11,203. RUDIMENTS, pt. 457

RUDIMENTS, pt. 457

(the whiskey rebellion)

The guy was telling about

Irish warfare  -  hitting the

other guy with a beer bottle

but making sure it was empty

first. Oh, yeah, I get it, that

was pretty funny. I moved

away from his seat as soon

as I could. There was a pile

of Irish newspapers on the

window shelf too. I tried

reading one of them but

couldn't make much sense

even though I do think it was

English, but to them that's

a foreign language (he also

had said that). You know, in

'Portrait of the Artist,' when

Stephen's father takes him to

visit Cork (a town near to 
Dublin), and Stephen gets

all embarrassed because the

next morning he's got to cover

up for his father's tea cup

clattering (with his father's

shakes) on the saucer, and

he's hoping others won't

notice. It's not much of a

scene but is the kind of

thing I retain. Well, I felt

like that and the best thing

for me to do was just move

away from the guy. This

was in Jonathan Swift's

Hibernian Lodge, which

is more or less a quite

glorified bar on e4th

street, claiming its

temperament as Irish

and its resident saint

as Jonathan Swift, the

writer. I spent many hours

there, to the point that

if I was 4 blocks away

they already knew I was

entering the premises and

Bernadette (my barkeep)

would have the Guinness

all settled and ready for

me. (It takes a good Guinness

a minute or too after pouring

to foam up properly and

settle in for the drinking).

We knew all that, and so

did everyone else. Tredwell

House was across the street.

It was one of those 200 year

old brownstone jobs, kept

near to restoration all the

time, so they could hit

you up for a 10 buck entry

fee and have you look,

supposedly, at how they

used to live in there 200

years back, except it was

all mostly bogus, probably

even the silverware and

serving stuff they had laid

out. In New York City that

stuff would have been scapped

up 2 days after whoever it

was had died. They don't

tell you that though. You're

supposed to fall for all their

rot. The street was like a

mouth with a lot of missing

teeth, on that side of the street

anyway. For a while the Tredwell

House had a decrepit, falling-in

version of itself a lot or two

over, but that got so bad they

did take it down. It's something

other now, newly built. In

all manner of times, through

it all, somehow, this one

Tredwell Hose remained  -

money and support and

some historical-group

connection  I guess  -

and it still stands, now

listed as Merchant's House

Museum, Seabury-Tredwell

or something like that. Totally

wigged out with furnishings

and even a  rear-garden and

a walk-through and guides

and all that. Any one of those

Irish guys in Swift's I know,

fifteen years back would

have swept through that

place like a magnet,

drawing up anything

they could get. But now

it's all revered and special

and no one touches a

thing. That's the sacredness

of  myth and story, you

know  -  how the people

enticingly build their stories

up into some form of group

think, and that's how society

congeals. Things and people

get all together, and it takes

on a life of its own and

everyone starts believing it.

It's the campfire mythos of

old tribal stuff; it's how

civilization got started. The

rest of the block, as I said,

through the 90's looked like a

gap-toothed mouth-remnant,

what with all the torn down

buildings and open spaces.

-

I took Avenel people there a

number of times. Not Bikers,

for it wasn't that sort of a

place. It did actually have a

finesse  -  a 'literary' finesse  -

attached to itself and the Biker

thing would have clashed.

My own motorcycle, on that

I went a few times. Bernadette

herself, on time, came out and

asked for a nice, long ride

around parts of lower Manhattan.

She went on break, took off

her serving apron, and we

went off. She totally enjoyed

herself. I think she needed 

the break. The Tredwell 

House, if you use your

thought-cap, could have
been perfectly made for

those kinds of Springtime

class trips that teachers use

to waste the time through

May so as to get through the

school year. Like the Betsy

Ross House, in Philadelphia,

except that there's no place

for buses to park and little

access except for the brash

nitty-grittyness of 4th street.

Traffic's a killer; so none of

that works. Few people anyway,

especially today's NY snotty

parents, would want their kids

standing out in a line across

from a bar, even a bar like

Swift's. Poor little Johnny 

and Janie (no, I'm not to be

making those distinctions these

days) wouldn't fare too well,

and no one gets to experience

real-life anymore.

