Tuesday, November 6, 2018

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.





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