RUDIMENTS pt. 521
(go on, sing me a story)
Chaucer was a forester, on
the King's estates. His pay
was meager, the references
were good, and - get this -
the annuity was an annual
Hogshead of wine! Can you
imagine such a thing today?
What else was there, I suppose -
I mean for money: You couldn't
buy TV's or phones. There was
no special parking to be had.
A bank book was unheard of
- probably as were books and
banks too. 'Take yon bonus
from the whence it cometh.'
Chaucer had it pretty good,
all else aside - he got to see
many people, and probably
picked lots of talk and info
too for the tales he was writing
of. Another big hit for him
was in being the storyteller of
his group - a bunch of other
guys, foresters too, I guess,
sitting around to listen and
revel in him rattling off his
cool tales. Back in Avenel,
when I'd be at the library,
I'd often sit there to think
of what it must have been
like - when they'd say
everything early was of an
'oral' tradition. Man, those
guys had grand memory
schemes to keep all that in
their heads - I wondered
if anyone else knew the
whole story, so that, maybe
having heard it already,
they would know where
it had verged, or left
something out, or was,
even, changed. Maybe
too, in twenty years or
so, or in'another region'
or area, the prevailing
social mores would
have altered, and so no
longer was a humorous
aside about jewelers or
smiths seen in good taste,
no more whorey-widow
jokes, because Jacob Marrsten's
wife had been caught sleeping
around right after his death.
Stuff like that. You would
have had to be 'orally' updated
on all that. Today, every other
little thing is fraught with
terror of that sort, but once
it's 'printed' - by then it's
too late. You're cooked. I
haven't yet seen a gravestone
reading 'Misanthroped To
Death,' but I'm sure it's
coming. There's a cool
word never used any more -
it used to be used a lot, in
a merry and jocular way that
one cannot do any longer :
'ribald.' How many 'ribald'
storytellers, and their
stories, were once around.
Now, none; and Portnoy
is dead as well. So much
for the liver.
-
In that old library, down
on Rahway Avenue, the
periodicals and quarterlies
section was at the very rear.
I used to like it back there.
In those days a library, even
a poorly cranked, shitty one
like Woodbridge, got lots of
periodicals. No matter the
budget, it was a point of
honor to bring in those
yearly subscriptions to
Ramparts, Partisan Review,
Commentary, Commonweal,
Evergreen Review, Paris
Review, and lots more.
Intellectualism was a matter
of being, not so much choice.
Today it's all gone to Hell,
a real rotter, and the average
family guy or housewife, or
teacher or businessperson,
cop, fireman, exterminator
or realtor, doesn't know
beans about anything except
the crap they do. People
went dead in the brain
about 1970 - and the more
dead things got, the bigger
and fancier the edifices and
the pretense about them got.
The next library was huge,
but with nothing much in it.
It looked more like Hitler's
bunker than a library anyway,
so what's to expect. Now it's
just a bunch of shelves with
trite junk on them - all the
good, referential books about
books, authors, criticism, etc.,
they're all gone and replaced
with shelf-rows of Hindi titles
and localized, ethnic, titles.
I guess that's what it's all
about now. Back then, about
1968, the librarian's big
concern would have been
having enough copies
brought in, of 'Everything
You Ever Wanted To Know
About Sex But Were Afraid
To Ask,' by David Reuben.
That book came through
that library like a storm
- 16 or so copies, always
in circulation. The one
librarian, Vern Mesa,
for whom my friend
had the hots big time,
she always had two
copies at her desk, for
the reading. That used
to drive him ribald. 'Here,
use this piece of liver
that Portnoy used.'
-
Vern was cool - she had
a nice form (I'm an artist,
OK) - well proportioned,
young, interesting, and
probably horny as hell
too. She lived in New
Brunswick, in some new
towers that had just been
built, right above the
Raritan near the corner
at Easton Aveue and
Buccleugh Park. It's all
still here, and has held
up pretty well. (I don't
know anything now
about Vern). But,
anyway, it was about
that time, with the arrival
of that book, in particular,
that I can date the genesis
of the demise of any A-N-Y
intellectual curiosity in
Woodbridge. Marge Abel
notwithstanding. (Vern).
Come to think of it, in
whatever spectacular time
and place would a township
library get situated in an
old hardware store? That
in itself was unique.
-
This current library - I
went in there a little time
back and was surprised to
see all the reference books
I used to go to - literary
criticism, rows of authors
and theory and books about
books - origins, titles, the
whole gamut of what used
to be reader's and writer's
resources - and which I'd
always frequented, GONE.
Just gone - replaced, as
I said with among other
things, rows of Hindu titles.
I went to the librarian desk
and asked where it all was.
The librarian guy's answer
was - 'It's gone, de-accesioned.'
He then directed me, on his
library-resource computer,
to the three on-line reference
sites which now hold such
titles and with which the
library has reciprocal use
privileges - until the next
budget-cut for park balloons
or fireman hot dogs instead
of books and learning. Yeah,
it's just that kind of place.
It's the kind of place where
people driving up to a stop
sign will stop, and get out,
and then say, 'where do I
sign.' No, stupid, it's not
those kinds of directions.
And the some idiot will go
on line to the local town site
and start in about how
the sign is hard to see in the
half-light (dim-wit?) and
when is it being replaced.
-
At the least, I suppose,
Chaucer (Canterbury Tales,
yeah, go on, read it, online)
would be glad trees are being
saved? Now that's another
crock, in Avenel anyway.
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