11,592. RUDIMENTS pt. 616

RUDIMENTS, pt. 616

('it's all very real to me...')

One thing I noticed  - telling

things apart was never a good

skill of mine. Separating saints

from sinners? I never bothered

with. Neither did I care to do

so  -  just like those music guys,

I could never tell them apart.

So I took a things in at once

and as one. I found there to

be the good in the bad and the

bad in the good too. And that

worked everywhere, not just

New York City. There comes

a time in everyone's personal

development where decisions

have to be made, about values

and motivations. When I got

to mine, the decision was that

I'd make none of the valuations

and just call it even as I moved

along. Which is probably the

reason I often enough ended

up in some crazy situations.

This one time, two guys, in

a fairly darkened bar-room,

otherwise filled with dense

cigarette smoke, loud music

and a crowd of people, are

sitting at a table, having some

sort of intense conversation.

I kept an eye out, and was able

to see this situation as it then

developed, until, suddenly, the

both of them brusquely rose,

pushing their chairs back as

they did, and each of them

pulled out large knives, the

kind with heavy 6-inch blades,

Bowie knives or whatever,

usually sheathed. and

slammed them into the

wooden table top. I think

in bar-speak that was like the

call to challenge and almost

couldn't be refused. Not good.

So, yes, a sprawling 2-man

knife fight ensued. I'd never

seen one before.

-

The problem with story books

is that they put images in your

head that never leave. Had this

been an old, 1800 wharfside

tavern for sailors, seamen,

gamblers and criminals, I'd

have immediately fit it into

some dark narrative of the

dangerous, brawling life of

sea-farers home for a week

or two before next ship-out,

signing up for anther round,

perhaps, of piracy or plunder

at sea, under some suspicious

flag of origin  -  in a deal gone

bad or a bet that didn't pay off.

Maybe one would have lived,

and the other died. Maybe that

pit of soft dirt out behind the

bar, off the alley, would simply

have another body added to its

soft pile. BUT, this wasn't that.

The situation here was, by

contrast, dire and extraneous

to any of the civilized rituals

we live by. How, then, did the

others in this room react? In

the slowest fashion, eyes were

raised, heads looked up, the

women turned, and a few of

the men went into action. The

drinks flowed, mind you, that

never stopped. But no one

actually stopped' this fight

or challenge,; nay rather the

most burly of the men simply

ringed and cordoned of an

area for the ensuing battle.

At first I was ready for anything;

blood to spatter, a head to roll.

And then I heard a voice a few

bits over from me, exclaiming,

'Those two stupid sons a'bitches

again! I swear they do this once

a month.Let 'em go, they won't

do shit, a few useless lunges,

a swing or two, everything

missed by miles and by design

too. Jesus, I'd like to pop them.

Let it go, five minutes from

now they be bear-hugging each

other and slobbering about the

good times. Dumb shits.' And,

he was mostly right; it was all

show, even the cordoning off

guys, I'd bet they were in on it

too. The way bars go, behavior

like that gets some fool to be

buying you beers for being a

character, a dare and a wonder.

To some people, that's the

excitement of the experience,

and they just drink it up and

never stop. I did get to know

each of those guys, actually,

for a few years. The one guy is

dead now  -  booze killed hid

liver, and him. But he knew it

was due, and accepted it well.

The other guy, just sort of

disappeared. Another time,

much later, I watched them

do the same thing to each other,

but without the knives, right

out in the alley-roadway behind

the place  -  literal fisticuffs for

what had to be 20 minutes.

Punches, holds, slaps, knock-

downs and get back ups too.

They just kept rolling around

like the drunk idiots they were.

Nobody hardly even looked up.

And then they stopped, both

bloodied, and had a beer

together.No, I could never

figure behavior like that out.

It brings a person to nowhere

at all, and to get to that point

you also need to start out from

nowhere at all. Try to figure

that one out  -  isn't it a double

negative? And aren't double

negatives always wrong?

-

Another time I bought two 

Jersey friends into this same 

place, for a visit, and we ran 

smack into some crazy, drunk, 

Irish wedding party or the

preparation for a wedding

party. We were meeting 

some guy there who was 

supposed to meet us; he 

never showed; wrong day. 

But this group of revelers 

was already lost and gone 

to the winds and  insisted 

on sucking us into their

little party. We even got 

invited, right there, to the 

wedding for which they 

were preparing. Of course, 

the deal was, 'Yeah, yeah,

we'll be there! Sure. Cool, 

When  is it again? And 

where? That was all they 

needed, and it was enough.

But it was a long afternoon

afternoon and late evening 

before we got out of there, 

walking like on a tightrope. 

Craziest thing was, then, and

still while we were there,

some Irish wake bunch came

in, a post-funeral drink-off, 

sort of, in ostensible mourning 

for some dead friend. Amazing;

and never had I experienced 

that either. So, like the knife 

fight the other time, I watched 

it all in awe  -  they'd even 

brought their own bagpiper.

Funeral bag-piping, rented for 

the day. That was amazing, 

and the guy just kept rolling 

upon request with all these 

crazy Irish tunes (I think they 

were) that mostly sounded 

alike  - as kind of all that

bagpipe stuff seems to. But,

no matter, what a kick off,

what a send off, what an 

express train to eternity 

that was ! And  the girls 

were pretty too!!

-

My point was, I guess, that 

there are some people who 

would make the distinctions 

to worry about. I never did. 

Back in Elmira College, when

I was reading all those German

writers, my Rilke and Hesse

and Heinrich Boll and Gunter

Grass and the rest, I created 

for myself a character I called 

Pieter. Whenever I wanted to 

or felt a need to, I'd inhabit 

that character and leave

myself behind. I'd be this 

Pieter fellow, traipsing from 

German forest village to 

village, at will, resting and 

sleeping on open hillsides 

with vistas high above the

villages and lanes below. I'd

have my bottle of wine (back

then it was Liebfraumilch  -  a

white German wine meaning 

'Milk Of the Madonna'), and

for mental hours I'd be both

drinking it and musing with

as I gazed out over those wide

German lands and fields. It

was very dramatic, and a

quite romantic setting too.

Just Goethe and me, it 

seemed, forever. My 

instructor, Christina Rosner, 

a German from wartime

exile, would have me read, 

and write about what I'd read.

She'd be amazed, each time,

how I'd have it just right,

'spot on' in today's lingo, 

and she'd ask how I managed

it, where did i get the talent 

from to write like that, in 

what she considered a 

flawless flow of words. 

I'd say, Christina, it's

nothing. I'm not 'writing.' 

I'm living that experience 

and it all just comes through 

me. I don't take the time to 

judge or critique. It's all 

very real to me.' I never 

knew if she got my drift or

not; but it was cool. And,

by the way, that white wine

stuff  -  gotta' go. I never

touch it now. Red wine only,

and as basic as one can get.