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,
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.
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