-

I didn't know anything about 

this stuff, growing up in 

Woodbridge and Avenel as

I did; it was a foreign idea

that one would go somewhere

else to be imbibing history 

and not beer. And anyway,

the Whiskey Rebellion was

never taught in Woodbridge

High School  -  simply just

glossed over. It is, however,

one of the most important

early and founding principles

of the nascent American state,

by which we are now forcibly

ruled and of which we are 

(forcibly) kept in the dark;

the 'Tredwell House Merchant's

Museum' being a perfect example

of the sort of drivel by which we

are now coerced and lorded 

over. 'Bernadette, draw me up

another Guinness, I'm again

nearing your front door.'

11,202. ERUDITE AND FEATURELESS

ERUDITE AND FEATURELESS

He's erudite and featureless, skimming

from audacity's perch as he does. If I

didn't know any better I think he was

Wilbur or Orville Wright. There was

one who flew, while the other stayed

on the ground, I think  -  I'd need to

get the right before selecting

-

It's a featureless plain, this heading

out across the western land, and why

should anyone bother? Another selfsame

shoe-fit buckle of rest-stop food and

coffee. All those same people, touring

and passing along, just like yourself :

with song and batteries and baglets

of chemical foods.

-

I want a land that stands for something;

one with hillocks for truth and justice, and

With a mountain range named for Liberty.

Not these jaunty parking lots filled with

college-sweatered girls and their hordes

of dough-faced followers and the pre-Med

boys from Exeter and Midfield Tech.

-

I grow tired of the living, and I'm

already groaning from Death.

11,201. HERE'S THE TROUBLE WITH PRETTY VOICES

HERE'S THE TROUBLE 

WITH PRETTY VOICES

I'd not see you had you not

showed up. First things first

when you get to the moon?

Here's some cartilage to eat;

see if you like it, it's all I have

to offer you. What? You'd rather

chew on my heart, in pieces?

I don't think that's very nice

of you to say. You'd better go.

-

Your mammie's pickaninny

was some wastrel I bought at

the arsenal. Funny, but it really

was the Picatinny Arsenal. It's

in New Jersey, along 287, up

north. Pretty funny, I thought.

I know, I know  -  you're going

to ask if we'd listened to Paganini.

11,200. RUDIMENTS, pt. 456

RUDIMENTS, pt. 456

(the lately lamented everything)

'They have redness of eye,

who tarry long with the

wine.' Boy did that ring

true. It used to be that the

city drunks were all called

'winos.' I saw hundreds

of them over time; never

knowing what they drank

nor what it was called.

Thunderbird. Night Train

Express. Red Scorchy.

All those little bottles,

left about everywhere,

and the prone bodies of

the dead or passed out

from those bottles before

being emptied. Sometimes

they  could talk, these guys,

or still try to, with or without

teeth. Gumming their words

like a suction-cup thought,

their deep-seated feelings

did sometimes turn to tears

 - there's nothing worse than

having to witness a man

crying over his past, yet

in his useless present. It

was a speechless section

of time, to see that, and

one without a script.

-

Igor Stravinsky said, 'One

lives by memory, not by

truth.' I always agreed

with that, from the first

I came across it as a quote.

As life lengthens, it's like

more goes behind and less

stays in front, so I guess in

its own way it's only natural.

-

I had never been attracted

to alcohol; never even

thought about it, but when

I hit the streets of NYC,

from the Bowery on up

through that student corridor,

alcohol was prevalent : NYC

was a 'bar town' to be sure.

I'd known of the old artist

quarters, the taverns and the

bars of the old writers and

painters  -  all that Cedar Tavern

stuff, the famous photos, the

tales of brawling and loving,

all along the Village streets.

