RUDIMENTS, pt. 492
(nightwood)
You know how, sooner or
(nightwood)
You know how, sooner or
later, people fit the space you
have made for them? It's sort
of a personal, mental image
thing and you make it as they
fit it. It's all quite creative and
bears little relationship to
reality, yet that's how life
ends up getting lived. In
this manner, I could probably
sit here and tell you about
someone for a long time, and
by the end of that my image
produced, of whomever that
person is, could have absolutely
no resemblance to the version
of that person you know. Or
think to know. Life is like
that, and it allows us to be as
creative as we choose with
our versions of others -
which is how we all get
by. It's like voting, sort of.
You vote for the 'image' of
that person you're voting
for (your image of them),
and you really know little
else about them. Faith?
Hope? Forget Charity.
-
509 e. 11th, from the
previous chapter - now
THAT was a mental
image. Once the initial
reverb wore off, of me
having a place, the 'renter's
remorse' set in : What the
heck did I do that for? Why
there? How's it all going to
work. Remember, I had, for
more than a month, been
living either in Tompkins
Square Park - with about
100 other out-of-time hippies
in training, sleeping on
the bare grass with only my
bongo drums to be claimed
were I to die, or, if not there,
atop the marquee of the 2nd
Avenue Theater - the old
Jewish Vaudeville palace -
from Andy Bonomo's 2nd
floor window, which leveled
out to the top of the marque
as a sort of sunning porch.
(Andy's not around, so I can
tell you it was useful for other
things too. Marquee Moon,
blah, blah, love in the open
air). There were seriously
detrimental people all around
me - Spanish and Black
mostly. I remained wary of
just about everything. Even
the errant, 'come-on-over-here'
girls spelled trouble and not
much else, because there'd
always be some idiot around
working with her to conk
you on the noggin' (Before
you were done) and run
off with whatever you may
have 'claimed' to have had.
Life was tough, and so too
could hunger be. Whoever
said 'when you ain't got
nothin', you got nothing to
lose,' had not a clue what
was talking about, No-bell
Prize or not; there's always
plenty to lose, jerk.
-
I lived a slow and normal
existence there; for about
four minutes. The rest of it
all was pure anarchy dripping
from ceilings and faucets.
Above me, upstairs (I've
already written about them
way back) lived Billie Joe
and Holly, as spectacularly
vivid and visual hippies
from, somewhere. Maybe
it was Texas, maybe it was
just all play-act. A lot of it
was; over-all. Holly was a
beauty, off-limits to me, but
man could I lust. Billie Joe
skimmed the county limits
of wise-ass, but he was
manageable. Potheads
both, through and through.
Back when that meant
something dark and evil.
Now, you can drive right
up to the place in Avenel,
on Route One, and, with
any decent excuse and
some faux paperwork,
they'll dispense it to you,
and say thanks too! Who
says the hippie years
changed nothing? Like
the firehouse says,
'Buy Local.'
-
You see, if you work at
it long enough and steadily,
you can do anything, Good,
or bad, and that's the problem.
Exposure means nothing,
because 'you' are already
in people's brains. Whether
you're a manageable drunk,
('Hey, John, how are you?')
or a raging fool (oh, forget
it) everything is ineffectual
past a certain point. You're
living on gas; the gas of what
you are, and most people,
when you come right down
to it, are nothing at all -
or at least in an inverse
proportion to what they
may think of themselves.
That goes for me too, but
at least I'll admit it. These
little creeps who walk about
in their suits and uniforms
think nothing of debasing
others. And I don't mean
in 'words,' I mean in the
dumb-ass ways that politics
and 'culture' (no such thing,
it's all tribal totemics) screw
everything up for everyone
else.
-
Just about the time I was
(those four minutes), giving
up, thinking maybe I was
better off back atop that
marquee, Andy was, in
turn thinking of giving up
that marquee. He asked
if I'd have any qualms
about letting him in, and
he'd take care of the rent.
I said sure - since I really
wasn't there that much, the
Studio School being but
a few blocks away, taking
most of my time, and the
rest of the city being my open
search area and laboratory.
He wanted to take care of
it all, and I was thus relieved
of that entire money burden
aspect of rent, etc. Cool,
both the good and the bad
of it were OK with me. I
knew the good. The bad
came soon after. Andy's
little drug empire was a bit
larger than I'd expected, a
veritable Rite-Aid before
it's time; or Drug-Fair
even moreso. In quick
time his center of
operations had shifted.
509 at your service. I put
up with most all of it,
sleeping where I could;
I seem to remember a
flat-old mattress next to
a badly lit, green wall, on
which location the word
'window' had never been
pronounced. The 'bathroom'
was 12 feet off, and often
kept busy by any of
Andy's amorous helpers.
It all got really stupid
sometimes; stumbling
over one or another naked
body, usually female, in
a rug or deep under a
blanket (Winter. I'm not
sure the words 'any real
heat in here?' had ever
been uttered; but, more
savings. Iceboxes were
expensive). It all went on;
at first.
-
Hippies, as I saw it, never
had any attraction to alcohol.
Whatever they did, they did
with their own materials and
achieved mostly that same,
zoned-eye, dazed, look by that.
Drinkers, (at least in 1967),
were mostly surly blacks guys
in the park, or Puerto Rican
locals from like 6th Street
and Ave. B and C, who
were so down on things
that they'd cut you for
their own form of drunk
fun, however it was said in
Spanish, back then, I forget.
You had to be on your guard.
Skinny hippie kids, guys,
were fair game. Back dudes,
benched over, distended and
drunk, would suddenly awaken
from a stupor at the scent of
a female strolling by, usually,
that park Summer, with
some part of the anatomy
hanging out or trying to.
Lots of things caused instant
trouble, drunk conflict, and
even the airiest of hippies
- of which there were
curiously leveled varieties
and intensities; some turned
out to be just covers for the
usual debauched thug -
who would then fight back,
making it all worse. Cops never
did anything; most of these
girls anyway were probably
their runaway daughters.
There was a racial torrent
too, beneath everything. Old
white men were the most lost
and often most cantankerous.
There's really nothing more
stupid or annoying then some
garbled old geezer, stinking
of something, sloppy in clothes
and habit, demanding then
that you listen to his drivel,
life story, ideas, or personal
history. Space-eyes, rubber
neck, and no piss control
at all.
-
These things don't just come
to be - they're all part of the
life-patterns that people have
made. Like a crazy politican,
on the final day before the
election, thinking he can sway
the whole thing with one, last
final, campaign appearance,
somewhere - never realizing
that he can only BE in one
place, and that the rest of
what he is has already been
disseminated, before him,
and around, everywhere
else where he is NOT.
'Your die is cast, Carlos.
You ain't gonna' change
a thing' : you're the reason
for everything, but the
cause of nothing? You
are the few that the many
have lied about?
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