RUDIMENTS, pt. 512
(ghostlands in a rocky place, pt.1)
Well, as it goes, we're all
alive (I'd figure) by degrees
of aliveness - happy friends
and family as they go. As
Humans, we vaguely
characterize each other
by what we see and by
what we understand. As
I got to New York City, I
had brought my Avenel
eyes and expectations, and
they were soon opened to
many wonderful - and not
so - things. To my own
surprise 'Geography,' and
the very topography of the
island I was on, became
paramount. I ask you
here to take a moment
and review the photo
posted with this chapter.
It's pretty wonderful,
and I'll explain why.
-
When I got to New York,
say August 1, 1967, I
walked and bicycled
very much. The island, as
it presented itself to me,
was a pretty much 'close
to level,' grid of streets.
Until that point I'd never
given much thought to
the idea of topography,
nor of the island as 'place.'
To my chagrin, I realized
that we really do spend
most of our lives in the
dark about things,
concerning ourselves
usually only with the
present before us. With
demands of time and
energy being what they
are, we really get little
other chance.
-
The sense of place that
came with being there
was odd - and as the
days of October rolled
into the days of darker
November and December,
with their shortened days
and early darkness (the
canyon'd streets oftentimes
made 'dusk' - using its
natural name - much
earlier than used to be),
the change became
meaningful and, if not
ominous, then portentous.
I was very close to lower
Broadway, at 8th Street,
Fifth Avenue, University
Place, Astor Place, etc.,
and the smoky smog of
all that hung over things -
the lines of impatient and
clogged-in-traffic cars
and trucks. I'd get caught
up in it just by walking.
To be truthful, it was
awesome to me, and
glamorous too. Winter
coats (in those days thick
fabrics, none of today's
puffy plastics and sheen
and Gore-Tex colors)
made for some serious
times, and everyone wore
such serious coats - the
world seemed solid and
preoccupied, people were
denser and darker, as if
gray thoughts were flying
out of everyone's head
and clogging the air.
-
I immediately began
getting familiar with
places : storefronts,
cheap foods, places
to sit. But I had never
thought about the
layout. Over time -
reading, and some
reckoning - I realized
that most of the island
I was on was artificial,
to the degree that
everything had been
cut and leveled. Entering
the waterfront areas
on either side, east or
west, there was a sense,
immediately, of maritime
presence, a different mix
of purpose and toil - the
remnants were still all
around, yet they'd somehow
been neglected and ignored;
overlooked, for the passage
of the present day. The
very air, again, was different:
No longer the industrial air
of the 1960's inner streets,
(people still worked in shops,
made things, machined and
drilled and hammered - and
transit, freight and cargo
loads were always coming
and going), the people and
places along the waterfront
corridors sang a different
tune : there were blood and
guts in the words. Men were
men, and women were used.
It never mattered, between
the two, what went right or
what went wrong. People
slept in trucks, or flopped
in broken, old buses; there
were sheds and shanties,
barrels and tires, fires and
truck yards. The night was,
truly, little distinguished
from the day. On the west
side, there was an overhead
highway, and every imaginable
sort of thing happened in the
ramps and spaces beneath it.
The east side, as well, had its
own, defining, magic.
-
It was the in-between
where the real curiosity
was. How did all that
get there? By what means
was the odd mix-match
of street names, numbers,
broken alleys and leftover
triangles of space; how
had it all occurred that
order and sameness set
in? Squared corners, street
lengths about the same, right
angles, perfect - or near so -
numeration, making an easy
to follow number-line of
directions and streets? I
surprised even myself when
I found out the truths behind
it all. I knew I was still
learning, and just setting
out : I ventured into places
to learn of them - the
Collect Pond area ('Cal
Chek,' from 'calcium' or
the Dutch 'chalk-point',
from all the oyster shell
middens (piles of empty
shells, descriptive). It
had been a large pond,
owned eventually by the
Rutgers family, who held
onto it for very long, until
fetid, foul, and odoriferous
tannery and leather pollutants
destroyed it all. The Bayard
Mount, a height nearby, was
then leveled, the old pond,
in rank disuse, filled over
and underground. It's all
still there, (I go) but now it's
Chinatown and Government.
Nearly every sort of Federal,
State and City office is there,
from Family Court to Welfare
and the Tombs jail.
-
The island of Manhattan had
once been rugged, rocky, high
and craggy. In the Commisioner's
Plan of 1811, all of this was
decreed to be doomed - the
land was leveled, flattened,
streets cut though farms and
lands, heights, soil, rock, and
the rest were chipped and
blasted so all was flat and
level - and then the grid of
streets was laid over everything.
It took years, working its way
eventually 'uptown,' to the
new, high-number streets.
I always knew I was walking
ghostlands, seeing visions and
forms and shapes of a past
never touched by common
men. I was sure I had found
my key. (part 2 to follow).
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