But I'd never seen it in person,

nor 'up close and personal' as

they say. My friend Jim Tomberg

could spin a bottle of whiskey

like a juggler with three balls,

and I often saw him plastered

and down and out. I even had

to help his predicament a few

times  -  I've written of that

hole in the floor episode, and

his occasional women, in past

chapters here. Booze was

just booze. If you tried, back

then, walking through the

Park (Washington Square),

alcohol immediately took a

back seat to the surreptitious

and whispered trade of joints,

marijuana, and any other name

for hand-held drugs of that

nature. Unlike now, when

most all of it's legal and

probably even pasteurized

for you, in the years I'm

speaking of, it was all a

secretive, and dangerous,

trade, mostly proffered by

seedy looking black guys

who always talked low

about what you may

have been seeking. Or

not. Quick cash changing

hands, or a quick sit-down

at the bench, for the

transaction. There were

always cops lurking, it was

still a real crime, and the

busts and fines and lock-up

times were serious matters.

All of this was delineated

by sections and corridors,

and just out of this area

was the Bowery. That was

an entirely other raft of

Medusas : Men lost, and

I mean lost. Soiled, fouled

and dirty, wearing their

own excrement sometimes,

as a cloth. There used to be

a word often heard, though

it's no more in use  - 'uncouth.'

Yes, and what a premise is

that. Like the old uncle you

bring to the table, who then

burps and barfs all over it,

these guys danced alone at

their own small parties of

woe and dread. Sad cases.

The street was littered with

them, for sure right up into

the late '80's. Drunked, or

passed out, zombified, or

dead. You'd see them in

doorways and frontages,

or bent over curbs and

hydrants; barely alive. I

can recall  -  this is a bit

different, but it catches the

quality  -  being there with a

friend from Sewaren and his

girlfriend from Minnesota.

The guy had to pee. And so

he did. Right there, on the

side of a building, broad

daylight. It was a category

of event I'd never thought of

before, and I was astounded.

No one cared, looked up, or

squinted. It was just as natural

as a dog pees. Since 1967, I'd

never once given a thought to

doing something like that. These

Bowery guys, and this Sewaren

guy too, they just rolled right

into it as human-aspect moisture

behavior. Floored me near to

death. I must have missed

something all those years.

-

Everything has certainly been

flipped. Now, 25 years later, if

you get caught peeing in public

they'll drag you away with a

hand-cuff necklace; but you

can stroll through Washington

Square Park with a joint in your

mouth, and a spare single one

in your pocket, and get the 

high-five, hail-ye-fellow routine

as you walk along. I don't

know where all those black guys

went and what they do for a

living now, but that world

is a different place.

11,199. THE WAYWARD CHILD OF GLEASON FIELD

THE WAYWARD CHILD 

OF GLEASON FIELD

Like maybe the wayward moon

thriving high but ever lonesome

in all its stages to full and wane

and full again we turn our heads

up to the light we see from Gleason

Field. It is nearly October first.

-

An old motorcar, the old, old type,

sits unmounted in the open clearing.

The dimmest of old metal tries to

shine. But there is nothing there, 

and the rubber has rotted from off

its rims. Weeds grow up around and

through what once was called a 

'running board.' Beneath this sky,

it too scrunches forward, determined

for something to be there for it.

-

It is nearly October first, and

this is Gleason Field.

11,198. RUDIMENTS, pt. 455

RUDIMENTS, pt. 455

(mistletoe and redwing)

My God may have made me

an entity, I'll admit, but the

burden of responsibility was

for me to, or not to, pick up

the mantle given to me. My

situation was whatever it

was : Goodbye Bayonne

harborlands, early. Hello

Avenel. Rhymed with

'What the Hell,' so I took

the young-boy cudgel. And

now here I am. The message

I've taken up of late is in

the finishing of the story,

however it goes. I may gag

on a tuna sandwich tomorrow.

My heart might stop here  - !

!! -  in mid-sentence (ha ha

fooled you). Or I may have

12 more years some some

sanctimonious pussyfooting

yet to do. I used to tease my

Mother endlessly, in two

ways, as a young guy. She

was very impressionable,

and naive. I'd tell her I

was going to die, and that

I knew it, at age 42. She'd

gasp, and get all upset.

One day I awoke, and I

was 42. 'Oh damn,' I said

to myself, 'now I've done

it.' At least she was glad I

was surviving. And the other

thing was, I'd be talking to

her, or standing around, and

I'd just fall over dead. (It was

an acting trick picked in the

Drama Dept.). Playing dead

was the easiest thing in the

world. And then one day,

waiting for the Princeton

train, at the Dinky Station,

I was reading the Meditations

of Marcus Aurelius and I ran

across that quote I'd forgotten

about; some version of 'Live

your life as if you were already

dead.' That hit me hard, woke

me right up from a dream.

