11,364. RUDIMENTS, pt. 522

RUDIMENTS pt. 522

(sailing these Avenel swamps)

I've never gotten to a lot of

things, misunderstanding,

never caught on. There's

no pretentions to my follies;

they're just follies. I'm an

Avenel boy, through and

through, and that gets

more and more difficult 

to shake. The thing that's

cool about it  -  and what

makes it so perplexing  - 

is that it's a ghost place,

a place that doesn't exist

any more. No one knows

what I'm talking about.

'Well, see, there used to

be this place, down in

the swamps, heck, almost

southern, 'cept for the

alligators and stuff.' We

never had that. But it

had its own kind of slow,

nowhere time, to a beat

that was always behind

the count. (If you've ever

carefully listened to the

drummer of Led Zepplin,

his work, Jon Bonham,

it's like that, something

of old Avenel to it, just

a tad off, a 1/16th stick

somehow always behind

the count. Makes for

some interesting sound.

We revered it so much

that there's a town, one

over from here, named

after him. Bonhamton.

Just before Edison, west.

OK, just kidding, so what).

-

Anyway, being from a place

that no longer exists is cool.

It's magic, without all that

crummy birthright stuff and

its adhesion to the present

day. All the jerks and little

guys we have running things

now, they're all strip-mall

guys. They cheer and get all

hoo-hah over a new  plaza

or some new row of glass

windows comprising a show

store, malt shop, convenience

store and pizza place. They

claim it as progress, and the

local midgets clap and cheer

too. Yep, five will get you

ten the two-year turnover

rule sets in faster than

Fatty Arbuckle's probation

ran out. They'll all be closed

up that soon. Nothing much 

but vacancies are worth 

anything around here.

-

Just the other day, I saw

some clip with the endless

pomp and pageantry of

the local parade  - whatever

they call it now, Santa

Fest, Winter Fest,

Christmas. It was

incredibly tasteless,

which is par for the

course around here,

but when I saw the

glee-boys of the Arts

Center strut by, and

the one-man Mayor

with his stout in hand

gamely staring out as

he marched alone, I

almost laughed. From 

the Hebrew, 'tahas'  -  

meaning underneath  -

I figured they should

just start calling it the

Tahas-Fest Parade and

have it roll right down 

Avenel Street (which 

no longer exists either)

and crash into the grand

parameters of Rahway Ave.,

and then turn around and

have a grope-fest at the

Wilkinson Center For 

Boys. Then I'd know

we've got it made. See, the

thing is (well, used to be 

anyway, before the special

interests took over), Avenel

Boys never had any respect,

nor politeness either. Used

to be like that, up and down

most all the streets  - we 

were fraternity-sparrows, 

gang-tough, and we'd roll

anyone over who tried 

throwing down the kind

 of crap we get today. 

This place now is as 

destroyed as the

bottom of a beggar's 

cup,  and they're 

building a  ghetto 

for us, right around 

us, and they expect us
to clap and laugh. Like a

a guy running through the
abattoir, we're stuck, and
there's no other way out.
What's an old Avenel guy
do? He whips it out and
fights back. And that's all
I have to say about that.

-

I guess I never got the right

messages out of things. Not

that anyone else did either;

they ended up worse-off 

than me; at least I fight 

back against their damned 

used-up sheet-metal and 

recycled bullshit. Around me?

All the girl-guys of today's

all-confused consternation

line up to cheer on the 

crooks. Manifest Destiny?

My ass.

-

Never having anything 

to do with the seminary, 

this quandary always kept 

me going  -  we were

always pushed together, 

to pray together, to walk 

together, muse and sing 

the praises of some 

rather tawdry Lord-God.

(Kind of like Town-Hall

as it is anyway). But I

hated all the groupdom

stuff. I hate running, but 

if I run, I run alone. In

the New Testament, as fine

a smattering of thin-lipped

swearations as you'll ever

get, in Matthew 18:20, there

 was always a point there

that really tripped me up.

It never made any sense,

at all. Jesus says (I here

paraphrase from memory;

too lazy to look it up): 

'Wherever two or more

gather in my name, there

am I in the midst of them.'

So, this Jesus guy, sweating

it out in Gethsemane, 

sweating beads of blood,

in fact  -  I think it says  -

He did it all alone, and we

assume God was there. But

what's this Matthew stuff 

saying? The individual, 

alone and singular, cannot 

get up a God presence. He

or she needs a quorum?

Even Martin Luther didn't

think of this angle. It seems

the jungle-fervor of a dump

like Avenel all of a sudden

has become the touchstone

guideline of the way things

are done? Everyone has to

parade and mob around a

sleaze-center of bad 

motivations? Talk about

praying to the wrong idol.

Jesus K. Rist, turn this boat

around. Sail these swamps

the right way, please. (And
you've let the money lenders
run off with the temple).