11,190. RUDIMENTS, pt. 452

RUDIMENTS, pt. 452

(the glass bead game too)

A life, any life, one simple

life, is filled with paradoxes.

To get farthest away from

it, often you have to get as

close to it as possible; letting

it smother and subsume you.

Regret, shame, mistakes, they

all arise, like green grass and

the shape of clouds. There's

nothing to be done, really. Bite

the lower lip and move along,

blessing those who may have

cursed you along the way.

-

I spend an inordinate amount

of my time studying. I don't

mind it, and in fact I look

forward to it. The most

difficult part about it all is

how it divorces me from

the reality of that which

other people live. I have

little in common when I

hear the usual offhand

things. No idea, sorry.

Sopranos? Grey Gardens?

Six Feet Under? Some

Hillbilly family that looks

like me and hordes junk?

When people come at me

from those directions, and

a lot do, I just often pretend

I'm reading lips and can't

understand what they're

saying. They go away.
-
James Joyce to Herman Hesse :
That's a fairly diaphanous way
to connect, but it works. Sometime
in the early 1970's, going heavy
with German Literature as I was, I
got this oddball certificate and a
book, presented to me from the
German Consulate or official
UN office. I was never sure. The
Glass Glass Bead Game (Hesse), to 
Buddenbrooks. And I wasn't even
sure what I'd gotten, but thanks to
the college I did. Elmira College
presented it to me. Things like that
linger for a while, and then they
dis-appear. But at least it 
was mine.
-

It all brings me a wonderful

solitude, and one sought after.

Usually when I want to talk

I just go to a keyboard : This

one here, typing, or the two

piano keyboards in their other

rooms. Furniture that sings,

now there's a concept. We've

got some a'hole here, near here,

8 houses off or so, with a little

crap car and a megaphone'd

4-cylinder engine that he is

constantly romping through the

gears with : l-o-u-d. It sounds

like a high-pitched Jap squeal,

but I guess he thinks it's cool;

he might even think it's music.

Seems like he's always going

but never going anywhere  - 

some people are like that. A

constant motion. I seem to

remember there was a sport

where that was a penalty. Wish

it were here. Dragging him and

his crossing-guard vest away by

the ears would be fun  -  a music

to my ears in the same way as

his probably is to his and mine

to mine. Hey, crackups happen.

The high point of pride, like

I read today locally, is when a

quaint little girl from Nothingville*

brags about her expensive car,

so as to shut someone else down.

That's pretty typical of the sort

of rap-bling culture she inhabits,

so it's understandable, but the

materialism of it astounds me.

Any idiot would know better.

Cars fade fast, not just go fast,

and become become worthless in

about 3 years, outmoded, dead-style,

a passe-pointillism of over-reach and

stretch. I often used to wonder if

an auto dealer would ever really

own up to his selling a 'disposable'

product. They're never sold that

way, but are perfectly indicative

of the capitalist ethos. As soon as

you buy that one version of the

monster-mobile you so treasure,

they've discontinued it and already

claim a newer, better, finer, sleeker,

version of the rot you just bought.

Commerce goes like that. What if

everyone just stopped! Can't have

that. They have to constantly be

making and pumping up the 'next'

demand  -  the thing you don't have.

That's Capitalism, mamma-llama.

But....you don't have to be stupid

to not know it. Though it helps.

-

In James Joyce's, 'Portrait Of the

Artist,' I used to run across the

line, 'zeal without prudence is

like a ship adrift.' As a younger

kid, the line used to seem important

and valued. Back in the seminary

I'd been reading that book and

got all fouled up (what else was 

new) with the authorities there,

for reading it. They claimed it as

anti-clerical, which is was and

it wasn't  -  could have been

argued all day. They were always

cranking about something (a lot

like that Stanley guy, from the 

Pioneer). Every little thing 

'meant' something, signified 

this or signified that. For 

priests and brothers they all

almost seemed hen-pecked, 

or maybe even more, like 

old wives themselves. Boy,

I hated that. There was this

pesky image in my head of 

these guys, as one, with aprons

on, prancing around in their

priest house, together, pretending

they were all perfect. Anyway,

who knew WHAT they ever

pretended, and no thanks. You

need to remember that, back

in Avenel, the librarian, Mrs.

Muccilli  -  she used to give

me pretty much any book I

desired, no questions asked,

and with a smile too. These 

guys, by contrast, all lathered 

up in their church doctrine, 

kvetched wildly about 

whatever came their way.

I distilled it all down to

secrecy. The librarian lady,

she had nothing to hide - two

kids, a husband, went home, 

happy, cooked and tended 

house, made love, and rested.

By contrast, these twisted up

priests guys were always in

an uproar and acted like

infidels themselves, barring

and forbidding this, outlawing 

that. A simple-base kid's book

like Catcher In the Rye, with that

snarky tone and a very simple,

single whore-scene, got them

all so bungled they went red in

the face to pop a cork! (The

book was found in the stashed

possession of a few seniors).

Really, you had to see this 

place. The best thing that 

came out of it all for me, 

this seminary stuff, was my 

study habits; which habits 

I've thankfully never lost, 

and the rest of the timed-out 

world can go scratch.

-

Anyway, first I needed to come

to a comfortable decision about

zeal. Which was sort of easy. It

was prudence that caught me.

A few years later, the stupid

Beatles even threw a carpet

sweep at the word, naming 

some song about somebody

'Dear Prudence.' I figured,

as always, leave it to the

entertainment people to 

screw something else up.

What is it, a name? While

personifying the quality? Is

that what they were trying to

say? I thought Joyce had it

much better.

-

What is it that 'Authority' takes

upon itself to parade with?

They end up just looking so

stupid. In the 1963 seminary,

had, each night, and I mean 

each, a Study Hall. It ran like

from 7-9:30 each night. In the

classrooms, doing the equivalent 

of homework and study. The

idea of absolute quiet was

enforced. There was a Prefect,

or whatever the word, who was

one of the priests or brothers

who patrolled the hall. He'd be

walking slowly along, back

and forth, one end to the other,

reading his breviary or church

book, keeping order, with an

eye out for infractions or noise

or inattentive jerks (like me).

Everything was restricted, even,

as I said, what we could read.

Each classroom had a large

glass pane along the hallway

side  -  that kind of security

glass with the metal honeycomb

going through it  -  so pretty much

we could tell when Father Nazi

was coming back by. But people

would get caught. I got whomped

a few times for infractions. They'd

just come in, fling you down over a

desk  -  really  -  and start swinging

on you with these giant gay

rosary beads and a cross that

hung from their belt. It was 

all so freaking stupid, really,

in that this entire idea was 

based on reverence and duty

to the ideas of Jesus and the

church, yet that was the very

thing they started whomping

on you with. It never much

hurt, I admit, and it was also

damned silly and pretty feminine.

(I should have just punched

the guy back, flat out). But, it

had its share of humiliation too,

as a tactic  -  which strategy I

was sure these cake-walkers

had already figured out while

bathing together.
-
After the study hall was over, we
still had some 10pm chapel
praying to do. It just took a 
minute. Then we could walk
to the dorms and go to bed. I 
was always very tired by that 
point. Some nights I felt 
really whipped.