Thursday, January 24, 2019

11,490. RUDIMENTS, pt. 575

RUDIMENTS, pt. 575
(call me when you're done)
There's always been a 
cartoonish aspect to my  
life and some of things I've
done. Not by design, but
more just in the manner by
which things have occurred. 
I've always called it 'timing,'
in the sense of 'bad' timing.
There are certain 'lucky' people,
I think, who are blessed with
good timing  - in the room at 
just the moment when Joe Blow
strolls in and they start talking
and it results in a job or a 
contract or just a connection;
or on the train he or she sits
next to someone and they start
talking and it's the cousin of
someone whose uncle is running
a start-up and seeking someone
for just that qualification you've
just explained. Things like that.
The move you've wanted, the
thing you've just been thinking of.
For me it's always almost been the
opposite : I'll find some great old
place, a perfect and picturesque
ruin out in the woods somewhere.
Photographs, storyline, everything
perfect. And then, a month later,
the place is suddenly cut bare and
torn down and 6 new homes go up.
I call it the 'kiss of death.' That's
always and only been my touch.
Almost as much as the perfect
time to be in the exact same spot
when a train comes through.
Couldn't have timed it better!
-
Henry Ford or somebody said
'Success is 10% inspiration
and 90% perspiration.' He also
said, 'Cut your own wood, get
warm twice.'
-
One of things I noticed the most
about living in New York City
was that you don't really have 
to do much. Apartment dwelling,
of course, cuts all the onus of
tasks and cleanup and yards and
all right out; there's always
someone other who does that
stuff  -  and 'ownership' in much 
the same way, in the city, still
doesn't allow you to do much.
It's not as if you have an acre
of ground around you, fuel to
gather, grass to cut, logs to
trim, or even tools and a 
garage to tend to. Mostly,
then, you wind up mostly
worrying over where to dine,
what to eat, which park to
skulk around in with the kids, 
or  -  if so inclined for the
better  -  which cultural venues
and entertainments to sop up;
usually costing money. But
then so too does your food.
You just kind of, over time,
lose touch with the rest of
life, or, maybe, how the rest
of the people live.
-
Under the auspices of nothing
at all I got to know a fortune
telling gypsy lady, and her
daughter. The lady was about 
50 or 55, I'd guess, fat and
slovenly, not good for much,
really, as far as I could tell.
The daughter was better, only
because she was about my age
and slender, dark and swarthy
too. They had a small apartment
and storefront fortune-telling
place in the west 40's, right
by the ramps and all to Port 
Authority. Only once or twice
did I actually see a customer
there; the entire gimmick was
to bait a person in with like
an 8-dollar introductory
reading and then make some
pretension of surprise over 
the very fortuitous things 
they thought they were 
seeing, trying to of course 
entice the sucker into the 
next 10 or 12, or 20 bucks
for the 'next' level of the
reading, which was more 
apt to bring more valued 
information out  -  and maybe,
depending on 'how things
progressed' or 'how clear the
channels were,' a need for still
a third level of insight. It
was a racket, and sometimes
they got away with it all. Fala
(the daughter) sometimes
saying people went 3 or 4
levels deep. I guess it was a
gypsy-family racket, these
ways of getting livelihoods
and fortunes out of others.
Mostly it was the mother,
as 'Madame Rosa' who did
the work, but sometimes it 
was Fala too. They had a
bench, and a table and chair,
out front as well, and in the
good weather one or both
would sit out there, Mama
looking like a Gypsy terror
with beads and a jewel and 
scarves, black boots, beneath
a long, loose, flowing dress
of some native sort. Almost
scary, but they figured it to
be some odd but 'spiritually'
enhancing thing that would
bring people in. Fala still
seemed to have, at least, a
better connection to this (our)
world. In their little display
window was an Egyptian 
bust, Nefertiti or whatever 
all that is, with a red jewel 
in the forehead center, and 
the ubiquitous crystal ball
on a table, graced nicely with
white linen. A few crassly
lettered signs and such hung
around, announcing things
like : 'Madame Rosa, Fortunes,
Miraculous Cures, Answers
To Mysteries.' I suppose, if
they could have, they'd have also
sold spaghetti and meatballs,
or falafel, (I told Fala that 
once, as a joke; it fell flatter
than a pancake. And, years
later too, there was a famous 
African singer named Fela, which 
I  always thought was close but 
no cigar), since the next two
storefronts in a row were a
pizza stand and some taco 
joint, booth outrageously
filthy and cramped, and also
overflowing outside onto the 
grease-caked sidewalk. It was
something. There were gypsy
guys around too, but they came
and went, and I don't know
what they did or where they
went. Economically, in fact,
I never could figure the whole
thing out. They certainly didn't
get any business off the Port
Authority Bus Terminal crowd,
because this was all behind it,
at the rear, by the trestles and
ramps. It was squalid and noisy.
I just didn't know. Fala never
told me anything either, and I
never pressed. There was one,
tiny, little enclave there, a sort
of corner niche of grass and tree,
between some ramps and a pillar,
and it was used as a small gated
park (it's actually, now, a dog 
run) and we'd sometimes just 
walk over to there and sit, and
talk  -  though I need say, she
was mostly as dumb as a brick
about anything outside of those
miraculous fortunes she claimed
to be able to see).
-
Only one time did she start on
me  -  same old crap I'd heard
before  -  I was special, she saw
a very fortuitous aura attending
to me, I needed to trim my
eyebrows (really) so as not to
have them grow over as one, 
and conceal my third eye's 
visionary scope. My eyes
together radiated grace and
creativity, and power. I almost
wanted to give her a fifty and
say, go on, keep talking, I'm
going to get a tape recorder.'
You know how they say, like,
who does a dentist go to for
his dentistry? (Why, another
dentist!); I felt like asking if
she'd ever gone to a fortune-
teller, and how'd it work out?
(I always felt it was weird to 
go to a fortune-teller to learn 
about your life  -  like going to
a lighthouse when you're 
already adrift at sea).
-
You see then, how it wasn't all
great shakes and wonderful times.
Some of it all got pretty deary.
One time in the late 80's, maybe
1990, I forget how it happened,
but two NYU film students
got me and asked if I'd mind if
they filmed that Miasma Arms
Hotel thing I'd written  -  or at
least the 7 or 8 opening pages
and scenes. They had to come up
with a project for their finals,
in two months or so, and thought
they could pull this off. I forget
how they saw it, in all honesty;
probably from me traipsing
around with it and talking about
it at bar or diner, like with that
Gilbert guy and some friends.
It was already ancient history
to me, and I'd moved along
since then. They needed to make
a 20 or 30 minute piece, and they
said the whole thing was perfectly
cinematic, and engaging, and they
wanted to try. I said go ahead, be
my guest. We went to some NYU
copy-shop place on 8th street, 
had 10 or 12 sets pulled, and I 
said (trying t act like I knew what
was up) : 'What's your budget?
Your gonn'a need a van, for that
van scene, the whole waterfront's
changed now, the overheads are 
gone. You need a coat for the
lead character, some darkness,
and how you gonn'a get the
diner scene going and the guy
wrecking the place?' They said
don't worry, they had it figured.
They also added in that the
barrel fire scene and the old
guys, that was all easy and 
could all be recreated over by 
Washington Street, by 12th and 14th'
All OK, I said, knock yourselves 
out, maybe call me when it's
done. I never saw them again. 
Was I wrong?



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