11,494. RUDIMENTS, pt. 576

RUDIMENTS, pt. 576

('I am lily brutal-white')

I always tried to stay level,

keep my head screwed on

right, and walk a sort of

solitary line. I did mostly

succeed but boy did

adventures come with it.

Mostly because I never knew

what people were thinking

of me. That was a difficult

part  -  I left a lot of younger-

life friends behind, and

ignored a lot of others. It

was nerve and and shyness,

both. All these years later

it still goes on  - I don't

know what people expect;

everything usually gets

blown out of proportion, or

mis-represented. My best

relationships have always

been with people on the

periphery of 'me'  -  like

service guys, the UPS and

FedEx guys at the bookstores

where I worked, amid all

the assorted comings and

goings of truck drivers and

delivery people, or even the

people sent in to do stupid stuff;

putting up metal shelving, or

changing light bulbs and doing

maintenance work. All that

was always stupendous. We

just talked, bantered, threw

ideas and memories around,

cussed and howled together.

There was no emotional tie

or cross-current to have to

deal with, each of us just

said what was up and that

was that. Sure, people talk

too much, but at least they

don't want something from

you or you're not beholden

to them in some job-status

type of relationship. Back at

St. George Press, before he

retired, maybe in the mid

1980's, there was a mailman

who seemed to use that stop

as a boredom break  -  boy

did he talk, and I figured it

had to just be us/me because

if he did that all along his

route he'd still be delivering

at midnight each day.

-

I made sure that I steered

clear of that sort of stuff

whenever I could, but, 

knowing the times I could

not, Nonetheless, accepting 

that  -  I made a good go of 

it all. My way of passing

time was to write and to

record as much of everything

that I could. I almost had

it in my mind that I could

faithfully reproduce all of

it, at some later date, in a

published and self-made

way. I had that little magazine

going for a while, but I never

mixed this 'recording' idea

into it, even as I did mean to.

I'd meet people and sit and

they'd start talking. Most did;

most people are more than

happy to engage, after they

first ascertain that you're not

an axe-murdered (who'd want

to murder an axe anyway?)

or a kidnapper. My proximity,

often, to regular singular and

bizarre people brought a lot

of unique things my way.

-

Once I got that little 'Transom

Publications' thing going, I made

business cards, an ID card, (like a

press pass), had it laminated and

I hung one clipped onto my

notebook, with another hanging

off the strap of my camera, and

I always had one or two Transom

current issues to give out. It all

went to prove my point, show

some validity, and most all of

these arts and music crowd types,

at a loft party, a gallery seat, or

a bar or diner, were most happy

to speak for ten minutes our

whatever while I scribbled some

no-promises notes of what they

were saying. If I ended up

using any of it, I sent them

a copy. Otherwise, nothing.

-

A lot of these New York types

were fakers. Nothing against that,

it's how we all take on personas

to live by; but these were funny

too sometimes, in that a complete

insularity, of pose and of means,

had taken them over  -  they were

thereby convinced that by their

definitions only they existed.

It was a very sterile thing, and

very often quite self-referential.

Having it done correctly, this

form of character-act parody

is sometimes really effective.

Here was an artist-lady once I

spoke with, very talkative, but

strange too, about her 'fabric-art'

show at a gallery,in the galley.

Probably owing a lot to Judy

Chicago (you can look that up).

-

"I am Lily Brutal-White, and

I can walk away whenever I

wish. But in the meantime I'll

stay right here, and we can talk  - 

I live in a narrow loft-space, the

same space I work in. Violating

city code, I guess. I work on my

cloth sculptures, here, as you

can see. I also make containers

of lead and hammered metal. A

few of my friends, with me, also

have a music group, 'The Liens'.

We play at small places, like

the 'Leading Edge' on 9th street,

or over at Waldron's on 18th.

Nothing much, a lot of noise,

some metal music, lights and

the rest. Harmonics, bass, and

percussion, nothing much but

it works. We have fun. I enjoy

doing it,. Usually there are 4

of us, other times more, or less.

