11,279. GRAVITATING TOWARDS THE EPHEMERAL

GRAVITATING TOWARDS 

THE EPHEMERAL

It's the ground beneath us that's on the

way out, not us. Humanity will always

find some pathetic rock to cling to.

Earth will do the matter well - until

some other alternative comes by.

-

And in the meantime, I hold some

Yorick's skull in my transparent hands,

realizing everyone else looks all the

same. Eventually. And even in the 

alley too. If you can see your veins

beneath your skin, all that blood 

that's running in. It. I wonder, 

where's it going to?

11,278. RUDIMENTS, pt. 488

RUDIMENTS, pt. 488

(junk food / junk brains)

I never used to get tired,

when I was young. But I

never noticed it and just

kept going. Now I still

never get tired, but I

notice THAT. So then

I sleep a little. I also

now don't ever much

know what day of the

week it is, and I get

my weekends and

days mixed up with

each other and do

really have to think

about them. There

are only a few markers

I can go by, but I don't

have much. I guess

regular people can go

by TV shows and nights

of the week when they're

on, and that sort of stuff

is comfortable to them.

I don't live by those

markers.

-

I was reading something

today, and it reminded

me a bit of that mention

in a previous chapter

about the old, crusty

Maine guy, and those

questions. In this tale,

the writer of this book,

Nell Painter, titled 'Old

In Art School' is writing

of herself as a 67 year old

Princeton professor leaving

that job and entering art

school as an 'old' lady,

to try a new outlook and

approach to life among

the young  -   [Odd too

that her last name is

Painter]  -  she's walking

around with her father, in

western Maine. Her and

her father (who was a

voluble guy there, and

liked talking with just

about anyone), each

tended to be overweight,

and always fighting their

'belly' battles over their

weight. Her father and

her are out walking one

day and her father chatted

up a slender neighbor

working nearby in his

garden. The father was

always looking for ways

of help in his 'perpetual'

struggle with abdominal

fat. 'How do you keep your

belly down?' he asked the

guy. The neighbor's reply :

'Cancer.'

-

Well yikes on that, Nell

Painter. That one really

threw me for a loop. In

the course of this book,

(which I have to admit I

was not very fond of, in

the reading; I found many

of her points of view and

social attitudes vapid and

so politically and correctly

pointed, that I never really

felt I was reading anything

authentic), I kept thinking

of what line she was getting

near to, though I was not

able to get it. Something

perhaps 'in-between' writing

and painting, and therefore

kind of negating both, by

missing the essential point

of each. Sometimes I do

really wonder why

people bother.

-

I read a lot of stuff (you

can take that 'read' as 'red',

yes, and 'reed'  -  past and

present). In doing so, as

I've always, I keep an

eye out for the roving

points of view and the

approaches that writers

take, or use. Since like

1965, I've  developed a

lot of tricks  myself  -

very characteristic things

that make any piece of

writing identifiably 'mine.'

Digressions, assaults,

antics, aspersions,

arguments, boasts and

paradoxes too  -  you

can run that right

through all the letters

of the alphabet and

they'd each be covered.

That's what makes Swift

Swift, or Shandy Shandy,

(Sterne Sterne) or Dickens,

Faulkner, Twain, Salinger,

Roth, Bellow and anyone

else, who they are. The

irreducible particulate

matter of their own style,

whatever it may be. I've

had mine, and myself,

called every name in

the book (most often

by someone who's

claimed to 'be' everything

in the book).  It's never

rightly bugged me, and I

certainly wouldn't care.

(But I'm embarrassed for

him). I'm not bare-assed

for him, no; I'll leave

that for him to take up

with himself. How's that

go? 'Opinions are like

assholes, everybody's

got one.' It used to be

said that the pen was

mightier than the sword - 

and it is, yes, (and I love

penning bombs). But the

problem now is, no one

knows what a pen is, nor

what a sword is. Oh well.

The way it's all going

now anyway it just

should probably be

'the Pope's penis is

mightier than a sword.'

Saints protect us, and

sinners be gone.

-

When I was in NYC,

and first got connected

with that Andy Bonomo

guy  -  after I'd rented

509 e11th street  -  he

was always saying, for

the things needed in

the apartment, that I

should go to, I think

it was, 'Zuma.' Or maybe

'Azusa,' I forget. That

was then a store on

the corner of Fifth Ave.,

and w8th. Right

by the Studio School.

