11,562. RUDIMENTS, pt. 604

RUDIMENTS, pt. 604

(good bones and built on rock)

One thing I noticed right off

the bat, out in the country like

that, was (and it hit me as an

epiphany, which is a cool way

of saying I was 'thunderstruck,'

which is another way of saying

I was struck by lightning, in

a metaphorical sense)  -  the

people there were totally set

and fixed and rational, and I

was completely abstract. My

thinking bore little reference

to theirs. I just saw things in

other ways, like from a complete

other place. That was OK, and

I realized it all, but it made for

a challenge, in that it was my

responsibility to make it kind

of merge together. So as not

to cause conflict or a meltdown

all around me, of the entire

situation. I'd snuck through,

somewhere, and made it stick.

The absolute last thing I could

do was to begin mouthing about

any real opinions or feelings.

Now, psychologically, and even

socially, that's a problem, when

you have to internalize things,

to conceal, to lurch around

never owning up. Yet, in

the same sense, it was all

cautionary. I had no qualms

about doing any of it, I've made

mention before of the local guy

just back from Vietnam, with

all his gritty-horrid tales  - they

simply took him in and somehow

flipped him right into being a

local Troy cop  -  the highway

patrol stuff along Routes 6 and

14. That all pretty much left

him free to do whatever he

wanted, beneath a supposed

dignity that came with the badge,

Bad idea. Which is 2/3 of badge

anyway. He had a wife and a

young baby too, pretty near the

edge of my property, off a ways,

and the little I ever saw of

their home scene the more I

just figured he stuffed his wife

in the closet each day when he

got home. No other options

included or considered. Were

I ever to really give back to him

what I felt about his military

bullshit derring-do and tales of

death, murder, and manipulation,

he'd probably have shot me on

a traffic violation charge for

some made-up resisting arrest.

So I stayed quiet and watched

what crap really looked like.

There was no real 'Law' law out

there; these local guys were basic

strap-ons watching out for kids

stealing erasers from the Ben

Franklin store; or maybe

watching parking meters.

Not for him  -  in his eyes each

car that passed was a possible

Bonnie and Clyde situation.

It was maddening. To get any

real justice or law done, you

had to call in the State Troopers,

who patrolled the country up

there everywhere but were, as

well, few and far between. When

those guys I've mentioned were

using my barn for their simple

auto-repair operation, and when

they beat  up on that Bob Saterlee

guy's Austin Healy 3000 because

they found out he'd been bopping

Mike's sister (that kid with the

Mercury Comet that ended up in

my pond), it wasn't the locals

that came to my door, it was

the State Police. Justice with a

hammer, not a dream. There

was a vast difference.

-

Sometime around the year

2005 or so (I was long gone

from there), in the next little

village over  -  a dip in the

road sort of place called

Big Pond, (home of Lloyd

Perry and the outrageous

Perry brothers), some Biker

guys had holed up, members

of the Pagans motorcycle

club  -  a notorious bunch  - 

and one of them being a wild

criminal on the run, it was

the State Police who showed

up for the shoot-out. One of

them getting killed, before the

Biker guy was apprehended.

It wasn't any local Troy cop

who got that call. It was the

'Staties.' Over in Troy, those

cops were probably too busy

watching that the bubble gum

machines weren't stolen from.

To me, each and every one of

these sorts of episodes presented

the philosophical-abstracts of

Justice versus Freedom, of a

person making Life up on the fly

versus someone so decrepit that

they have to dot every i and

cross every t. Life just wasn't

like that and I never saw it as

that. Pennsylvania was a weird

state, back then anyway, and it

still is freer than most, at least

along the east coast anyway.

The things they 'regulated' 

were odd. The State Stores, for

instance, controlled all liquor

sales, at state-controlled prices,

There wasn't any real free

enterprise, with price variations

and product selection. If you

wanted booze in any of these

little towns, you had to go to

the approved and licensed State

Store and buy it from this tidy

and very neat little dispensary.

Posted prices, nothing out of

order, clear and open aisles.

The people were dour. The same

with auto inspection  -  there

weren't the auto-inspection

places as there are here, say,

in New Jersey. You could most

probably get away, out there,

with just ignoring the whole

inspection routine, claiming

'farm use' for your vehicle,

etc., but if you did wish for

vehicle inspection you had to

go to a regular, commercial

inspection garage, posted

prices, and nothing for free.

They'd inspect your car, do

the paperwork, and dispense

the sticker needed. Back then

maybe 30 bucks, IF they 

didn't find some stupid 

infraction to gouge you over. 

No way around it, if you 

decided to play the game.

-

Most of my time up there I

stayed very busy. I'm not the

handyman sort, by any means,

and in all proper actuality the

place to which we'd moved

suited me quite well. It was

solid, and it was old. It had good

bones, was actually built on a

slab of rock, which, as it slanted

in, also acted as the basement and

garage floor, (beneath the house,

from the side). Very cool. I didn't

much care about the right things

that most others cared for  -  that

I left to my father's crazy visits,

when he'd go root-bad nuts over

doing repairs, refreshing things,

painting this or that, etc.: Those

tiny things he doted on; which 

of course left me free for more

abstracted wanderings. Away 

from reality, but careful. The

place had two pianos  -  in the

side room that used to be a tax

office, when Denton Parmenter

lived there. It was like a sun-room

too, lots of glass on one side, 

which also meant a lot of morning

light (facing east), and sometimes

too the heat it would cause. The

two pianos differed greatly. They

both looked the same, don't  get

me wrong; upright pianos. One

was in nice tune and had a nice 

movement, a good feel on the 

keys, nice sound, etc. The other 

was different  -  one of the pedals 

was broken off  -  by someone's 

heavy foot, I guessed, having 

snapped it. One or two keys 

didn't play, and it was grossly 

untuned. They were pretty

good contrasts. Some days 

I'd sit there and realize how 

perfectly they were attuned to 

the split-sectioning of my own

world  -  the perfect piano, all

the notes, pedals, keys, playing

a good music (representing the

average law-abiding, rational 

thinking person), and this other 

one, missing some stuff, way 

out of tune, but still able to 

produce a daring and quite

interesting and quite sound. 

Head-in-the-clouds crazy 

different, and for which, 

maybe the sheet music had 

not yet been written.
-
As an addendum to this, let
me add that there was a funny
thing I learned from all this sort
of light exposure to law and order.
Cops, criminals, and politicians :
They're all the same. That's right,
there no difference between them,
because the same rigorous and
 very ordered thought processes 
control each. There's nothing at
all abstracted about any of this. 
The contrast between what law
enforcement is supposed to do -
that is, control and prevent crime -
and reality, is that oftentimes the
police and authorities become an 
officially sanctioned gang of
criminals off on their own. In 
early newspaper illustrations, one
well-used cliche/trope was of an
honest officer, having refused a
bribe or other corruption,
returning home to his hungry
wife and children.