11,150. RUDIMENTS, pt. 437

RUDIMENTS, pt. 437

(avenel as dublin again)

I don't know what anyone

else reads, or if anyone reads

anything at all, but, reading

Hugh Kenner (from 1966,

'Dublin's Joyce'), I was struck

by this similarity, once again.

People ask me, writing in,

why  -  with the sorts of

Avenel critical things I put

in my pieces sometimes  -

I came back here, why I

write about it, and  -  yes  -

of course, why I don't move

away. How did it used to be

said? 'Been there, done that.'

Read this; the same situation,

in its way, of James Joyce

with his Dublin : "In the

reconceived [version of]

'Portrait of the Artist,' Joyce

abandoned the original intention

of writing the account of his

own escape from Dublin. One

cannot escape one's Dublin.

He recast Stephen Dedalus

[the main character] as a figure

who could not even detach

himself from Dublin because

he had formed himself on a

denial of Dublin's values. He is

the egocentric rebel become an

ultimate. There is no question

whatever in his regeneration."

'He has a shape that can't be

changed,' as Joyce put it.

-

I suppose that rings true to

me because it IS true to me.

Or, to put it another way, 'If

not me, who?' I can best still

remember the shape and smell

of things as I was growing up,

and I will thereby continue to

relate. I am the junkyard and

the highway, the oil-pool-sludge

that used to be a stream. I am

the trailer court and the dead

farm-field of old. I am that

fat and twisted, though now

withered or gone, gigantic old

old Osage Orange (and often
erroneously called 'Uglee Fruit')

trees, three or four of which,

until the 1970's lined the back

end of Inman Avenue, at the

woods between Mulligan's

house and Hiram's Trailers.

I am the memory of the

rocks and woods where

Doreen Drive and Mark Place

are now. None of that can go

away  -  it's still there, even

in my own mythologized

fashion. All you have to do

is put a spiritual value on

things, instead of pissing it

away chasing money and

position. That's where the

real light of life is, the aspects

of the spiritual which we can

implant within ourselves and,

hopefully, to others too. That's

what gives lasting value to

living, and death too. Not

suits and ties and shorts and

beanies. Let's face it, all this

has become ponderously

ridiculous  -  all that boisterous

and ugly fat-lady stuff, Greek

and Italian parodies on stage

by fluff-balls of indeterminate

sexuality, thinking they're

way cool and ahead of the

curve by being incongruously

stupid. My God, what a

dismal world it all creates.

I have to ask you, really,

would YOU wish to meet

Wilkinson in the dark? Would

you want your kids to? He's

living off your tax dollar.

-

There's a definite defining

point between fact and fiction,

between the dead-horse fantasy

of stupid living and the more

pure 'reality' of creating a lasting

and spiritual palace. Had I the

mind to, I could throw these

scoundrels into Sewaren Bay,

hoping they'd drown, in an

afternoon. I could take over

this town just on charisma

and charm. (Ha!) But I won't

because it's mostly filled with

dead people  -  go ahead, for

me, read James Joyce's stories

in 'Dubliners.' Read 'The Dead.'

Then come over, and we'll talk.

-

I always had plans, as I've gone

over here before, for an academy

or a school of my own  -  someplace 

distinctive and real to impart ideas

and knowledge to others, from.

One time I thought for sure that

Murray and Martha's corner dump

could do it, sort of just a large,

open and/studio/class place. Then

it just turned to derelict space,

now part of someone else's 

'Master Plan' for self-abuse.

The long-gone campus setting

of the old General Dynamics

place, also gone, would have been

wonderful; massive. Avenel's

own little Institute for Higher

Learning, and boy-ass don't 

we need that. Speaking of which,

we get the Wilkinsons; America's

foremost funny-farm of jerks.

Anyone out there doubting my

esteemable intentions, take a cue

from this. Read it instead as 'The

Louds.' Remember that old TV

riddlement, of a California family

falling to pieces? Just like here.

-

I was over, today, walking the

long, thin graveyard at the White

Church  -  maybe 700 graves from

300 years. Maybe. A lot of the

old Woodbridge names can be

found therein, although it's not

really much, as cemetery's go.

We used to Bicycle there as kids,

looking  -  for some reason  -  for

Zebulon Pike's grave. He's the

guy who discovered what became

known as Pikes Peak. Word was, 

he was from here, etc., but as

it turned out he died somewhere 

else, Colorado or something, and

all that's here are maybe a few

Pike family members. Never 

found them either. In any case,

I noticed today a good number

of the graves read : 'With God 

now, for all Eternity.' Or some 

small variation of that. That 

got me into one of my deep-think

funks. What were these old people

thinking, a hundred-fifty years ago?

Kind of before Science, as we know

it, and much of the 'information'

we run with today. Nature never

wastes. Nature is a complete

efficiency. Yet, these gravestones

are staid and complacent enough

to proclaim : 'one shot at this

world, maybe 70 years tops, 

and the rest, ALL 'eternity (?) 

with God.' Doing what? What 

becomes of all our thought and 

effort and work and production? 

Why then this world we've made, 

the miserable turmoil, AND the 

fine, grand moments? All, 

apparently right down the

Rahway Avenue White Church

drain  -  with or without old

Zebulon Pike. I'd rather a

Dublin of my own, thanks.