11,547. RUDIMENTS, pt. 598

RUDIMENTS, pt. 598

(no mysteries there, or 'glass-blower's lament')

Half-famed artist Gandy Brodie

brought multi-famed poet Kenneth

Koch up to Elmira. Which was

an added bonus. These were both

guys you could read about in any

arts or culture book of the 50's

and early 60's. Akin to my years

in Princeton always seeing Paul

Muldoon around every corner.

It made everything easier. One

other time Rod Serling showed

up too. Unbeknownst, to me 

anyway, his daughter had been

attending, under a different name.

Up there, in a place like that, you

clutched at whatever straw you 

could. Seeing guys like that, I used

to try and decide (never came

up with an answer) why a TV

in the house would annoy me

but people of some renown, like

them, didn't. In some respects

the equivalency should have

been the same.

-

There were plenty of issues up 

there. The one guy, at Marine

Midland Bank, to whom I went

to a meeting with once, about

my 'finances,' introduced me to

the idea of credit cards; 'Marine

Midland has a Master Charge

[that was what Mastercard was

called originally] and it would

serve perfectly your needs.' It 

was a new concept to me, and

we set a credit limit, terms, and

all that, and the rest is credit-living

history I guess. For good or bad,

in those early 1970's years were the

stirrings of the complete alteration

of how people (me included) lived

and dealt with money. Come to

think of it, I don't know what ever

became of Marine Midland, as 

bank or as credit company. I 

always liked the name.

-

Up at the Corning Glass Works,

(next town over) there was a

glass museum, and an active

viewing area, right in the factory,

where you could go in and sit and

watch the cool glassblower guys.

I don't know how any of that's

done now, but it used to be pretty

fascinating. I never knew what

the guys were making either, vases

or bulbs or whatever, but they'd

have these fires and ovens going,

and this superheated molten glass

and they'd pick a big blob of it,

colored or swooshed or plain, 

and, from the end of this long

mouthpiece and tube they'd blow

into (just like it sounds) and one

hand, or an assistant, would 

have these glass-scissors or snips

and he'd (never saw women) cut

or shape or twist or twine the

molten glass while it was still

pliable and all, before the cooling

process began, which fixed the 

shape. Then they'd press into it

to mold or shape or leave marks

and things, with their fingers or

some implements for that use. 

There was some of this that was

considered glass-art. That was called
'Steuben Glass,' and there was even
a Steuben Glass showroom, gallery
and store on Fifth Ave. in NYC
for the longest time; and that
work was valued and worth

a bunch and kept in museum

glass cases and all that; other 

stuff going to royalty or the 

Shah of Iran (Pahlevi and family 

was still there then), pieces for

memorials or awards, etc. The

rest often was just for sale, for

home use, or decorative display,

a few hundred bucks here or 

there. Corning was like a little

company town, built (like 

Roebling NJ was) around the

industry (glass works) that 

then employed everyone, in 

a cluster and a medieval village 

type set-up. My friend Mary 

Kay lived there for a while too, 

so we visited often enough. I 

always liked the glass workers. 

Erasmus Corning or somebody, 

as I recall, with an odd, Corning

family name was in the House 

of Representatives too, representing 

whatever Congressional District

that was, 24th or 26th or something.

Other than all that, it really wasn't 

much of a place one with little

or no identity. There were some

nifty little nowhere villages all

up around there. Painted Post,

named from some old Indian

marker thing that was once 

located where the town was

founded. Same deal was with

Horseheads, another town right

there  -  supposedly the site of

an Indian boneyard for horses.

Dead horses. Like a horse 

junkyard. Ask the Injuns....

-

I mentioned a few chapters back

about the Sullivan Expedition

and the military guy who led the

assaults and killed all those

Indians in wiping out the local

Five Nations Iroquois that had

lived here, in the hills and along

these rivers. There were monuments

and signposts and memorials

for all that crap everywhere  -  no

one ever talked about it, no one 

was ever directed to where the old

Native American moving-settlements 

had been, or the burial mounds and

the sacred sites, etc. Everything

was presented from the white man's

eyes (I know, I know, only the 

winners get to write the History;

fine, and big deal). Major-General

Sullivan, this and that, whatever

his name was. He got honor and all

glory, and the rest was invisible

silence  -  so that car dealerships,

(Schulman-Van Etta Chevrolet!!),

shopping plazas, stores and a mall

too, could be built, strips of roads

and cheap eats. There was even a

Sambo's! (before shame put the 

whole chain out of business years

later  -  big-lipped black-slave

Sambo logo and all). The entire

time I lived there I never met an

'Indian' nor anyone who knew or

gave two you-know-whats about

any of what had occurred. I always

had a spot for that sort of subverted

and sequestered history.

-

Well, I guess all that's whatever

and humans aren't the types, I've

noticed, to pause and reflect over

meaningful things. They stop 

and blabber over anything 

connected to same fake-ass 

holiday or any stylish and 

momentary cause or movement, 

and thy love all that war and

warrior crap (what's with that?)

but a billion dead locals under 

foot never stops them at all.

'Pave it, and we'll park on it'

makes a damn good motto for

the Indian Bones Shopping Mall.

-

I was never much of an ordinary

kind of person, and it felt good,

to tel the truth, when every so 

often someone would notice that

and make mention. 'Where'd you

come from? How'd you get to that

conclusion? How do you think?'

What may have, to others, been

considered insults to others were 

always welcome praise to me. 

I've been told by my own goodly

wife that people either love me

or hate me, because I leave

them no middle ground. She's

cool with that, and sees it

always as my dare. Point of

fact is, I don't have 'friends'

to speak of except for a few

that come right to mind; 

certainly no crowd, nor 

anything that  would fill 

up Dominic's (that's a local

place hereabouts mostly used 

for afternoon funeral repasts).

HOWEVER, as I always tell

her (goodly wife character)

I come with a life-list and a

guidebook and nothing hidden.

And I don't have a wrapper.

No mysteries there.

-

In Pennsylvania, way out 

behind my acreage, into where 

the woods had grown back  -  

saplings and things, of maybe a

 30-year growth vintage  -  

we had what appeared to be a

dump, or a dumping ground

anyway, that must have last been

active in the 1930's. Soil and

loam had sifted over the earth,

and buried a lot of things; but 

if you dug or otherwise 

disturbed the soil you could

come up with some real

oddments  -  rusted metal and

all, yes, but still worth the thrill.

Those large bullet-shaped pod

headlamps from old cars, doors 

and fenders, old lanterns and

poses, old milk urns and pouring

devices, ancient hulks of bicycles.

All sorts of things. My father used

to come up and pick through it

all the time. And he'd go home

with some weird items. The father-

in-law too, he liked and got 

lanterns and old colored glass

and embossed medicine bottles.

I admit, it was pretty neat. A

little ways off there was a stream

and a fishing hole too. I used to

imagine the saintly silence of

the local natives, maybe even an

encampment right there. It always

did seem to me, from my own 

investigating and evidences,

that where the white folk had

set down with something  -  

village, hamlet, line of stores,

homes, etc., it was because,

before that, the 'Indians' too

had been utilizing those same

locations : good grounds, where

the streams and rivers converged,

where the ground was rich, the

fishing good, and where maybe

the pow-wow and communication

paths had converged. I guessed

it was always true  -  Life and

Being most often keep to psychic

patterns all their own, and

we are just bystanders and
know little of it. It's all
bigger than us.