11,303. RUDIMENTS, pt. 496

RUDIMENTS, pt. 496

(hijacked)

In the same way towns,

which begin celebrating

their pasts and supposed

histories the more they go

about destroying it for a

nasty present, so too do

people meld their thoughts

into only the accepted and

modern day premises. That

just ends up making everyone

the same, and all the bland

and uninviting presumptions

take over. Look around you

sometime and see.

-

It's all sort of just the way

things go. I first noticed this

at that place in Montclair, the

old, huge rail terminal that you

pass on the way to it. Right

through the 1970's and into

the mid '80's, it was derelict

and in ruins. There was still

rail traffic, yes, on the people

part of the platforms, but the

old usage of the huge freight

areas and sidings and yards

was all left to rot and decay.

No one said a word about it,

no awareness, no signs. Now,

in its new use as, basically a

parking area for a rudderless

scrim of crap stores and all

the usual stupid storefronts.

no one cares, they just walk

along as if it was always there

in that manner. The few markers

and names only NOW make any

reference to history, use, and

value. It's crazy. Anyone (and

there are tens of thousands)

who may have landed there

to live and be subsidized to

live, by us of course, in the

marginal compound housing

units onerously dropped into

the 'community' by government

fiat, would know nothing of

this past; and would dishonor

and debase it anyway. Ignorance

rules with an iron glove. I

would have loved to ask

Fishbeine what was up with

all that  -  and it's not even

that he would have all the

answers or even know of it

himself. I'd just like to rub

his face in it. One thing about

him. however, he could take it.

-

I never knew which was which:

Life as a dialogue, or life as

a soliloquy. I tried starting

mine out as a dialogue, but

exasperation and the

self-examination of being

soon brought me to the nicer

quietness of soliloquy.

('If you can fill the

unforgiving minute with

sixty seconds' worth of

distance run, yours is the

Earth and everything in it,

and  -  which is more  - 

you'll be a man my son').

So, in talking things like

that to myself, I'd toss

around a hundred versions

of same, and think I have

it down, and then I'd

come across one of those

old Bowery bum types,

or the Washington Street

barrel-fire guys. Man,

that would hurt : they

were all sons once,

and huge, abject failures

were they? No human

dignity left? No sense of

anything but loss? How

does that add up to

anything about being

a 'Man?' What's any

of that glib talk about 

anyway? The only 

measure of a life, I 

figure, is how you own 

up to the idea that it's 

got no measure; no value 

anyway, past self-sustenance. 

I remember one time, in 

Iselin Jr, High School, a

friend of mine somehow

was up in front of the 7th

Grade class going on, giving

a report or a recitation or

something, on 'Love.' What

the heck any of that was

about, and why him, is a

thing I never knew  -  he was

the last person to talk, at age 

11 or 12, about any of that,

but pontificating was already

his strong suit and this was

his moment  -  except he 

crashed. There was no way

in Hell a room of like-minded,

testosterone-filled boys was

going to let him get away with

that one. Half these guys were

already doing their friends'

sisters anyway, so there was 

no half measures to be had. 

Sex-Ed never made any sense, 

neither to sex, nor to Ed. Like

rocket-science in 1960, the

only thing it had going for it

was a sizzling rear, a pointed,

blazing front bursting through

space, a blow-out and then a

crash-landing. Yet, adults

insisted on trying, just like

towns insist on trying, as 

around them all things fall.

It just added up, all, to the

same non-sequitor. Life, as

a non-sequitor. You take

what they give, you nod,

and you move on. 'Adam

and Eve were the first man

and woman', right? Nod, yep.

'They had two sons, Cain

and Abel. And Cain killed

Abel and got married.' Yep.

BUT - Who'd he marry, Eve?

-

Like any one of those gypsy

joints along the street, with 

the crystal ball light on and

the come-on-in sign beckoning,

it was all future fortunes of the

forlorn; probably, and mostly,

made up along the way. I never

stopped into one of those places,

because I knew it would burn

down immediately if I entered.

I was already able to read my

own palm, and I deftly saw

where the death-line crossed

my wisdom line. They had me

hands-down! I wanted to make 

the bourgeois jump, all manner

of self. I wanted, pre-eminently

to institute the deflation of

sentiment  - which I felt to 

be the absolute worst quality

humans had. Sentiment kills.

I wanted only to read the

book of myself, after first,

of course, writing it. That

meant living, Charley on 

the horse, that meant living

and that was that. 
-
Now you see it, now you don't.
What's the difference between
Cheetos and Fritos? Look
around you sometime, and see.