(It's now a long-term

cafe or eatery, having

been through various

manifestations since

my time there. In my

days before all this, the

last thing I'd ever have

known, or cared, about

was home furnishings

and decor. I was, as 

well, unable to figure 

out how and why this

somewhat shady, and

somewhat drug-dealing,

guy with all the cash

would have any interest

at all in 'fixing up' the 

place so some strange, 

vaguely oriental taste

which this store sold.

(It never really happened

anyway; turned out to be

more about incense and

cups and candle stuff).

More nonsense than

incense even. I guess I

just never did get on well.

As for myself, though I

never spoke it up, I took

offense to what I saw as

the stupid betrayal of the

immigrant and hard-side

America legacy the whole

place, had, and the building 

too. This was like ground

zero of the American

historical immigrant 

experience, where many

thousands of people had 

toiled, suffered, died, 

failed, or succeeded. And

it certainly all deserved

more than some stupid 

ashtrays with Japanese

cranes (birds) painted on

them. So easily do things

get out of control.

-

Suffice to say, I had not a

clue as to what was going

on  -  turned out Andy was

from California, where this

sort of tick-tock Asian

influence L.A. input had

a much livelier spell. The

closest I can think is of

maybe a store that was 

once around here called 

'Pier 1' which was a 

Polynesian sort of a 

mish-mash of  woven 

bamboo furniture, lava

lamps, and see-through

dressing closets, all in 

one location. With, of

course, all the legacy

left out. Whoever cared

about that crap was 

never in my book. Exotic 

shopping, for me, was 

the army and  navy surplus 

and salvage places. They 

were dotted around 

everywhere downtown  -

Canal Street, old Soho. 

There were Marine 

knives with 12 inch 

blades and sheaths, (I

used to tell the girls 'Yeah,

I know it's real, I measured 

it against myself'), used pea

jackets, boots, back packs,

bullet belts, army socks,

gloves, and flashlights too.

Seemed as if all that stuff

was all that you ever really

needed  -  fending off attack,

doing an attack of your own,

lighting up dark spaces, and

even using the 12 inches.

All for like 39 cents to, at 

most, high-end stuff at just

above 10 bucks. A veritable

paradise for the unencumbered.

'Meals-Ready-To-Eat' didn't

exist yet as a product, so never

was there anything too eat,
nothing sold as food, ever,

except maybe jellybeans,

which I hated. It wasn't 

until 1982, with Reagan, 

that they again became 

popular. Junk food for

junk brains.

11,277. RUDIMENTS, pt 487

RUDIMENTS, pt. 487

(time's up) [stop making sense, pt. 2]

Peculiar things riled me up.

Like just before (well, in the

previous chapter)  -  lairs

and liars. That juxtaposition

was striking to me. A lair

then had to be the place

liars hide out in, assorting

their dissimilarities into one

congealed story. In the same

way, what does a liar rely on?

The liar 'relies' on telling the

same false story over and over

so as not to mix it up. The word

astride always struck me too.

It means one is atop a horse,

'as to ride' it. That was damned

close to astride, to me. And

if Elliot Ness has a daughter,

and they named her Zany,

what would her character

be most like, if not zaniness?

I used to do these things all

the time, like the one I've

previously mentioned, some

time back, about dogs teaching

school. If they could, what

grades would they teach?

Why, K-9, of course. Maybe

all this was a well-tempered

skill. As I saw it (skilsaw?)

it was. So much like the

rest of life too  -  'as I saw

it, it was'.....

-

Speaking of which, I didn't

have a skill-set of my own.

It had always been stressed,

all through regular school  - 

not in the seminary, where only

one end was assumed (no, that's

not some weird gay joke) that

a person's responsibility to

their self was to properly find

and educate that part of them

which was their 'best' and

most-skilled part. Interest. I

never really had that. Nothing

especially interested me. I

mean, I saw the sky, and knew

certain of the planets and the

ways of the moon and all,

and the movement of stars

over the course of a year,

(from watching a fixed-point

oak tree I'd established as a

reference to the sky year after

year as a kid). Yet that never

made me wish to be an

astronomer or space scientist,

or even an astronaut. That

stuff, in its tedious aspects,

bored me. Creativity right

out the capsule window; a

cool thing like space travel,

stripped of any wonder and

mystery and just turned into

engineering feats and angles

and slide rule calculations

and thrusters and boosters,

payloads and re-entry. What

ever had happened to wonder

and awe and myth and religion?

We'd been robbed of all that

by eaters of Klondike Bars.

I enjoyed cops and robbers

and all that, but I never

sought to 'be' either one. I

disliked sleuthing and stealth

and violence. Although I did

once write a letter to Mr. J.

