RUDIMENTS, pt. 461
(that '58 ford flamingo you had)
Volcanoes are just pent-up
pressures. They're not really
dealt with until they blow.
Any psychologist will tell
you, on the other hand, that
the flows of heat and pressure,
and then the resultant magma,
are always at work and on the
move, unseen or not. Does
one wish to be aware of that
factor, and then perhaps by
attending to it, responding
long the way, alleviating the
end result? That's a lot of
what Life is anyway : bitchy,
cranky, one-note people who
have never tended to those
sources of anguish and fury.
At least a professional boxer,
as a for-instance, gets his
brains smashed in two or
three times a year at major
matches - it clears the head,
un-hurts the bloodied eyes,
and tightens up the tongue.
Humiliation, loss of pride,
hurt; even the winner hurts.
-
Maybe people need others
to tell them about themselves?
What it all looks like from
another seat in the stadium?
It's easy. I never was taught
to bite my tongue, rather I
stretch the sinews of whatever
'tongue' is, and then I walk
away, not really caring what
I've just done. Because I
know I'm right. There's no
room for a half-hearted
measure in this one life
we lead. A man (person)
has to be totally convinced
of the rightness of his/her
cause and by that self
'convincement' proceed.
Again, it's easy, but you
need a brain, and a head
within which it can operate.
-
I think the sewers of Avenel
were opened one too many
times, and took everything
good away with in the draining.
The flushing killed Flushing.
(So to speak, and using a
New York reference). The
opening of minds should be
as easy as the clearing of
drains. Or don't you think?
(That's kind of a pun and a
word-joke combined).
-
Through the time I grew
up along Avenel Street, it
was white concrete. Nothing
of the later black macadam
and constant re-tarring and
digging. The concrete was
in large slabs, maybe 30-foot
sections, with heavy seams.
The concrete was the sort
which had stones in it, stones
you could see. It all, being
white, gave a different look
to the vista. It was much more
of a one-of-a-kind street. I
truly do hate macadam. When
it was white there was at
least the feel of a locale, a
serene place, with edges and
seams. Once macadam gets
in place, that's all over. Did
you know that macadam was
really a Scottish guy's name,
McAdam, who came up with
the tar/gravel road coating
in the first place, for better
transport and passage, and
it ended up taking his name
as a process-noun for itself.
-
I was thinking today about
what transpired to give us
places like Woodbridge,
(Avenel, Sewaren, Port
Reading and all that). It
was war, basically that was
the source-cause for all
those lines of little, square,
boxy houses we all got. A
million tiny little men
coming home from World
War II, and the government
conspiring to give them
places to live. If you go up
to Bergen County, places
like that, there isn't this
same thing. They were all
settled up there already -
large, rambling old homes,
things from the 1880's and
1910's. The houses had
eccentricities, twists, turns,
porches, gambrels, even
porte-cocheres, however
that goes. Tree-lined streets,
downtowns, quaint places.
Generations had lived on
through, been locally buried,
sons and daughters taking
over, running the same fine
and old responsibilities.
Down here, this way, old
Avenel didn't exist, and the
history Woodbridge had
was treated as meaningless
(which in itself is an odd
quirk). The rectilinear
thinking that went into
a place like here was
basically dogmatic and
quite severely plain. No
real decoration, certainly
no architecture. Just
quadrangular small homes
in rows, squared and
cornered, for returning
GI's with extremely
favorable terms of
purchase. Plainly, a
world was being built.
(That's a double-edged
pun too, thanks). Woods
down, people in. It was
all singularly a scene of
paucity, by aesthetics.
The idea and thought
of that (aesthetics, art,
beauty, balance and line),
never occurred to anyone;
all was utility, including
the thinking of the people.
That was it and there was
no other. I used to laugh
to myself over the following :
In 1954, arriving there, all
those newly-built small,
square homes, having a
'52 Dodge or Ford in the
driveway seemed fitting.
They too were squared,
small, reserved looking,
and boring. By 1957 and
after, cars had become so
rococo, flamboyant, and
over the top, that for me
to see them, even if they
were used and a few years
old, in the driveways of
these little homes seemed
a regular riot! And even
today, old photos prove
me out.
-
Life was for sure a regular
barrel of pickle-pocked
apples. Anyone searching
for the past would be
hard-pressed (like cider!
Another pun and word-play
here. That makes three),
to find it.
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