11,495. RUDIMENTS, pt. 577

RUDIMENTS, pt. 577

(eclipse crash on the moon : something landing) 

'Artfully disguised as a pillow,

my dog jumped off the couch.'

I'd always taken that as a great

opening line; always wanted to

use it, but never did. So, I just

did. But, no matter. I went to

Chinatown once  -  not a place

where you'd find many dogs,

back then anyway. I don't

know about now. Dog stuff

has changed, even though

Asians never seemed to like

canines. It mostly seems still

like that now. The big dog in

those years, to have, big, hippie

breed, lots of black guys had

them, and could often be seen

walking and strutting with their

well-combed and groomed, was

the Afghan Hound. For a full 5 or

6 years, it seemed, Afghans were

everywhere downtown  -  along

St. Marks and the surrounding

streets. For sure. Them, and also

Red Setters, or Irish Setters I

guess they were also called.

Both breeds seem now to have

long disappeared  -  it's funny

how that happens. Looking back,

now, it seems pretty obvious,

though I didn't see it then, in

my naivete, the Afghan Hound

was probably a gay-icon kind of

dog. That makes more sense,

except why they got dropped

in favor of today's Chelsea

version of little yappers and

Cavalier Prince Charles dogs

is still beyond me.

-

In Chinatown, the world was

so mixed up  -  a few different

cultures  -  that your own

personal anonymity was almost

assured. There'd be the usual

bewildered tourists from places

like wherever, with cameras and

gawking faces, wonder-struck

by strange noises and smells,

roasted ducks hanging from

their necks in the windows of

a seemingly endless array of

restaurants. The crummier they

each looked, the more authentic

each restaurant was. Bizarre

people and beggars, Buddhist

types with tonsured heads,,

monks with shaved heads and

little funny ponytails off the 

back of their skulls. One-legged 

beggars, robed guys playing 

one-stringed instruments, with 

baskets next to them for coins 

and dollars. There were also

more nasty-looking lurkers,

corner Tong gag guys, killers

probably too, mean, distant

stares, opium-heads drained

of all regular life. Chinese

signs everywhere, food prices

and other messages; music of

that same nature, slightly strange,

sometimes eerie. Barber shops 

and toy stores; and newsstands

with Chinese papers and 

magazines, their letters and

calligraphic writing writ large.

There were herb shops, weird

roots and things in jars, rows

of medicinal powders on long, 

high shelves with ancient old

men dispensing, diagnosing,

usually while someone else

watched  -  a daughter or a 

wife  - and who would then 

finalize whatever was the

transaction  -  ancient, old,

tried and true remedies. It

was all like nothing else, like

another place from the moon,

first-time, amazing stories, 

one after the other. There was

an arcade with fortune-telling

chickens inside; trained like a

Pavlovian dog  -  for a quarter

you'd get a little bit of feed, and

feeding it into the cage receptacle, 

the chicken would go into its

programmed routine, a shuffle 

dance, a peck or two, and a

reach for 'YOUR' very own

fortune-card, back through 

the window slit. Craziest 

stuff ever, and all through

this, madly at the rear of the

long room, would be Chinese

teens, intensely attendant at 

Ski-Ball lanes, pinball machines,

noisy virtual-driving' machines

projecting race-car noises and

facsimile videos of speeding

roads and byways.

-

Language wasn't exactly 

necessary. I'd spend a lot of

time at the Mayflower Cafe,

or Tea House, or whatever it

was called. Just The Mayflower.

It was a down-five-steps dive,

tiled and unkempt, one side

a coffee and pastry bar and the

other side a very intriguing

version of a low-grade Chinese

restaurant. I'd gotten to know,

by seeing, all the usual waiter

guys, even the ones who'd switch

in and out for other Mott Street

eateries. Nods and smiles, and

even sometimes, knowing what

I'd want, a there-it-is-service.

The place was cramped and 

dingy, it sometimes smelled, 

one extra door, right near where

you ate, was, unfortunately, the

small-closet-sized bathroom, 

with some stupid Batman sticker

on it that no one removed and

it stayed for years, until the

cleaning and bleaches had 

removed all the color from it.

This place was a big hang-out

for a certain breed, Allen Ginsberg

claimed it as his favorite. In no

way was it the Indiana-Tourist

kind of place. There was no

glamour, no time, and no real

style or pizazz here.

-

Just up the steps and to the

right, upon leaving, was always 

the same Chinese guy, begging 

and lurking. Never a word

spoken  -  he was hairy and 

lame too, and probably weighed

about 9 pounds. Well, okay then,

89 pounds. The guy needed help.

-

Years have passed since then.

I think I'm pretty much the same

as I'd ever been. I didn't change,

everything else has. If not, well

then time itself has. It's now the

present day,and I've made some

wizard-like central leap from one

dark galley to another. Very odd.

I still think on the very same

things. Heaven and Hell; the

real and the not-real, the deep

cosmos, time, light, change,

myself, and others. Nothing

ever makes sense and fewer

and fewer things fit  -  every

concocted story I was ever 

taught has turned out to be

pure, convenient, fiction. The

other day there was a lunar

eclipse of some sort, and during 

the time of that eclipse (this is

real; no fiction here) scientists,

because of the unique and

peculiar lighting of the moon

for the duration of that eclipse,

were able to see things they

otherwise don't get to see. It

was one in a billion, as a 

chance, but they witnessed

something landing on the 

moon. At first they were 

hedging and quite perplexed,

and then, quickly enough, the

'official' story was that an 

asteroid or something had

hit the moon  -  an occurrence

no one had expected, predicted,

or thought of. So, what were

the chances? Hush it up, please,

and come up with a story. Well,

can you figure? What were the

chances, perhaps, just maybe,

just perhaps, all these years

we'd been sold a story line and

just like that 'fortune-telling'

chicken, simply trained in their

ways to accept all their blather 

and act on command. Just think!

They say there's nothing out there,

dead, cold, bleak (and black?)

space, a cosmic constant, a

transit point with NO transit

going on? What sort of God,

I ask, or I guess I'll ask, would

do that? Now, I like surprises,
I guess, as much as the next guy,
but all we've ever been fed are
commanding stories about
an unfriendly cosmos and 
being alone in the universe,
and a dead moon always facing
us with just the one side and a
dead and dark other side
Here's your quarter; go

through your routine. How

embarrassing is it for them,

by a miracle of eclipsoid

happenstance, to get caught 

with their own proverbial 

chicken-pants down and have

a prime-time landing (of

something or some-its) on

the equivalent of prime-time

viewing for the whole world?
Weirdly, they even used the
word 'touchdown,' not 'crash.'
And these science types are
usually ultra-cautious people.
Here's another quarter....go

through your routine,

you Chinese chicken.