Edgar Hoover  -  and I did

even get a 'personal' response  - 

about what it took or would

take in the future, for me to

be an FBI agent. His, probably

boilerplate, response was stern

and pointed, and filled with,

already, the rigors of training

and discipline that would be

needed to join this fine force

of men upholding American

values. OK. Good. Later on

all the air went out of that

idea when I learned the J.

Edgar enjoyed cross-dressing

and that the good old USA

was neither really that good,

nor that old. And it had a toll

free number too, after about

1965 : 1-800-Vietnam. It

never helped me, either,

that my expected military

service as a GI would, of

course, very nicely correspond

with my own initials  -  G.I. 

I'll pass, thanks.

-

My father, back in his own

ancient school days, once

told a teacher, upon being

asked, what he wanted to be,

replied that he wanted to be

 an engineer. (How do you 
put toilet paper back together? 
You must reply). The enthused

teacher was all pleased and

happy, and, he said, began

going on about the wonders

of engineering and how things

get built, how engineers build

communities and roads and

bridges. My father piped

up, saying, no no he meant

a train engineer, on the

railroad. Another balloon

with air going out, as the

teacher wilted. Railroad

guys must have really had

a stigma, even back then.

-

I used to wonder if one could

have an astigmatism, or if 

there was a stigma attached 

to that too. I was never too

optimistic when going to the

optometrist either, to find out.

In my St. George Press years,

one of my customers was an

optician, or optometrist or

whatever it was  -  Dr. Norbert

Kastner, in Iselin. Then he 

retired, and his son Bruce took

the practice over. Bruce and I

never saw eye-to-eye. His 

father, Norbert, used to say 

how he was having such 

trouble with his long-term

clients (patients?) because

few of them wished to change

over to the son, Bruce's, care.

He was only a little fearful

that, in a few years, his old

practice would die. 'From

optician to mortician, huh,'

I sort of smiled, saying that.

-

Anyway, probably my whole

life, the best thing that I could

say about it is, 'You had to be

there.' Which I most certainly

was. By this time, now, of

Life's slow downturning, all

I really have to say is I can do

a mean crossword puzzle,

quickly, and in ink too. That

always amazes people, that

I do them in ink. Fact of the

matter is, it makes no damned

difference at all. Mistakes 

still get made, and you write 

over  the error heavier. Who 

the heck would make the 

pencil distinction? Back in

the Barnes & Noble years I

used to bet the kids that I

could do a crossword puzzle

in six minutes. A buck here,

a buck there. I won't say I

won every time, but I will

say I won 48 times out of 50.

And there are 365 days in a

year. Not a bad living. Back

in the late 60's there was a

big-selling book out by some

Dr. Rubin guy, entitled,

'Everything You Wanted To

Know About Sex But Were

Afraid To Ask.' In it, he said

the quickest time for a complete

sex act, intercourse and all, was

7 minutes. I never tested that

fact out exactly, but I had him

beat by one minute on crossword

puzzles. I've waited in lines

longer than that to have my

car inspected!

11,276. FORTY-EIGHT HOURS TO THEN

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS TO THEN

Should be from then. Anyhow what

matters is the then not the from or to.

That was me. That was us. Neither a

minus nor a plus, I stood on a golf-field

near where the traffic fanned by. The

ground right there had always seemed

flat to me, and straight and level. Now

I saw it was not that at all but hill'd and

beveled. How revelations like that occur,

I'll never for the life of me know.

11,275. RUDIMENTS, pt. 486

RUDIMENTS, pt 486

(stop making sense, pt. one)

Whenever it was that David

Byrne came out with 'Stop

Making Sense,' 1982, or

whichever year and era

it was, a light went on. I

mean for me, with words

and ideas. I immediately

grasped the extension of a

concept I'd been dwelling

on. You see, everything

comes through a person

in a small self-contained

tunnel, and as we accept

it, each of us, whatever 'it'

is and however different

it is for each of us (face it,

we all live in separate

worlds), it expands outward,

as it all exits that tunnel,

(us), and we become what

we are or what we make

of all that. That's why all

that preparation, and

coaching and scholastic

stuff is a bunch of nothing

more than business. You're

choosing a product you'd

like, but it's never going

to be you, or perfectly

characterize you, because

you are, primarily, what's

already in that tunnel.

Which is why most

people spend life trying

to fit through hoops

of their own imagining.

Listening to that music,

I realized what he was

meaning to get across

with the entire 'stop making

sense' thing; I'd just always

called it, before, absurdity.

I'd guess the very first time

I ran across true absurdity

was with the 'Freak Out'

album of Frank Zappa and

the first 'Mothers of Invention'

group he had. That certainly

had stopped me short  -  at

whatever age I was then.

