medieval, quaint custom 

from the Vatican hierarchy in Rome. 

Selling indulgences, anyone? I

wonder, did the Teutonic Knights

have Father Jimeny Althazar bless

yearly their horses? Strange world.

I was free, or free enough, yes, and

determined to stay that way. Plus,

sort of, you can't step backwards

too easily when you cut loose the 

rope bridge over which you've just

crossed the hellish chasm.

-

What later did it for me, as well,

was the idea of thinking about 

home. Was someone like me 

supposed to 'miss' home? I 

couldn't tell, because I sure 

didn't  -  yet there was, I admit,

always a hole, a spot to be filled  -

maybe that's the spot that the 

creative spirit, the artist or the

writer of whatever trait, is 

always  trying to fill and it 

just gets called 'Home.' Maybe

that's the crazy, nutcase push

for the edges that always has

kept me working and moving 

along. It can't be helped, and

it can't be rued. It just is, and

I accept.