11,455. RUDIMENTS, pt.. 558

RUDIMENTS, pt. 558
('I remember so much so little')
So, on drives like that,

two times a day, you start

thinking about stuff, just to

pass the driving time. It

doesn't have to be important,

not even likely  -  the bark on

the trees and the rocky New

York State topography. How,

if you have twenty thousand 

dollars, fifty times, that's a

million. And then how, if you

break anything down to its

smallest constituent elements,

or views of same, everything

becomes weird and absurd.

And how a lot of those Nature

shows, all they do is exactly

that, and then talk about it  -

greatly magnified by fine

microscopic-views of 

squiggly things that end 

up amazing the viewer, 

most any viewer actually, 

because real scientists would 

not be watching that crud

anyway. Life's like that.

I drove that ridiculous drive

day after day. One time, just

after the Jersey Meadowlands,

there, some sort of traffic 

infraction going on and 

things had stopped to such 

a degree that there was NO 

movement, even at 6am, for

what seemed like an hour

right outside of Challenger Way,

which I guess was an escape 

route for an alternate (but it

wasn't really anyway, more just

a truckers and warehouse dead

end) road. I couldn't get there

anyway since I was about 5 

lanes over and dead-locked 

in. So I shut the car off and

just kept cat-napping, perhaps 

10 minutes at a time. No one

else was doing anything

better; this was just before

the advent of seemingly

every Earthling's possession

of a hand-held connection

to the rest of the world, 

texting while fidgeting, 

watching while texting, 

or talking while sleeping,

and people just seemed

not to have much to do. I 

remembered once a guy

I knew from St. George Press,

who had left the job and taken

a job somewhere up North Jersey

way, requiring the Parkway each

day, and all he later said, about

traffic and all, was 'You would 

not believe, I swear, the things

I could tell you I see people

doing in their cars  -  in traffic,

driving, or stuck in traffic.'

He said 'Girls putting on

makeup while doing 60' was

1 percent of what he could

tell me. I guess. Now they

do all that too, I suppose, 

along with texting-talking-

and shopping. Make a quick

left at the LOL.

-

In these days, also, the Tappan

Zee Bridge was still the old

one. The new, replacement span

had not yet been built, though

it was talked about but always 

without funding. It has since

been replaced, and is about as

ugly as a nun's butt (That's

conjecture; never seen one).

The old bridge, what was

cool about it was how it was

almost right down on the 

water, built very low to the 

river. I'd never seen anything

quite like it  -  and that low 

stance was part of the reason

they wished it changed : it 

was a fairly crazy, long, 

high-speed span, no one 

really cared, and the 

guardrail safety situation

was meager  -  so they ended

up over the years with lots

of cars (and probably bodies)

running over and right into

the good old Hudson River.

This was right at the area, as

well, known as 'The Cove' 

or Tarrytown Cove  -  big 

Washington Irving territory, 

Ichabod Crane and The

Headless Horseman. If only

they knew then. It was all

pretty funny anyway. Used

to be (they built the railroads

later) men would go there

and hardly ever come home,

tarrying so long in the pleasant

taverns and inns of the cove.

It got the name, over time, of

'Tarrytown'.

-

Millwood itself, as I pointed 

out, was pretty wooded and a 

lot more sparse and utilitarian

than all the frumpy places 

around it, again, as I mentioned:

Chappaqua, Pleasantville, 

Thornwood, etc. They all reeked

of money, while Millwood more

reeked of woodsmoke, fire,

chain-saw and trimmer oils.

Lots of tire-warehouse sorts of

things too  -  mechanics, overalls,

grease oil; girls that looked to be

ready to fight a bear. Broken

down and abandoned cars in 

yards  -  like what you'd see 

when driving over to Phoenicia 

from Woodstock. I'd trade any 

one hair of it for the kind of 

schmuck-shit that's around 

Avenel, at the other extreme 

from, say, Chappaqua; the

similarity is that they're both

as inauthentic as Christmas 

night. On the one hand, money,

and on the other hand, creep-ey.

-

Every so often, up by Millwood,

there'd be a bog or swampy place

along the way, on the tertiary

roads to nowhere. You'd see 

targets on trees, and well-worn

paths back and forth maybe a

hundred paces. Here and there

some form of killer truck parked

a'kilter on a mud-rise or small

hill. No one ever around but 

something, you sensed, was 

going on. That's the same feeling

the New jersey Pine Barrens used 

to have, once you got to Chatsworth

and out past Busby's General Store

and all the rest. Sand roads and

eeriness, abandoned cranberry

camps, sheds and shacks with

Gulf or Mobile old-style gas

pumps nearby, in the ground.

I once found a whole row of

1953 Plymouths, all faded and

leaning, in the middle of nowhere

just where they were left. They 

each had that bizarre look of 

when the old safety-glass 

windshields would get sun-baked

and fog over and the safety-layer

turned opaque. Strange scene.

Funny though, back then they

were only 40 years old. Not

really o-l-d in car terms now;

but then they seemed ancient.

-

Once in  Millwood, and to the

warehouse  -  also weird  -  that

all disappeared. These people

were New Yorkers, on their

barreling way to Princeton soon

enough, or back to it, and they

bore all the hallmarks of that,

nothing hillbilly or target-practice

about them. They just carried

all that in with them, and carried

it back out  -  Millwood never

cared, nor noticed. But I didn't

like that interloper feel either.

It ruined things  -  the way I

figured it, country people

ought to be left alone; to go

on, and prosper in their own

ways. So different from the

ways and learnings of these

suburban hicks (like me) flying

in and out, troubling their systems

about panninis and wraps, pizza

toppings and special roasted

vegetables. It ain't right.

-

Another thing about that bridge,

and the new one, replacement 

bridge, being so horrible looking.

Over the years, America has lost

its own handiwork, had lost its

design forces. Euro-bridges,

Singapore and Hong Kong

bridges, they all look crappy 

and moon-like, but that's what 

we're getting now. Just like the

Tappan Zee Bridge, they did the

same thing here, to the Goethals

Bridge. It looks like some

happy-land suspension bridge

for children. We've let everything

get away from us  -  that old

structural iron and steel stuff

had fortitude and power and

presence and strength. Now all

we get is Legos and power-paks

from places like Game-Stop

wrecking all we see.

-

It seemed sometimes that the

faster I drove (on these trips

no one does less than 75, it 

seems) the faster I was running

headlong into a modern world I

neither wanted nor was sure of. I

was still living in a solitary world, 

one of pencil tips and ball point

pens and yellow legal pads and 

notebooks  -  my own, personal

driving distraction sometimes was

scribbling a thought or a phrase

onto the scratch pad it's mounted

on the console. It was easy enough

except for my often-distracted ire

at a pen which turned balky. So I

went to pencils. I'd learned  that

many thoughts, even words and

lines, just come and go and if not

written down were, 15 minutes later,

simply unrecallable. I never knew

why, and it became a mental game

I often practiced while driving.

There was a cool book entitled,

'The Memory Palace of Mateo

Ricci,' by Jonathan Spence, that
was a lovely hand-in glove fit
for just this subject matter.
-------
(end of pt. two, 'book 'em...')