'Brain Police' in fact is

even more valuable today

than it was then. And just

as true. In his day, the world

was clean, and his music

was whatever it was (no

one, of course, knew),

 now the world is dirty,

and it's that music that

seems clean and right.

-

Back in the seminary,

weirdly enough, in the

'lounge' rooms, the other

guys in my age group

often sat around listening

(and singing along) to a

song by a British group

called 'The Animals,'

(Eric Burden), that went

'We gotta' get out of this

place, if it's the last thing

we ever do...' (and there

were other versus, 'Daddy's

hair a'turning gray,' and

'Girl there's a better place

for me and you,' which

was twisted about because

'we ever do' needed a rhyme,

which became 'you'  -  all

trite stuff, but whatever)...

and I used to shake my

head and just say to

myself 'What's wrong

with these guys? They're

here of their own stupid

choice, and now they're

wailing about it as if it

was prison. And if they

want a 'girl' to escape

with what in the world

are they plopping their

dumb asses here for?'

Yeah, yeah, please  - 

stop making sense.

-

I guess, one sticking

point was that I never

had a scintilla of gentility

in me. There was, however,

around me, a certain level

of it going on  -  a number

of these priestly people

were pretty high-up livers,

society types  -  who knew

their way around shirts and

ties, shoes and socks too.

I had no clue. It was as if

someone had taken this

really stupid 'catching the

school bus at  the Shop-Rite

corner' Avenel guttersnipe

and thrown him into Eton,

or some other weird-ass

prep-school where the

differing strata of society 

quickly becoming apparent, 

and with me on the losing 

end. (That always worried

me, being so close to the

word castrati). There was,

I admit, a large gulf 

between myself and 

many of the  others. 

I often bluffed, and I 

guess it worked.  No 

one ever really turned 

me out, of anything. I 

always liked those 

'telling'  moments that 

get across a whole 

theme. The kind of

person I was becoming

was the sort who watched

for those sorts of things, 

and recorded them. One

for me was, in the Drama

Department, on the stage, 

being a stage-crew guy 

at first, I was able to go

way high up, onto the

catwalks and ladders that

ran quite high above the

stage area, and where all

the lights and filters for

those lights and effects

were. There were chains

and brackets and hoists.

All high above the stage

and affording a view out

somewhere onto the heights

of the theater itself  -  seats

and heads, etc. I'd clamber

up there and just watch  -  

the outlined beams of light,

the dust in the air, listen to

the coughs and chatter from

those in the seats, the rustle.

I already knew the plays and

the actions below, so it was

all just passive witnessing 

at that point. I loved it. From

rehearsals, I knew already

the lighting changes, the 

exits and entries of varied 

characters, the tape marks 

on the stage, each showing 

location and position for

this or that scene. It was

sometimes stunning, and

miraculous for me. Other

times, I'd think of 'bounding

off' into the open air, leaping

to my death over the heads of

others, my flying, descending,

carcass intruding on a scene,

disrupting everything, forever.

Or, with a heavy rope around

my neck leaping down to hang

myself, above the stage, above

the crowd and characters, and 

I'd wonder  -  how long would

I be hanging there before they

cut me down, how rigorous a

task would that be, what 

would happen?

-

I was only a 'stage-hand' 

during my first year there. 

Very soon after that (I was 

also a 'page-turner' and

back-up organist for the

accompaniest to these 

productions, who played 

organ music during the

interludes, intermissions, 

and  when 'soundtracks' 

and scenes demanded it.

That guy was John Banko).

Very soon after that I got

involved in the productions 

themselves. One of the big

affectations there, was, for

those guys who weren't

really into the gung-ho

religious aspect of the 

entire gig  -  such as me  -

the Drama section afforded 

a way out. We were a stringy

clique of our own; playing

jazz LP's at will, hanging

out, (and with black coffee)

in the separate lounge for

the stage people. It was 

almost beatnik-like, if 

you can consider 12 and 

14 year olds beatnik-like.

This is where I first heard

John Coltrane music, and

Miles Davis, and numerous

others. Here I saw Jack 

Ruby, on live TV, kill 

Lee Harvey Oswald.

Malcolm X was killed, 

and Winston Churchill

died. And even, as I recall,

Pope Paul VI visited NYC.

This was all big stuff to

my already stuffed, young

and growing mind.

-

The likes of all this had

led me into very strange

and deep positions. Lairs.

Situations. I was roaring,

and raring to go. Act One
was just  about to get started.