11,112. RUDIMENTS, pt. 422

RUDIMENTS, pt. 422

(avenel - here is not there)

I have found that it is better

sometimes to let others do

your work for you, or carry

your mission forward. All

those ancient Chinese books

of strategy and war-craft and

that, show this as a credible

tactic. The work goes on and

develops while the wise leader

remains just off to the side, out

of the picture yet there, thus

remaining a presence and

continuing his or her prestige.

(Who am I kidding? It was

always a he, in those old books,

never a she). Tactics of warfare

and statecraft : now we build

refrigerators instead.

-

Measuring lives and values

by production is pretty simply

stupid. That's just amassing

things, gaining by number,

with no regard for quality

or taste. Back in Avenel,

we used to throw together

the nastiest versions of

teepees, tents, and tree

houses and call them done.

They worked for us, but

really were just junk. The

veneer-drift of any idea

of 'Quality' had never

entered the atmospheres

of that town. Even to this

day, when something gets

wrecked or falls down or

when there's some otherwise

disorderly thing around, in

Avenel it just stays there  -

I've seen ruined cars on the

sides of roads, for 2 months

on end. It bespeaks, I guess,

the junkyard ethos of the

place anyway. If there are

any ghosts around there,

they are not very credible

ghosts; coming and going,

intent without message.

Manhole covers here

can stay raised for weeks,

and water company leaks

are just left running. It's

a slimy parade, but, at the

least, they wanted a parade,

so they got it.

-

I think a defining year for me

was probably 1972. By that

time I'd washed a lot of the

grime out of my system, had

been successfully re-edited

into a highlands Pennsylvania

person without a past. I'd

once more managed to look

as if I was 12  -  farmer-shorn

and acting simple, driving farm

trucks and milking cows. It

may even have been milking

farm-trucks and driving cows,

for all it really matters now

[yes, I hold the key, oh readers,

to all this fiction in my hand].

If you've never lived on a

dirt road of your own, you'll

not know the feelings  - even

the frogs croaking, even the

black night, in the solitary

of being, seems all yours,

alone. Behind me I had

shrugged off all that

wonderful NYC paint

and jazz stuff, in the

same manner I'd, before

that, chucked my own

Moby Dick of religious

pretense overboard.

Everything was gone, I

was clear and plain once

more. I almost wished

to re-name myself as

Kenneth Crater.

-

One day, on my little

phonograph in what was

maybe late March, of '72,

the land around me was

all  changing, rolling

into Spring  in that

country  way that only

happens there : my own

acreage all around me,

birds, trees, ground

cover, everything

getting set to roll over.

I had some DeFalla

going on the phonograph,

(Manuel DeFalla, 'Nights

in the Gardens of Spain'),

and then it happened,

whatever it was; a blast

of light that just threw me,

pretty much, right across

the room. Gave me new

air to breath, and new

breath too. Both verb and

noun, at once! I was taken

over. I can date a lot of

things from that moment,

which really had NO place

or hour. From that point

on, all lethargy was gone

from me, and I was

driven, newly determined.

That was about the last

cow I ever milked too. I

said goodbye to all that 

-  Warren (my farmer guy), 

my farm service, my

cover stories.

-

I judge things from that

day forth; again as differently 

as if some divide had been 

crossed. In the course of my 

life this has occurred three 

or four times over, I admit.

But that's good. It's not a 

transgression to rebuild 

oneself. It's the Lord's 

Prayer of living; as we 

deliver ourselves from evil.

From that point on, a lot of

my time and travel was spent

either towards Elmira or Ithaca,

and Cornell, where I could, we

could, pretty much roam at

will. It was all pretty open, 

and none of that ID and 

security stuff was in place.

The Johnson Art Museum

had just opened, and all was

good. I almost a small, oddly

San Francisco type way,

Ithaca has two levels  - twisty

hills and winding walkways

connect them. The University

stuff is all at the summit of

the walk, while the town 

and burgh stuff is all below, 

stretched along the lower 

levels. A good delineation 

between poles of  thought. 

It was an early time for the

1970's and things were mostly

crappy and awkward. Ithaca

was a really good hang-out. I

felt renewed and re-purposed,

and took strength from that, 

but I found myself, as well, 

so far and distant from 

anything I had ever been 

before  -  all my meanings 

and my personal definitions 

had changed. My past was 

beleaguered. My youth was 

Hell from which I'd been 

delivered. The very places 

I'd come from had dissolved

away. This is when language

fails. 'Avenel' was no longer 

even a word. And then I

found the person behind 

the 'Words Of the Silver 

Brothers' and a lot more

became clear to me. If one 

believes in 'just by accident,' 

then that was it; but I did not,

then, and do not, now. I think 

that only through resignation 

comes responsibility as we

take control our and 'passively' 

assist through the subconscious 

in the control of our own 

lives and times and places. 

That's what I had done,

somehow. I wasn't yet 

miraculous, had not 

traveled through, nor 

transformed, time, but 

I was damned close 

to something like that.
-
'Successful living may result
from a series of psychological
births over a period of a
lifetime, in which the psyche
infuses the personality with new
energy, insight, and direction
in response to the physical
situation and the personality's 
needs. All old things begin falling
away, as new things are made.'