So, since then, I have.

-

Now, as I mentioned, it's

end-game  -  as I enter those

final scenes deep in the last

act, it's all good. I thrive.

But I have still to write an

ending. Hard parts coming

up, a big plural, one after

the other. All the things

once established in the early

parts of the play are long

gone. There's a line in old

theater-writing training,

that says something like,

(I poorly approximate here),

'The gun that's introduced

in Act 1 must go off by

Act 3.' That makes sense

and means nothing

'superfluous' should be

entered in, scene-wise,

if it's not to play a role.

Trouble here is (hello

real life) everything put

up in those early scenes

is all gone, torn apart and

asunder. Try getting out

of this mess, you creep.

It's now a complete re-write.

-

No one has ever claimed

that I'm clear, but why

should I be  -  this life

itself is a mad jumble,

and things get scrambled

up and mixed around right

before your eyes. It's a

giant with whom we all

must wrestle. Nothing

really stands on its own

two feet  - there are flows

and currents always running

beneath, alongside, and

over things, They two

must be reckoned with.

Only rhetoric wins the day :

Well, I'm not sure what I

mean by that, but I'll let

it stay. Is all this comic?

Or is it pathetic? The sort

of thing this all is a bit like

a mystery volume you win

at a fair. Some strange and

oddly alluringly young lady

hands you your prize : A

book with no ending, one

that refuses to tell you the

end of its story, and which

also won't let you in on what

the author thinks might be

the best end for the story.

Like Avenel, it makes

absolutely no difference

whether you laugh or do

not laugh. Here you are,

either way. The mythic

proportions abound. Those

here, as I am, who say the

place is a dismal horse's ass

of a wreck, and the ones here

who say it's the most wonderful

horse's ass they've ever seen.

And they love it. Then you

have all those faraways who,

given five dollars, pipe in :

It's a dungheap; I'm so glad

I got away. And the others

who  say, I grew up there, I

miss the place, my best

memories were there. They're

blockheaded enough to act

as if that place still existed.

Jesus, where's the gun from

Act One? Give it to me.

-

I never transformed? I never

returned? I thought I'd done

both. One time, at the old

library location when it was

n Rahway Ave., my girlfriend

worked there and I had been

teaching her to drive, my '62

VW. She got the hang of the

stick-shift pretty well, but had

some trouble with the push-down

sequence needed to get the

lever into reverse. Well, she

missed this one and started

out in reverse, except it was

first. Right into the building

at about 5 mph. The metal

bumper took a hit, but no 

big deal. And she probably 

woke up a few nappers inside. 

(I told here there was a book 

in there, by a guy named R. U.

Napping, called, 'Sleepers

Awake!' There wasn't really,

I made it up). But in like 1984

or so, there really was a book

called 'Sleepers, Wake!' I was

15 years ahead of the curve.

My gun went off too early.

(Hey! I think that's how I

became a father too).

-

Mistletoe and Redwing?

You're probably wondering.

That's the title of a play I 

wrote, in Avenel, while sitting

night after night at that dingy

library or Rahway Avenue,

(it's Woodbridge really, but who

cares. I claim it for Avenel).

Redwing is a prison in

Minnesota, a large, boys'

reformatory (a big place, not

fat guys). It was about love

and caring (thus the mistletoe),

in the miserable life of kids

who've gone wrong. Yep, I

wrote it, it was pretty cool,

and I've never seen it since.

I put it somewhere, and there

it's stayed. Like a gun in

Act One that never went off.

11,197. WHEN THE PESTILENCE

WHEN THE PESTILENCE

When the pestilence came to stay

we all fell to the ground, realizing

no place else to go. Crimes against

the Republic, they called it. There

were some men in the tower, lost in

their space. We called them James

and Giuseppe and sought their grace.

But there was none to be had. Just

the silly meandering of people who'd

broken out in the same warts that the

pestilence brings : crimes against both

thought and reason, the secular faults

of an idiot race; men squirming to
fail, in an idiot place.