11,425. RUDIMENTS, pt. 546

RUDIMENTS, pt. 546

(aw, go on, who cares about you?)
Sometimes I go off the deep

end, over things  -  like hats.

I like wearing a hat and I often

switch things around; different

sorts, etc. Some men, I've noticed,

seem to wear hats because of

baldness or losing hair or, perhaps

some form of self-consciousness

about either of them. I don't (yet)

have that problem, though at my

rapidly advancing age it's probably

beginning. Nonetheless, I wear a

hat, most of the time. I consider

myself fortunate, in that regard, in

the same way, say, James Taylor,

the singer, was unfortunate to

have hit fame with a wonderful,

strong head of hair and be fully

publicized in that look, and then

by age 28 have it all gone. It put

him in cowboy hats for the rest

of his days. For me, not much

caring, I guess I jumped the gun

and put a hat on my mane, while

it's yet there. Go figure.

-

Unlike, say, land-line telephones,

hats sort of come in and out of

style. The telephone, of that nature,

once gone, is gone. I don't foresee

a resurgence of retro-phone landline

aficionados on the horizon. The

hat is another matter  -  like all

those fake blues-guys who append

a 'Slim' to their name and think

that does it, their hipness can be

re-determined at most any date,

and come back into hip-fashion.

Take that, Harpo-Slim, Texas-Slim,

Bayonne-Slim, Hurtin'-Slim, and,

probably, Baldy-Slim too. I'm

waiting for some huge, obese guy

to take the stage as Fatty-Slim.

(Actually, I do seem to remember

there being a Fat-Boy Slim already,

back in the nineties maybe).

-

When I was little, in Avenel, most

things stayed pretty stable. Or at

least, overlooked. The sound and

the timbre of those days was slow

and easy  -  it hadn't yet gotten 

jazzed up to the staccato-level

of what was soon to come. It may,

of course, have just been my age.

Any of those 17 year old guys with

cars and girlfriends might have

been feeling an entirely different

current, and, as well, any of our

parents and grandparents, in

the same way, were still living 

other lives with their own 

rhythms and patterns. There

was no way of (me) knowing. A

lot of it defied my understanding.

There was this one guy, name

doesn't matter, who accused me,

out of the blue, of stealing his

'Baby Moon' hubcaps, from off

his Chevy. Down at the Rt. One

end of Inman, where the road 

curves and goes under the bridge,

there used to  be a flat, level,

playing field (it's gone now,

since they widened Rt. One

the bridge overpass, moving

the abutments over onto what 

once was our football field).

Anyway, The Loop Inn now

sits where there used to be a

gravel lot where guys parked

and worked on their cars, and

beyond that there was an old

auto-body shop. He had his

Chevy parked there, and came

back to find the hubcaps gone.

For whatever reason, I was the

culprit, in his mind. It brought

in cops and interrogation and

paper reports and all. Nothing

ever came of it, and I certainly

hadn't stolen his Baby Moons

nor did I have any use for them.

The whole scene was a quizzical

thing for me  -  how randomly

things can go down.  It got me

to start noticing about people,

how anybody can be what they

are but along the way they really

do pick up traits of others. By

adulthood, no one is really pure 

anymore  -  there are influences

of this or that, person or habit,

that get adopted as personalities

grow and change, absorbing the

influences of others. The sneaked

smoke, the person who never

cursed, beginning to sneak one

or two in, changes in attitude 

and slight variations in poise 

and demeanor. I got to be like

a chemical-detective on that

stuff. It's all unspoken. Yeah  - 

you can't just go around saying,

'Freddie, what the Hell's gotten

into you?' Maybe I myself did

appear as a likely car-thief

to this guy. Funny.

-

I used to just go about my own

stuff  -  mostly by bicycle  -  

while my mad father was always

hard at work, pounding away

at something  -  building that

major picket fence thing I've

written off before, as if his 

60x100 foot lot was a major

Texas ranch he had to claim 

and corral; digging out by 

hand that cellar entrance, 

cinder-blocking it, building 

the stairs and fitting in the

metal swing doors and all; and

then, on his own, extending 

the house  -  building the base

blocks, cement and flooring,

and then stud work and all 

the rest (I helped as I could,

between Little League stints 

and the rest of my open time).

I was just a jerk kid with nothing

but time, while he worked 5,

sometimes 6, days a week, and

still fit all this crap in. A true

project-maven he was. Oh, I forgot,

has also made 4 rooms and a bath

out of the upstairs attic space.Then

he always had a painting-the-house

project going on  - a rotational 

basis of upkeep that he kept well

scheduled. Often seen way up,

on a ladder. Until one day it

was all chucked for aluminum 

siding. Like most everyone else.

-

Somehow I'd gotten born into that

mix, but I have to admit, to this

day, little of that blood was ever

in my veins. I had none of that

project or physical drive. Mine 

was all elsewhere   -  air-clouds,

imaginings, and dreams. How I

survived, I don't know. 'A' seemed

always followed by 'B'  - until it

was followed by 'C,' because I

said so. That's how it all seemed

to me, and all the rest was bullshit,

scrimmage, false play with enormous,

dumb, and mute, football pylons. No

one ever really 'stopped' me, but at

the same time, I was never anyone's

dream of the perfect son. I still

harbor a lot of that within me  -  

probably composed of guilt, anxiety,

anger and regret. Horrible ball of

wax that all is, Sisyphus, but I still

need to push it up the hill and have

 it roll down and begin all over. Just

to prove a point. What the hell kind

of life has this been anyway?
-
Sometimes I figure what can be
said will be said but what has to
be said never gets said. And therein
lies the problem of this life : passing
strange  -  like mimes, we run about
each other in some pantomime of
distraction. A distraction that we keep
producing in the hopes that it will
continue to deter each of us from the
real matters at hand. If life then isn't
absurd, we make it so by overlooking
the answers. I'd say. What if I told you
that on the branches of every tree
resided angels watching over us and
helping us produce this Life. You'd laugh.
Of course; but you go ahead believing
angels announced your Savior's conception
and birth? That they heralded his death
and resurrection? That the numerous
and momentous moments of all
conscious civilization have, in turn, 
 been heralded by such? And you'll 
even stand around like idiots
singing 'Hark, the Herald Angels
Sing....' Yeah. OK. If you don't believe
in these things, why do you do them?
You think you can get by with just
faking a Life? For yourself and others?
Imparting that fakery into your own
children friends and family? All
things are good, in the same way
that all things are bad.
-
What if I told you that these
things on trees are NOT angels 
but coils and helixes instead, and 
that they are the very same shapes 
of the determinants of Life that you
so revere and scientifically respect
(until you kill it) as RNA and DNA 
helixes? What if I brought you to a
oneness, a momentary 'now' process of
being? Would you believe in that and
get off your butts and do something
about your world? Build that strong
fence around your imaginary ranch,
and keep out, or slay, the enemy?
Put your hat on : and walk away.