11,282. RUDIMENTS, pt. 489

RUDIMENTS, pt. 489

(dave van ronk)

Everything diminishes.

I guess that's true. Degrades.

Atrophies. (No trophies

for that). When I was back

in seminary school, and

Jean Paul Sartre refused

his Nobel Prize, I thought

that was one of the most

ennobling things I'd ever

seen. A stupid motion like

that ended up affecting me

greatly. Whatever year that

may have been  -  and it

totally escapes me now  -

things that had meaning

really had 'meaning.' The

world was still high and

tight with its pitches  -

structured well, disciplined.

Now they just throw at

your head and call it

inadvertent  - they can't 

even own up to the crap

they do. I never thought

I'd end up here and now,

saying this, but if one

thinks about it there's

not really much difference

between the travesty of,

say, the 2016 Nobel Prize

for Literature, (Literature,

mind you!), going to Bob

Dylan, and the US Presidency

going to Donald Trump  -

even in light of his twisted,

bastardized and sequestered

opponent. It's all the same

pattern of a junk-weave,

to me, and it's as if they

had, in 1964, given the

prizes to, first, Elvis, and

then, who, Mayor Daley,

in Chicago? Jimmy Hoffa?

That would have never stood.

Now, they can do anything

and no one cares anyway.

I find it all to be an equal

travesty  -  Trump, Dylan,

and the rest. Poor Philip

Roth, dead. Dylan got it

from him. Damn.  I remember

back when, Dave Van Ronk

bitching out Bob Dylan,

number one for stealing

things; number two for

taking whatever he could get

from people in his starting-out

Greenwich Village days,

everything from lodgings,

food, records and books,

including a Van Ronk song

or two, and then turning on

everyone anyway. (Read

'Chronicles.' He even lies

about how he came up

with that title). Anyway,

Van Ronk's biggest beef

(and best comment) was

about how Dylan had

whittled everything

down, watered the

running content of all

things mostly down

to very deliberate,

predictable rhymes,

couplets, junk words,

and the like, AND had

then put it into the

heads of a million kids

with a guitar that they

could do the same thing,

thus dribbling it all down

to random crap. His quote

was, 'Bobby's got a lot

to answer for.' Quite

rightly, son. (To steal

from Donovan).

-

Along Inman Avenue,

when I first received

an Emerson 8 or 12

transistor radio (I forget),

about 1961 maybe, I

remember going outside

with it and listening to

songs, or whatever

they were then, they'd

I'd seldom heard before

-  Sam Cooke, Ben E.

King  -  that Rose In

Spanish Harlem thing.

A lot of that was pretty

mind-boggling : that

In the Jungle, the Mighty

Jungle. In 10 or 12 years

it somehow went from

that (sort of exalted)

version of a conscious

reality, to the ironic and

slap-happy Nobel Prize

demeanor of, instead, the

Mighty Quinn. Forget the

jungle. When Quinn the

Eskimo gets here, all the

jungle gonn'a run to him.

Yeah, now we all say we

live on Exaltation Boulevard

(until they fully legalize

marijuana, when everyone

will then want to be living

on Inhalation Boulevard.

You think times are tough

now, out on the roads, with

phones? Try making a right

onto High Street). 'I found

my thrill, on Blueberry Hill.'

-

One time I met a guy who

told me I should begin,

immediately, writing

everything down  -  dreams,

comments, details and all

the things I notice about

ordinary life. This was no

one special, mind you, no

one who had made any big

deal out of himself. It was

very quizzical, and looking

back on it all now I can

only wonder, for goodness

sake what I must have

looked like to this guy. I

was 15 or 16, a complete

shambles in most aspects.

This guy was a much

different sort of individual,

big job, big house built in

the woods, in Mahwah or

somewhere. He was the

Personnel Manager for

some company; what we

now call, I guess, H. R.

(Human Resources). He

interviewed, hired, did

the follow-ups, and fired

to. He used to tell me

what they looked for in

an applicant that made

him or her worth hiring

to them. Attitudes,

outlook, education,

responses. And, of

course, looks  -  which,

without saying was, I

think, his real message

to me. 'Straighten it all

up, or get off the ship.'

I quickly got off. The

Disembarkation wasn't

so bad. Around him I

always felt so different;

there really was just a

difference of aims and

outlook, but he'd never

fathom the 'other' sort 

of quest I was on  -  

meaningless in the 

Human Resources

run of things. Anyway, 

he had two kids, Drexel 

Univ., the son, as a 

Pharmacist. Etc. All 

those things worked

out. What was weird 

for me, and this will be 

weird, I'd bet, just reading, 

is that he had been my 

mother's beau before

the entry of my father 

onto the scene. Very

strange juxtaposition of

fault lines, and probably

so much hinged on that.

Another time, amidst all

my family people, when 

my mother was in the 

hospital and everyone 

was visiting it seemed 

at once  -  (let me say

here, ahead of time, that

what you're about to hear,

as odd as it may be, is 

perfectly normal for my

family, back then) - an

old girlfriend of sorts

walked in, to visit her 

own mother, upstairs.

All the jibber-jabber 

talk ran to the usual, 

'Hi, how are you, what's 

new, what's up, etc.). 

One of my sisters pipes 

up, turning to my son,

and says, 'Just think, 

Jaime, that could have 

been your mother.' I

guess the assumption 

was, 'yeah, if only...' 

but the end result of 

the bizarre context, 

logic, and conclusion

was akin to running a 

fast automobile into a 

brick wall at 200 mph.

I think, for comedy, had

they a Nobel Prize, that 

would have been worthy.
-
One last, funny but not so
funny thing : at my father's
burial, in the harsh, cold,
December rain, we had to 
slog through a lot of mud 
and nasty muck to get to the 
grave. Raw, wet ground, 
dug-up and rutted. This
personnel director guy ('just
think, he could have been
my dad') was there too. He
fell or stumbled, with the
mud, twisted himself up,
hurt his back to a near
immobility  -  from which 
he never recovered  -  the
entire ordeal  -  and died, not
that long after that, himself.