11,141. RUDIMENTS, pt. 433

RUDIMENTS, pt. 433

(avenel with meaning)

Sometimes it's very pleasureable

to have the words of others do

the talking for you, even in 

horrible situations. Samim

Faramarz was a journalist

killed in Afghanistan just the

other day. On camera. He and 

his cameraman, also killed, 

Ramiz Ahmady, were blown

up in a large, baited, secondary

explosion as they were reporting

live on the first explosion.

The situation there is as deadly

and dreary as they come, yet

his words, written in the

previous week before his death,

and explaining why he continued

his harsh and dangerous work,

(after 10 very close brushes with

death in two years, this was the 

11th, in which neither of them

came out alive), seem perfect

and prescient to me. And, in

the most unbelievable manner,

can be applied to Woodbridge,

even though, for now, the vile

aspects of it, and the death and

destruction, are not present. Just

wait a few years, as it all breaks

down, nationwide, and the real

reaction and breakdown begins.

As you read this, as an eye-opener,

just replace Afghanistan with

Woodbridge, and see if it rouses

you from your torpor : "In an 

era of passivity, fake reality, 

and meaningless violence, what

is it really that we should look

up to? The corrupt leaders who

are dragging us into more conflict

while filling their pockets? The

disputed God who is watching

the whole world being destroyed

in vain? Or the highly overrated

democratic system which is

already falling apart? As of 

now, one thing we know for 

sure is that the long-lasting

struggle and war in our small

part of the world is  direct

consequence of fights over

power and greed. What we

don't know is how much

longer it is going to last

and where it is taking us...

Our people are living in a

very tough situation. We

don't have anything to live 

for here. We should do

something for these 

people..."

-

When I was 10, there was

nothing like overreach in

Avenel. People were, for the

most part, simple and plodding,

and the world we grew into 

reflected nothing more (or 

less) than that. Milton Berle.

Phil Silvers. Superman. 

Cheyenne. Gunsmoke. Even

Playhouse 90 and Naked

City. It was all tight and

overwrought crap trying 

to explain away a world 

through idiocy, laughter, 

entertainment. I don't know

if anyone really thought they

would have to die for this

stuff but, as it turned out,

in about 10 years the 

loudmouths and blowhards

at Elks halls and Legion 

halls all over the land were 

proclaiming just that. At

flag wavings and supposed

patriotic brouhaha pep-rallies,

kids my age and in my group

were being sent off, somehow

in some most-ridiculous and

stupid fashion, to go kill the

yellow man so as to defend

the likes of Howdy Doody 

and Captain Kangaroo  -  and, 

sure, why not, Cap'n Crunch 

too. The 'American' way, and

those freaky little geeks weren't

going to get in the way of it.

Yeah, sure, sounds absurd as 

all get out now, and wrong too,

but didn't you learn anything

while you were burying John

McCain, exemplar of that war?

Or, as Tom Petty had it, 'Don't

come around here no more...'

-

I guess I'm a psychotic basket, 

of always proclaiming my 

innocence from the gravy train 

of guilt. (Like the way I threw 

that in there? Gravy Train was 

a 1950's-introduced dog food;

yeah, the American way for dogs

had to be defended too. Instead of

eating them, we killed to defend

them. Now there's a tough and 

little-answered philosophical 

quandary, soldier-boy-fellas).

I grew up in my own quasi-form

of jungle warfare, except my

enemies were right here, and 

all around me, and they still 

are, except now it's their kids 

and little imported brats and old

ladies who speak up for them too,

in legions of lies and tag-lines

of obfuscation, covering the 

smokes of their own malfeances

with side-alarm brushfires to

throw people off. You know 

what? Sometimes I feel like
saying, to those self-righteous 
barracudas, 'Why don't YOU 

move? I'm sick of hearing you.'
Miserable shit-stink crutch.

-

In 1954, the only thing here was 

a small and settled upstart of a

community where people went

about their own tasks, were left

alone, and respected one another.

There were small-shops and

buildings for manufacture, men

doing their work; the small-truck

movers and haulers, the welders,

the guys delivering fuel and heating

oils, the mechanics and the small

town doctor or two. Over time, 

they all died off, of course, that's 

the way life is, BUT, along their

way, slowly building, was the

entrapment of the kind of place

we have now  -  landlubbers

living off of tax dollars, doing

nothing except burnishing their

internals, pushing paper and

checking off their check lists.

Inspectors who sit around and

talk big. Department heads and

managerial bureaucrats farting

atop their desk-seat bottoms.

They validate nothing so much 

as their own selves and ludicrous

jobs, wanting more each year,

for doing less. Propagating new

rules and regulations so they can

give out more tax-drain-jobs to

yet more marginal ingrates living

off others. We get nothing back

back from it except the very 

normal and very ordinary 

dividends which we always 

got  -  water that flows and 

water that drains, roads that 

are kept clear, and garbage

that is picked up. The rest 

is fluff. The rest is noise.

-

I've been inside the beast, and

I still can't believe how it runs.

I've had snot-nosed, level-headed

kids tell me 'I'm not a politican,'

and probably believing that self-

canard while denying as well the

destruction and ruination of the

very place they live by being part

of the manipulation and illicit

work that's ripping it to shreds.

I'd say if the biggest thing in

your life is little kids showing

you respect, you've already

missed the clamoring point of

what anything adult is about. 

Try reading the Bible, for 

starters; learn about husbanding 

the world God has given us; 

not throwing it away, you

filthy bastards. That's why the
poor people with brains, (yeah,
those who will inherit the earth?)
working out of an internal image
of some form of goodness, 
like this Samim fellow I began
with, get blown to smithereens.