11,488. RUDIMENTS, pt. 573

RUDIMENTS, pt. 573

(something like john gilbert)

Sometimes people would

go to the docks along the

west side here, what I've been

talking about, but not that

many. It took a certain sort

of grit to understand what

this was all about.When a

regular person thinks of

New York, or back then

anyway, this wasn't any

part of what they'd think

of as 'New York.' That

was always pretty obvious

- then they'd get down

here and there'd be some

weird looks and wild

moments. Once or twice

I remember, my father

would drive in  -  back then

he was driving a 1960

Chevrolet, a full station

wagon, sky blue. He'd

have one of my little sisters

with him, usually. I guess it

was time off or something,

and he'd come maybe just

to make sure I was still alive.

Once or twice he did actually

locate me, and we drove over

to there because he wanted

to see the river stuff and what

went on. We pulled up there,

and goes right up to this hot

dog vendor guy, and they're

best buddies! Turned out they

were childhood chums or

something, from Bayonne,

hadn't seen each other in 20

years, and it all just went on,

including the hot dogs. He

was in his glory, and of course

had to introduce his kids, my

sister and myself anyway, and

go on all about family life and

stuff with the guy. I felt awkward

as heck, because this guy was

always around with his stupid

cart, right there, and now I'd

always see him and be seen as

Andy's kid, or something like

that. It was like a chip knocked

off my anonymity tile, and I

wasn't keen on that. But, it

passed, and yeah, I did see

him around some after that,

and maybe even I should have

taken better advantage of that

connection, but, like with my

uncle who worked down at Wall

Street, and whom I also ignored

this whole time, I was a creep.

-

I never took my father over to

the Villager either  -  which he

would have really liked, and

probably made friends and all,

with the cook guy Harry O,

and maybe even with Tre, but

I didn't want  -  again  -  all

that interference. Like I said,

I was sort of a creep about things.

Boy I always hated relations

with family, and it was always

the worst, my weakness, my

real abrasion point. If only I had

all this crap to do over again,

I'd probably do it all differently,

and my father and myself could

have, I'm sure, found some common

meeting point in that environment  -

finally my own environment  -

even if it just meant watching

the traffic, the waterway, and

the stupid hookers trolling

around. Ah, whatever.

-

I wrote a cool poem once, sort

of out of all these memories

and experiences : entitled

'Writing Is a Place To Live' -

The places I've loved no longer

exist / All that I dreamed of is

gone / The most decided of

moments has affected all things -

our pictures have changed with

the moment / The ruined cities

of America : Calumet City, when

it was a mob town with public

vice / That small place in

Cleveland, with its whiskey

and ice / The places I've loved

no longer exist. All that I've

dreamed of is gone / Certain

places were always a clue /

when we understood the name

of our quarry / the grand ballrooms

full of nakedness and a band /

Chicago, Baltimore, and New

York / Packed up places with

plenty of power / The places

I've loved no longer exist / And

all that I dreamed of is gone.'

-

At this period of time, overhead,

the Miller Highway was still in

place, colloquially called the

elevated West Side Highway.

It was old and crumbly, noisy

and uncertain, and kept a lot of

the place in shade and shadow

too. Giving everything the

appearance of a junk yard,

cast-off, place, it accounted

for a lot of the debris lying

around: abandoned trucks

and cars,often useful for the

previously alluded to sex-services,

people sleeping off their nightmares,

or having new ones, in the old trucks,

the rears of which were sometimes

mattress-lined and often housing

what used to be called derelicts,

drunks, addicts, and heavers too.

It was a fairly nightmarish vision

of a secondary Hell, even with

the hot dog vendors and the few

nearby eateries, for car traffic.

Eventually, one day, the crumbling

infrastructure just gave way, and

a truck came crashing down

from overhead. That was pretty

much the end of the overhead

highway  -  and over the next

some years it was dismantled.

-

The same sort of thing was in

place along the east side too, the

overhead highway (FDR Drive),

the trestles, and all the junk

underneath  -  but it was kept

better, portions were fenced, and

the proximity of the police station

kept a lot of official vehicles and

tow trucks and parked cop cars

and things around  -  plus the

very active fish market, back

then, kept it all very busy, and

lively, and vibrant, at all hours.

The fish market itself was an

overnight operation  -  you could

still get in a lot of trouble there,

and have plenty of adventures,

(of the same, all, sorts), but it

was just always, seemingly,

more tended to.

-

I met a guy there once; we were

sitting around a table, a friend

or two, and me, talking junk, as

we always did if we got the

chance, weird stuff no one else

cared about  -  Mendelsohn,

the composer, Delmore Schwartz,

the writer, Hart Crane, old New

York, who'd lived where, the

food and the bad about writers,

Rilke, Hopkins, even Rossetti

and Swineburne. It was like

we were brash and dumb enough

to have opinions on everything.

We even cared enough to verbally

wrestle over words and tenses.

Pretty strange. This guy with

my friend that day, Gilbert, John

Gilbert, I think it was, white haired

kind of, older than us by far, he

sat there, just sort of noodling his

coffee and occasionally taking.

I sure as heck didn't know much

about him at all   -  bit one of

these people with me, their father

was some big deal and they were

always hosting people or having

traveling writers and stuff stay

with them for little bits of time.

That's how he came to be here

this day. He was talking about

being in his late 40's, how so 

much of his life has passed by, 

how mostly he'd done everything

he'd ever wanted - travel, Greece,

Santorini, writing, and how most

of his youthful dreams had been

achieved, even a half-bit of fame

and how he was satisfied with 

that too. We must have looked,

by contrast, rather crazed and

distracted to him, I realize now,

with all that 20-year old youthful

and romantic 'writer' stuff out of

our mouths. I guess 'jaded' would

be the good word for his approach.

He said some odd things : 'I once

dreamed I'd love to be 60. In the

old days that was about how long

you could live, if you were lucky.

My body's been good; I have the

mechanism  -  only been to the

hospital once, when I fell. Also,

one day I realized, we don't

have many dreams as adults

because, like I said, people used

to die much younger than they

do today. People died at 42.

They died young. I think I've

only found 2 other adult dreams.'

Something like that, as I recollect,

and it was all pretty strange,

especially in the place it took

place  -  that Villager hangout 

place was becoming more and

more incredible to me, like a

psychologist's couch or whatever

else you get when you're head's

wired and being examined. It

was very cool. Typical of New

York City, the entire gamut of

everything else was right here  -

you could range from crime and

violence to art and literary stuff.

(I guess that made it perfect for

a crime writer. Suppose). He said

we should keep away from normal

stuff, family and all, and try to

find ways to get by, whatever it

took. Then I remember he said,

'There used to be a saying among

writers  -  'every baby is a failed

novel.' You can't roam or life a

life of deprivation, once all that

gets going.'

-

'People miss so much because they

want money and comfort and pride.

A house, and then a job to pay

for the house, and then they have

to get a car. You can't see anything

fro a car, it's moving too fast. And

then they want vacations  -  that's

their reward. Why not the life?

Vacations are second-rate. People

deprive themselves of so much

of their lives.'

-
Then, this final thing I can
remember, I really liked: 'I
think serious poems should make
something happen that's not correct
or entertaining or clever. I want 
something that matters to my 
heart  -  and I don't mean
'Linda left me.' I don't want that.
I'm talking about being in danger,
as we all are, of dying...'