RUDIMENTS, pt. 435
(my sister from Avenel)
Although it's never been
about quantity, sometimes
I sit here thinking : 'How
many paintings, how many
canvases have I done over
the course of this lifetime?'
Silly question, and the
answer I give myself is,
maybe, something just
over 600. OK, 500. OK,
who knows. Facts are facts,
I guess, and over time I
have actually 'lost' a good
number too - various
moves; the one time,
after I was gone away,
that my sister for some
reason took it upon herself
to 'clean house' of any
and all things I'd left
behind. That, I need
say, was painful. It
included any number
of Studio School things,
numerous canvases
worked over and never
'completed,' some of
which I can still vividly
see, and wish I had.
Even more valued than
all this, believe it or not,
were about 150 early
edition, mid 1950's,
Village Voice newspapers.
I'd bought them from
someone for like 15 dollars,
and actually treasured them.
Fancher, Mailer, Hentoff,
Feiffer, and the rest - all
those massive and early-on
contributors. Leave it to an
Avenel sub-stratum of plain
not being aware of anything
beyond the swimming pool
to ruin that dream too. As the
family story went, my parents
had left for the day, visiting
relatives, and my sister Andrea,
maybe 15 at the time, was
given instructions, in some
manner, to clean the house
and closets while they were
gone. During the day, my
mother called, as they were
leaving, to check if the house
had been cleaned. A 'no' was
unacceptable, so the 'yes'
became a hurried dash of
throwing all Gary's stuff
out on the curb for the next
day's pickup. It must have
looked good and thorough
as a clean-up, all sitting there
on the curb I was 250 miles
away, the unknowing and
foolish brother, so obssessed
with trifles!
-
Well, what is one going to
do about something like
that? It's the devilish fate
of humankind to get mixed
into the wrong situations -
where all the milk is flavored,
and all the bets come out
differently than you intended.
I might have played, but I
never won. Isn't that what
losers do?
-
One time, about 10 years ago
done somewhere by the Deal
Beach Club, we were driving
along the small street where
one of my wife's uncles used
to live - long years, having
moved there from Tenafly
upon retiring. It used to be
a dirt road, with a lumber
yard at the end, and Deal
Boulevard just off a little.
These were, don't get me
wrong, hovels, or at least
nothing but beach bungalows,
having nothing to do with
the sorts of estates or people
you get in Deal, a stone's
throw away. This is maybe
where servants or maids
lived, nearby cottages with
a sandy-walk through the
dunes to report for work.
Anyway, and it doesn't
matter, the street had changed,
and, as we passed his old
house, the current owner or
tenant was at the front door.
So I stopped, motioned, and
he came over - talked endlessly
to us about the house, the guy
he'd bought it from (the uncle),
whom we eventually identified
as an uncle of Kathy, etc. The
fine art of cross-over informal
exchanging of information was
here seen at its best : blue sky,
surf and sea a little ways off,
large homes nearby, and this
little grub-heap of a side-lane
with its perfectly satisfied
people. No strivers. The place
imbibed its own spirit like
a drunkard. I could feel it.
-
The uncle had died, and all
his evidences and stuff was
gone. Most of it all ended
up in Virginia, where his
son had a horse form of
some sort. This was all just
'circumstantial' memory,
leftover ideas. In my
mind I could still see
him sitting there. But
that was it, and probably
all one of memory's tricks
anyway. We thanked the guy,
and left. He was real happy.
I think everyone makes their
own life into the shape and
size they want. It's mostly
all fiction anyway. I know
for myself, whatever may
have been of 'mine' out on
curb, wasn't really me at all.
In fact, I didn't even know it
had gone missing until some
two or more years later, when
I began to look for something.
It was no different than as if
I myself had died, or that old
me anyway. So, what's a
home and what does a home
hold for anyone? And who
really cares? I think 'quality'
is something you measure
inside oneself anyway. And
if that's the case, I know I
know some really pathetic
characters.
-
The word I never cared for
much, one anyway, is 'fungible.'
I know what it means, how it's
used, and the rest, but it has
never set well within me.
Changeability, equal sourcing,
whatever you wish to call it
as, it never works. And anyway
to me it's all mixed up with too
many other close words that
detract - fun, fungus, fungi.
However we each go through life,
are the crosscurrents and values
we live all the same, or varied,
of differing valuations, able to
be glibly exchanged? Like goods?
Things of an equal value? As
I look at it, I don't think I'd want
a lot of the things that others do
want. They can have it : like an
anthill set ablaze in a gasoline
bath, all gone in an instant.
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