11,317. RUDIMENTS, pt. 503

RUDIMENTS, pt. 503

(the wordless lemmings)

'Lay down and rest while

you read,' never made any

sense to me. My mother

used to say that to me. I

always took reading as

work  -  still do  -  pencil

at the ready, pen and

notebook right nearby.

I never knew what sort

of not-very-earnest

material people were

reading who said things

like 'I read until I fall

asleep,' or 'I take a book

too bed with me, and

I'm right out.' Etc.

Essentially all the

comments of that sort

say are, 'Reading is such

a boring waste to me; it

puts me right to sleep.' I

don't wish to commend

titles to anyone, but,

jeepers-creepers, get

a life.

-

You can run your little

gamut of nothing, from

Raymond Chandler to

John Grisham, or David

Foster Wallace to Thomas

Pynchon. Your choice.

Damned if you do, but

you don't. Geography?

History? Nah, I'd rather

be a dumb-ass all my life.

Put down your nails,

carpenter, the wood is

calling out to you.

-

I never reacted very well

to things  - ordinary things,

the daily occurrences of

a crummy life. But I guess

it all worked out OK  -  for

now, I'm still here, breathing

and all that. Growing up, it

was the other way  -  my

mother was a crazy lady

about her health, almost a

hypochondriac, I thought.

Ambulances, pharmacies,

doctors, always taking her

away for something. Heart

operations (2), when they

were still rather rare. Pills

by the clutch. St George

Pharmacy, with all those

house deliveries, (deliveries

to the house), teen boys

and their cars. Knocks on

the door, etc. Like having

a paper boy for pills.

It was crazy stuff.

-

Once I went to the seminary,

she had some sort of 'Deborah

Hospital' early-breakthrough

open heart surgery. I heard

about it, phone calls and

stuff, but stayed distant. I

really didn't understand.

Mitral Valve. Who knew?

Not being around home

I was able to let it pass.

Maybe that was stupid,

but it was what it was. I

would have occasional  -

very occasional  -  phone

calls with home. Nothing

special, just to fill me in

on stuff. In the hallway;

anyone could hear. One

time my grandmother

had phlebitis or something,

and some guys overheard

me saying 'How's your

legs?' Of course, the jerks,

that was all they had to

hear. The big tear then

was that my girlfriend

had called and I was

asking about her legs.

When I left home, odd

to say, I had a sister

about my age, a year

or so younger, and then

a 10-year gap and 3

other kids  -  they were

babies when I left, and

it was weird to see them,

along the way, during

these seminary years.

Each time I saw them it

was as if they'd grown

by leaps and bounds,

and we hardly knew

each other anyway.

Distances and exile

(which is what I

always thought of

my self-imposed place

there as anyway) make

for peculiar feelings.

-

It all just left me rootless,

I guess, and an inhabitant

of nowhere. I'm still like

that, and I still keep my

keen edge of sarcasm and

dislike to make my points.

Wise points too  -  not just

wise-guy. No one wants to

listen to me, mainly because

they're all bungled up in

their own fantasies of

what they consider 'living.'

Which is the same thing

as I do, but for whatever

other reason  -   probably

my coloring so much

out of the lines  -  I'm

not allowed that option.

It seems a person can

only walk the road 

they've made; and not 

on anyone else's road. 

When I lived in the

good, old wilds of

Pennsylvania, very 

often the place you 

lived came with its 

own road, a nice, dirt

road, you hoped, and,

yeah, God be the claimant

for the assistance any

interloper may have

needed to be on it. Bullets
over Broadway. There

used to be an industrial

location  -  small, highway

store stuff, in Linden, on

Route One South, crossing

through those two cemeteries,

Rose Hill and the other.

It was called 'Perforating

Industries.'  It always did

remind me of trespassers

on my dirt road  -  pretty

much that was the operation

they'd walk into.

-

That was the old Route One

anyway  -  now like everything

else it's all shitted up with

crap  -  truck stops and old

industry all falling away to

the kind of crap stores and

junk-maven feasteries and

beasteries. The worst it ever

got  - and right by Perforating

Industries too  -  was a dump

called 'Kiddie Mart.' No,

it was not about buying or

selling children, but instead

was a heap of kids' toys

and junk, long before the 

likes of Toys R Us and all

that wholesaling of toys as an

industry got started. When

I was at St. George Press,

they hired some girl from

Elizabeth, named Rebecca

something or other. 116

Elm Street was her address,

(I always remembered it

because mine had been

116 Inman (OK, OK, big

deal)). We were talking

one day and Kiddie City 

came up -  and she said

'My Mom works there!'

And had for years  - it

was a big surprise to me,

figuring something like

that place but never 

having thought about 

people working it. Well,

anyway, that was about as

sleepy a story as anyone

else's boring read could

ever be  -  so, yeah, it's

OK. Nod off. Fall asleep.

Say my chapter knocked

you out, but don't say
it put you to sleep.