11,298. RUDIMENTS, pt 494

RUDIMENTS, pt. 494

(twin donuts)

I had 2 grandfathers, both

lost from prison. Two

different prisons too. I

never met either one,

but just got stories. That

in itself was always a bit

strange, but I lived with it.

I loved the names anyway.

Dannemora, and Sing Sing.

That one was actually in

Ossining, the town, but,

over time and slang, it just

became Sing Sing. It's up

along the Hudson; they both

are. Dannemora is way up,

near Saratoga. In fact, Sing

Sing is where the term 'going

up the river,' for going to

prison came from. It's actually

AT the river, and people

were always escaping or

trying to and dying to; swims

and skiffs and crafts. At least

these places always had

meaning to me. Still names

on a map, but places I had a

a once-living reference to.

Big deal, right. Like it was

Harvard or Princeton or

Yale or something.

-

I never cared much about

the whole 'Grandfather'

thing. People say it's

important and all that,

but I never thought so  -

just more family crap to

get bogged down in. The

only thing grandfathers

ever seem to be doing,

to me, is playing the

Grandfather role; where

they learn that stuff is

beyond me. At bottom,

all that junk is about as

useful as a third arm.

-

I guess it's just me  -

outlier, pain in the butt

to others, cantankerous

old fool. I never cared;

I'm on my own selfish

mission and I admit to

that. Can't serve two

masters, and all that.

The problem comes,

mainly, for me, in the

distraction factor  -  all

things are a distraction,

or become one after a

while. Weddings. Bars.

Funerals. Cook-outs.

You name it, they're

all there. Speaking of

which  -  and I've written

about this in some other

volume, I once really,

truly, did meet an

extra-terrestrial  -  though

you'd never know it.

That was his point too.

It was in a heavily-laden

bar over by the Chelsea

Hotel, due west, down the

end of the street. He was

just sitting there. We

happened to meet when

he called me over. Fact

is, as I also found out,

with him there was no

such thing as 'just happened'

-  all was fore-ordained

and predictable, selected

moments of manufactured

time, beforehand. And those

moments, pretty much,

belonged to him and were

the reason for his being

there, his 'appearing.' He

had me guess at his name.

I had no clue, just said, 'I'll

take a stab. Your name is

Legendary Died?' He said no.

His name was Rairlebourne

Fishbeine, Negotiator For

Extra-Terrestrials. Very odd.

I asked what in the word he

meant by 'manufactured time?'

(You may think this is all

fictitious, but it's true; and

the proximity of the Chelsea

Hotel to this story had nothing

to do with what occurred.

I don't think. It, in itself,

was always filled with what

are, perhaps, called 'Weird'

characters. By others, not

me. Everyone's got their

story; some stories are just

far better than others, that's

all). We were drinking beers.

an occasional small bourbon

too; he seemed to know the

waitress girl, or at least had

been extended some sort of

open tab. But he kept paying

(this too was weird) from

money on the table, but it

never diminished any the

entire two hours we sat. I

say two hours, but that's

a guess, in that when I'd

asked about manufactured

time he simply put a finger

to his lips, straight up, and

said 'mention it no more, this

time will not exist. It's a 

blip.' Well, what he went 

on to explain was that the

'time' effect, what we call 

it, was a flat plane of

comprehension (prideful

human thinking) into 

which he was able to cut, 

with a 'knot,' a 'blip,' a

'burr,' for the duration

of his needed purpose.

Something like a 'guardian 

angel,' was my takeaway

from it. There were many

'plants' on Earth, in earth-life,
(he meant 'people' I realized),

and they must remain secret

and unrecognized, to effect

things, but every so often

one of them 'blows cover'

in some way and by some

errant behavior, and must 

be told and disappeared.'

Which was his role. I never

knew what he meant by

'Negotiator' but that was the

word he used. Interceder?

Taker-Away?' I never knew.

-

He dismissed me as quickly

then as he had called me over.

A few little tidbits left in my

head; the money all still in

place. And then not. Nor him.

All gone in an instant. I go

back there, passing it now 

and then, just to see; it's

still there, as a place, but

all different, made modern,

the wood all taken away and

replaced with bright white

facings, probably plastics;

the quaint old dispensing 

window that once faced 

the street, and had a sitting

room, alcove kind of place,

the large, soft seats, all gone

Nearby too, now, is a newer

donut place and, across 

from it some multi-screen

move palace showing all the

usual crap. I guess that's

just the way things go.

-

Why I should know this 

stuff, and have been the 

one to have this information

imparted to me, getting

called over like that, I don't

know. It never really effected

anything, I don't think. It

all comes back to me, in

snatches, here and there,

sometimes, a little of this,

a little of that, but often I

swear too that it's different 

each time. Sometimes it 

seems to take a really 

long  time, with not much 

information, and other 

times it seems quite short 

but loaded to the gills with

info. Go figure.

-

I was always intrigued by

the difference, the writerly

difference, if any, by the

words 'digression' and

'discursive.' And I always

liked that too. This here

Rarleighbourne guy, he

seemed like a digression 

to me, even now, as I write

about him  - and I written

about him before, but I 

always stop because it just

begins getting too 'fantastical'

and no one will believe me,

and then you just wind up

losing your reader, and they

get angry and take affront;

so, yeah, I mostly stay away 

from it. But discursive writing

is great  -  you can just go

on and then just sail away 

with some other idea as it

arises or occurs, make a

nice digression of it all

and bring in lots of other 

stuff. Like this Fishbeine

guy (and where'd he ever

get that name from? Jewish?

German? What did he know

about any of that)  -  he was

dressed (this was about 1980)

in a tawdry fashion of, say, a

1950's business attire. But

rather ill-fitting, too loose,

and  -  in some unfathomable

way  -  just wrong or plainly

incorrect. So, who dressed him,

and from where? And why in

that manner? How'd he get

there? What did he do with

his time? Why was he in that 

ratty, old leftover tavern? (I

do have a photo of the place, 

both old, and new, from outside

somewhere; hoping to find).

And anyway, where is he now,

and who the hell did he think 

he was, pulling that stunt?

-

I think either one of my

Grandfathers would have

just killed him, then and 

there, Right outside, probably,

in front of Twin Donuts. They
were going to prison anyway.