11,601.RUDIMENTS, pt. 619

RUDIMENTS, pt. 619

(he didn't notice that the light had changed...)

I kept running into a lot

of oddball situations. The

tenor (almost rather a tremor)

of 1967 NYC was something

I'd not beheld before. I was

dead, smack alone. Unattached

to anything, and I'd simply

dropped myself into the

center of it all based on not

much more than my half

fabricated version of myself.

My initial steps out were,

thanks to a wonderful help

from the 'lady' at the Studio

School  -  of whom at the

time I knew nothing  -  who

took me in, almost blindly,

saw potential in whatever

I was trying or intending

to do, and accepted me. I'll
write more on her later. It

was a big, nay, major, step

in keeping me going  -  alive,

with at least a glint of hope.

At the time of all this, the

Studio School was in the

midst of moving itself from

the large loft space at Broadway

and Bleecker over to the new

place at 8w8th street. So I got

involved with that a bit  - the

usual schlep stuff, carry and

drag this or that; there was

plenty to do. This first month

or so, I had nothing  - I stayed

in the park the first few nights.

All that hippie-stuff was very

congenial in Tompkins Square,

and the park allowed sleeping.

It still happens, Summer groups

of traveling kids just crashing

in the grassy knoll over at the

park's center. I got there my

first night, and the Puerto Rican

guys at the bandshell were

rolling heavy with their live

jam music. One of the few things

I had moved with was my nice

set of bongo drums! I jumped

right in with these guys and

played. It was all good jam.

-

The first exposures to lower

Broadway that I had were

massive and impressive. Never

before had I faced the real power

of what Mankind, or Humankind,

had done or could do. Rows of

tall buildings, glass and steel

and concrete, the raw power

of trucks and vehicles, the snort

and snarl of the street traffic,

raging power-morons intent

on getting themselves somewhere

no matter where, or what. It

was all thrust at me, firsthand

and in my face. For a dumb kid

from Avenel, and a coddled

seminary colt from Blackwood

too, this was shock and awe  -

way before that crazy concept

had ever been constructed.

I immediately had to put words

aside, for there were none to

describe the onslaught, nor to

describe an inkling of what I

was undergoing. I learned,

immediately, any number of

things that I had simply not

thought of before. A person

has needs  -  one must eat,

there need to be bathrooms

and 'comfort' stations, as it

were. Once I found out where

those amenities were, once it

was better mapped out in my

brain, it was much easier  - but,

at first, uh oh mama. Food was

cheap, in the sense that, as I

found out, 25 cents could get

you something to feel more

full with  -  even if just a

'knish' (what the hell is this?

was my first inkling. A potato

pillow?). Be that as it may, I

also quickly found sources for

free food, restaurant cast-offs,

even dumpster stuff. There's

plenty to eat, if you get over

the heebie-jeebies about it.

Reading back over all these

other chapters here, should

you have the mind, tenor, or

time and inclination to do so,

will fill you in on a lot of that

stuff and me  -  people, places,

and habits. I survived real well.

-

My main concern was to start

and to keep learning. That was

the true impetus of what I intended

and why I'd arrived. There were

myriad version all around me of

things to absorb  - experiences,

lessons, knowledge, books and

ledgers, history, art, vast stores

of libraries and gallery info. I

had to learn to take in and give

out. My life was like a miner's

life, each day taking that cart

down deep into the bowels of

it all, in the hopes of hacking

through and digging and then

coming back out with something

worthwhile. Something also

identifiable. Another item of

great note to me : I'd come

into all of this, but be alone, to

work alone, to learn how to

write and observe and write

about what I observed, to make

something of it all, to make Art,

and a hundred other things.

I didn't wish to mingle or

work, necessarily, with others.

I didn't communicate well.

Verbal interaction always out

me off, and I really didn't

with many others the concepts

they lived by. The problem

became, I learned quickly,

that these artist types liked to

gab and schmooze and linger,

trading ideas and concepts,

and generally just blabbing

on as they drank and laughed

and loved. A lot of that was

really alienating to me. They

were always switching partners

around, no one seemed to think

twice about screwing whoever

was right there next to them.

(Maybe think Steve Sills, and

that goofy California ethos,

'If you can't be with the one

you love, then love the one

you're with'). Yeah, there was

a lot of that going around too.

-

Solitude and perseverance?

I learned there was a saying in

the art world completely opposite

to my thinking  -  it was about

the sense of common collegiality,

trading off ideas with others,

exploring by explaining and all

that. Bummer. It went, "A man

sharpens his face on the face of

his friends." That was very

striking to me, as a phrase (I

did later find out it actually

comes from somewhere in

the Old Testament. A lot of

that art world stuff was very

old-line Jewish, surprisingly).

Like I said a chapter or two

back, I had to put categories

and judgments aside. It was a

necessity in order to get by.

At 22nd street and Seventh

Ave., there was a Belgian bar.

(I always liked Belgian bars;

they were exciting and the

Belgian babes they used as

bar-keeps were always so

intriguing. The Old Town

Tavern, to this day, does the

same thing, and with all sorts

of Belgian beers on tap).

Anyway, Belgian bar guys,

the real ones, are/were very

pugnacious and pointed about

what they do. For instance,

tradition calls it that they go

out on Saturday night and get

drunk, and then they all start

hitting each other. One time,

a guy walked out of the bar,

and went straight up to, like,

the first person (male) he saw,

and just began pounding on the

guy. Big-time hits. Just a real

blast. A good way to get your

kicks, I guess. Back in Avenel,

the only'alcohol' influenced

place I'd ever really experienced,

not going inside  -  I mean the

outside, and this was all before

today's junk-rub-culture of

franchised theme bars and 

all that highway crap  -  was

the Roxbury. It was a closed

bunker of a place with thin

windows up pretty high. My

goofy friend used to stand on

the bench out front and, getting

up to the high windows by that,

and yell in, loudly, 'Repent!'

Then we'd run off. Yeah, I

guess it's about the same thing

as those Belgian brawlers.

My friend? He blew his mind

out in a car; he didn't notice

that the light had changed....'