RUDIMENTS, pt. 443
(avenel, from out of the closet)
When my father built the
upstairs rooms of our house,
in what had been the bare,
open, attic, he installed what
was called a 'cedar closet.' It
was lined with cedar wood,
totally, and when you went
in there the odor of a cedar
forest was overwhelming.
It was pretty cool; dark and
dark red too. High enough
inside for the 'young' me
to walk into and stay. I
recall the deal being that
cedar repels moths or
something and they'd
stay off your furs and
clothing and the 'finer'
things stored in there. I
don't know that we ever
owned anything expensive
or needing such care -
no furs, no special garments
- but there it was. The
smell of it always stayed
fresh, and, back then,
never faded. I've no idea,
of course, what it's like
now, some 65 years on.
-
Metaphorically, or
allegorically, or as an
analogy (call it whatever
you will, ye wise, grand
grammarians), that closet
was home to me - at least
in its symbolic way. Keeping
me fresh while safe from
the foibles and dangers of
any of the, mine or of others,
'invictus' throngs of those
things that could go bad,
eat at me, leave raw holes
in my fabric. We all should
have a cedar closet. I did,
from that cave, demand
my own 'mastery,' my
own Invictus.
-
There was a certain kind of
slowness-of-time in Avenel,
in those years anyway. It
might have been me, but
nothing really seemed to
change. Discounting the two
churches totally turning
themselves over to new
structures while abandoning
the old, each, the regular
pace of what little passed
for anything, just crept
along, almost sideways,
never head-ward, always
avoiding battle. Have you ever
been to a place seemingly
afraid of itself? One year,
whatever year it was, ('once
upon a time and a very good
time it was,') [James Joyce],
early '60's, Woodbridge was
awarded some weird status
as 'All-American City.' It
was a total crock of bull,
there wasn't anything 'city'
about it - and I wasn't even so
sure about the 'All American'
part, what with the crooked
Mayors and crime-infested
fiefdoms from which people
kept getting dragged off to
jail. I'd hope that wasn't an
All-American trait, though
it turned out it was. (File
under 'Z' for Zirpolo. He
did prison time as Mayor,
and the family still lurks.
Most recently, get this, in a
shyster deal with the current
raftload of idiots, they made
a deal to sell one of their
'businesses' to the town
for the tune of 10 million
bucks. The town lapdogs,
of course, lapped it up. But
the Zirpolos objected to
seeing their name bandied
about in the unrest and
debate over the issue, and
asked for publicity of
their name to be removed
as it was 'embarrasing'
for the family. What a bunch
of schmucks; and the bigger
schmucks dutifully removed
it). The banner for 'All
American City' went up,
right across Avenel Street,
at the Catholic Church, old
site, and stayed up there
for most of a year. It was
as incongruous as all
get-out. Sometimes (Hey
Zirpolo and Wilkinson, I
too am now OUT of my
closet, even if it's only
cedar), America made
little sense to me, and
I'd carry that to the present
too; still doesn't. But anyway,
the vainglorious proceedings,
as I was saying, in Avenel,
always seemed slow and
plodding. One by one, things
got removed, and that slowness
was a fairly good mask for
the persistence of what really
was going on. There was
something about the place
and its ways that irked -
maybe it was that highway
running right through the
town; everyone on their
way to somewhere else. I
used to sit there and think
how all the people I'd read
about, all sorts of people,
from the 1920's and on up,
auto-age years, had driven
right past here, Route One,
and its old name too, Route
25 or whatever it had been.
Every sort of 1930's character
- hoodlum, escapee, genius,
scholar, artist, writer, whatever
- right up through the 1960's
then, had barreled by here. I
said 'by,' because I don't know
how many would have actually
stopped. All that landed here,
it seemed, was whatever junk
got throw out the windows as
they drove by. Me included. I
consider myself the same sort
of debris that was forcibly
driven here and dumped from
other, truly urban, areas. Be
all that as it may, I was a kid
and kids go a long way before
death, to figure out the lines
of their book and how not to,
or to, color outside of them.
I was always an 'outsider.'
It never crossed me up to
be direct and point out to
people what I saw as erroneous
undertakings. I noticed quickly
how most of all the usual
banter about things was
simply the 'avoidance' of the
thing itself - the more words
and dance you could give to
something, the less you were
truly 'addressing' it. That's why
all those brotherhood and
political clubs and fraternal
organizations and church groups
and all that exist - people want
the detours afforded by them
so they no longer have to
directly address the issue. It
may sound rude, but the most
lasting and direct person I ever
knew (he died last Winter) was
a friend from Rahway - he was
often the rudest, meanest son
of a bitch you'd meet, but he
got the direct points across,
immediately, and out of the way,
and you knew where you stood,
directly. He had a voice like
dirty gravel, and he pushed hard.
'So, ah, you come here to talk to
me, in your gay, homo shirt, and
you want me to turn the money
over to some [censored by me,
starts with J and ends in W] who
you know damn well is gonna
take it. Why you putting this
organization's money in the
hands of one of them anyway...'
It just went on. But it was
beautiful, even if and when
fueled by alcohol and a
certain wise, yes, form of
drunk wisdom. I loved it.
He didn't HAVE a cedar
closet to put things in
(metaphor, analogy, and
allegory, yeah, yeah), nor
did he WANT one, nor did
he want you to have one or
a need for one. It's a different
way of living, but things get
done, and he lived a life
relieved of guilt. Maybe
that's 'how the west was
won.' Better that than from
one of my stinking, pinched
'cedar closets of mind.' I did
it, but I just don't know if it
was worth the doing.
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