There isn't much else to say on

that  -  sometimes I read poetry

aloud, even sometimes of a

self-made instant sort : I start

with a newspaper, the music

is going, and from that I find

and use words and quotes,

quickly selected, and things

from memory, and I 'proclaim.'

That's what I call it actually.

Proclaimed Poetry. It's usually

one of a kind stuff, because it

can never be repeated and I

don't save anything. The great

drama here, you see, the mask

that makes it vivid, is the factor

of it being instant and ephemeral.

Disposable, as it goes. You'll

never get it twice!" I thought

that was pretty cool  -  not

especially important, not even

unique because I'd heard of

'cut-ups' before, and had seen

others do it, most notably

Burroughs (another time). Yet,

her and her brazen approach

were interesting, and, as I

mused, SHE had the at show

here, not me. Must be good

for something.

-

"I'm a princess Cinderella but

I know it won't last. The carriage

is for sure a pumpkin sooner

than I'd like." Then she went

on some about fouler stuff, and

females, and the streets of New 

York, and the kinds of things 

people sometimes have to do 

to get by. Her own perspective 

was skewed, but I understood

well enough  -  "I got here with 

nothing and I can be anything

I want to be with nothing. That's

the charm of New York. I want

excitement and I crave the action

and that is what New York's art

world is for me."

-

This sort of thing was all over

the places I frequented  -  lofts,

galleries, dark spots, and even 

the numerous small studios in

which people painted and worked.

There was, in those years,a quaint

dishevelment going on between

the old, industrial, use of lofts  - for

machine ships, small manufacture,

garment and finishing industries;

people were just moving in and

cheaply taking these places over.

Sleeping and living in the same

high-loft spaces they worked. 

Industrial elevators. Poor heat.

Weak water and lousy toilets.

Everything was old, but spacious.

On the west side streets from 17th

and around, I'd go  -  and I was

constantly fascinated by what I

saw. Later the same thing happened

in what became 'Soho' but that took

longer and had a classier bent right

from the start. These lofts I'm

her writing of were harsh and

gritty, and the years were early, 

so there was a much different feel 

from those of the later 70's and 

80's, when the real transitions 

took place.  Drugs too were always

around, but I stayed clear of the

most of it. Here's another excerpt,

from something else I wrote, and

I guess that night there was a pot

party that was part of it.

-

"There was really a lot of black

and white enamel and porcelain, 

and some greenery too, and it

really didn't look so bad. Plants,

and a couple of mattresses over 

in one corner, and then a bunch 

of wood and easels and paint-cans

and a small set-up for like domestic

stuff at the far end and the big, broad

windows. I looked down onto the

next street over and there were 

small storefronts with flowers and

dresses and handbags, a whole

mix of different items. But it was

peaceful to look at. This was the

rear of the building, on this street.

I heard water boiling,  that jumbly
noise it makes, steam rising, and

someone was  making tea. I never

much cared for tea. And then I

saw someone brought a smoke

pipe out and the next thing I 

knew there were people all about, 

smoking and passing pipes. It 

got pretty silent for me and the 

old blue light along the window

faded slowly, as it actually seemed

to come into the room and take

on a personality of its own, all

among the rest of us there, and I

felt it was ready to talk to us, and

the plants nearby moved a little

in some odd kind of plant-breeze

that I must have missed but I

think it was actually right behind

me and the walls had cracks and

ripples I hadn't noticed before and

sometimes they did seem to spell

things out. I couldn't tell. Couldn't

make much sense; and someone

talked and the whole thing moved

like a picture or something and I

then noticed outside how the light

refracting from other windows

crowded, trying to get in and I

realized we were at the center 

of a universe right then at that 

moment really quiet but strong

and centered on something and 

it was night, soon enough again, 

things had been changing. I fell 

asleep, I guess, and woke up early 

the next morning at light and crept 

out and went back to the street 

below, walking.