11,162. RUDIMENTS, pt. 442

RUDIMENTS, pt. 442

(the avenel Haplings)

In the name of an

imaginary world, I'd

always kept another

family going -  called

the 'Haplings.' It was

my own (artistic) form

of a free-association

from or with which to

structure and build

things better suited to

and for myself. In its

way it was always my

alternate reality : In the

same way a drunkard

has his wine, and the

bum in the gutter has

booze, I always had

the Haplings to turn

to, to explain things

to, to shed some light

about myself with. You

have to realize how

burned I was, honestly.

My specific version of

religion had turned me

over from a bitter form

dwelling in Crankville

and ended me up on the

somewhere equivalent of

the moon. There were some

words, just the words, that

would drive me crazy :

Monstrance. Ciborum.

Tabernacle. Confiteor.

Vestry. Chasuble. Paten.

Celebrant....'Ite, Missa Est.'

('Go. It is over').

-

I can never rightly remember

if I took the Haplings with me

to the seminary or if I'd had

them from before  -  some

post-train-accident semblance

of reconstructive surgery on

my part. (I always thought,

as well, that that could be a

really cool new name for a

cereal : Post-Train-Accidents,

little crunched-up and mis-formed

oat-things, autos and locomotives.

A real sugary treat. A kick.)

Anyway, I had to find a means

of straightening myself out,

and these Haplings worked

out just fine. Funny, some

years later, my son had an

imaginary (2 actually)

playmate(s)  -  Shapron, and

Heckron. For years Shapron

went everywhere with us. He

was later superseded by

Heckron, whose auxiliary

role then became prime.

In all, after that, I don't know

what became of any of them.

Dutifully retired, I guess; but,

isn't that so indicative, my

Haplings, and his two guys

too, of the weird physic

playground we each inhabit.

Singly, at first, and then later

as community, society, and

nation. It's all very bizarre,

and yet it runs everywhere,

flavoring all we thing and do.

Imaginary dotings of very

active minds, making, and

then insisting, on realities.

I could have been a grade-A

psychiatrist with this stuff.

I always figured, in essence,

someone has to HOLD the

Bible while someone else

is reading it. Hello, Godron.

Can you hear me now?

-

I mowed down so many ideas

in my life it's ridiculous. No

one ever really 'got' me, saw

what I was about. Some came

closer than others, but all were

off the mark. One time, my

father came home all excited,

saying he'd set me up to be this

guy's gardener  -  got me a deal,

for like 80 bucks a month (this

was maybe Summer, '79, if I

had to guess). Just getting my

feet settled back in 'Joisey'  - 

house, job going OK (St.

George Press), etc. His idea

was for me to tend this guy's

yard  -  mower, trimming,

cultivation, Fall clean-up, all

that. He figured I could get a

small truck, a mower or two,

rakes, etc., and start rolling

on this lawn and garden

kingdom of a small business.

My father was very much like

that  -  he figured since he did

and liked something (bizarre,

religious-like lawn and garden

care fetishes) everyone else

should too. I was the complete

opposite, and just had to

immediately tell him (in

my best joisey-ese?) to

'fugheddaboutit!' or however

that goes. What it meant,

of course was just another

round of the same anger and

hurt that he projected onto

himself, feeling it directed

from me simply to pain him.

It was all so Avenel in its

basic incidentals : The endless

generational quarry of all that

avenging of imagined slights.

I hate(d) mowing, trimming,

cutting, neatness, and the rest.

'Dad.' There's just nothing there

for me and the last thing I wish

for it to become the subservient

of someone who will demand

perfect upkeep, trim, and cutting.

It was like, 'Jesus, dad, don't

you get this?' He'd just enrolled

me in slavery school, and I

forced my way out of it very

quickly. I never did find out

who or what took care of this

guy's yard, that season or

any other, but let's just

say 'it weren't me.'

-

So, yeah, the Haplings and

I had a big discussion over

this matter, down in the woods

at the end of Inman. We put out

a few tree stumps and just sat

around jawing over this... My

father didn't attend. The point

was that there already were

enough lower-niche small

business run-arounds locally  -

that meant Rahway and the

rest too  -  scrap yards, metal

salvage, junkmen, sword and

knife sharpeners, that no one

needed me around. And anyway,

(these Haplings had a gift too,

of being able to see the future,

from wherever they were), and

they said that in 25 or so years

time there'd be an entire race

of service-people, grunts, as it

were, legal or not, from Mexico,

Central and South America, etc.,

who by then have willingly 

taken over all those service type

industries  -  gardeners, trimmers,

landscapers, cooks, waiters,

bottle washers, and they'd do

the same work willingly and

cheaply too  -  AND  -  illegal

or not, the entire country would

look the other way and let it go.

So, we all decided, simply, who

needed me getting messed up

with any of that? I agreed.

-

Well, all that time has passed

now, and we've let all that occur.

The white guys, even the white

landscaper guys, they might still

be around  -  crew chiefs and

foreman and all, but they don't

life a finger, except for the

paperwork end of it. Payroll.

Concealing payouts. Business

owners paying in cash, letting

the illegals pretty much fend

for themselves, as and if they

will. As long as they agree to 

continue to do the grunt 

work. Yes, we did have a 

Civil War, once, over slavery, 

and 620,000+ soldiers died,

and that doesn't count the 

dead civilians! But we've 

re-instituted slavery now 

because no one really wants 

to do the grind-work, and 

we've got a new slave-race 

to do it for us. Pretty cool!

-

You know, I work hard at 

this writing, every day, even

when I'm elsewhere. In every

place I go, I still see glimmers

of the past  -  my own 

recognizable past  -  and

that's all it takes to get me

rolling on an idea. Today I 

was over at the corner of 

Leesville and Hazelwood

Avenues, at the mid-tide

Rahway River -   decent

height and depth, running 

nicely, the river  -  and there

were 6 or so black people

fishing. Right there, off

the stones and abutments.

A few young kids too. This

isn't right-people stuff at all;

in fact it's poor. When I was

a kid, that entire area was,

one after another, bungalow 

homes near to the water's edge,

amidst wooded areas, trees,

old crappy yards with '52 

Chevies and old 1950's 

Mercuries and Buicks, on

blocks, getting worked on, 

or being picked over for parts

and the rest. People would be

sitting on their clumpy old

porches, waving at us bicycle

kids. Fishing WITH us. The 

very same sorts of people I saw 

fishing today were the 'happy 

and the contented' southern

blacks of old 1950's riverside

Rahway. And that's not being

racist; that's just real. It's

all been taken away. The

people lost it all and were put,

instead, in one or the other of

the two large project-towers that

went up there in the mid 1960's.

Everybody changed too  -  they

all became angered and cranky,

having lost all contentment.

Their large Mason Hall and

Lodge and picnic grounds too

is gone  -  rows of assisted

subsidized housing is there

now and  -  of course  -  a loud

and gaudy evangelical center.

everything's ruined in the 'name'

of the white-man-politician's

edicts for improvement. it

still goes on, and people are

still angry. Ignorant whites,

lording it over others. In the

same manner of thought as

my father  -  if he/they like

it, everyone else better too.

I'm gonna' ask the Haplings 

about that and I'll report back.
Ite, missa est.