RUDIMENTS, pt. 624
(crooked walls and doors that won't close)
Do you know how it is said
that 'overthinking' kills an
idea? How the basis of that
entire zen archery thing is
not to concentrate on the aim,
but let the deliberateness of all
that pass away, and instead
merely go with the flow of
that moment's still energy as
it passes through you? The
very first time I was exposed
to any of that, I understood
it quite perfectly well. It
made a perfect and a durable
sense. I'd, in fact, undergone
much the same thing at the
piano, numerous times. Often
enough, 'trying' to hit the right
note and key caused the error
of the wrong note. It was only
in remaining away from that
action, and letting fingers and
a clear mind take over, that the
errors did not occur. The fact
was that the spirit of the fingers
had a life of their own and knew
very well where to bring you,
if you only let them do so.
Humans never usually let that
happen; they always feel as
if they have to be present, at
the controls, and that just
screws things up, makes it
only the worse for the control.
I won't belabor that point.
-
A large part of living my own
life has been such that the
pervasive memory of that one,
singular 'stitch in time saves
nine' sort of approach has been
helpful. Being wrong some of
the time is OK, but being wrong
all of the time, well, that in
itself is wrong, and it, as well,
leaves way too much to be
desired. So I've always
managed to step back, even
if at the last moment, and
let things run their courses.
Hands off the rudder, so to
speak, and just let the water
run its way. By age 17, I was
so disgusted with everything
anyway, I should have been
dead. There was no real talking
to me - my headstrong ways
had already taken over the
moment, and what congealed
around it all was my own
realization of that heavy hand
ruining things : The heavy
hand of 'knowing better' or
'listen to me.' Like the constant
sniping of a guidance counselor
setting out to do nothing but send
you to what you do not wish to
be sent to. Being 'socialized' -
and by others - is NOT the
same as growing up.
-
I set out to flee. Like a real rube,
I got to New York with nothing,
and from that I began working
backwards. I was intent on finding
the roots-value of every concept
that all the previous jerks in my
life had tried throwing down on
me. The fact was, when they said
'me,' they didn't mean 'me,' even
tough they thought they did. And
when I said 'them' I sure as hell
meant 'them.' As clearcut as any
swamp-maple an an alpine
woods would be. Out of place,
and neither one prospering.
Years later, when I was at
the printing job at St. George
Press - also and still way out
of place, but functional for what
they needed, the guy I worked
for, who owned the company,
often got on my case for being
'radical.' I guess he meant
'extreme,' which isn't really
the same thing. I made a point
of looking it up and trying to
point out to him how 'radical'
meant actually someone who
was intent on taking things
back to their roots, to their
origins, and examining, or
re-examining that. It wasn't
about the 'functioning' of
things, which was more what
he'd meant to say, 'extreme.'
To no avail. I realized too
that this sort of thing could be
argued, back and forth, all day,
and probably was, somewhere.
But both parties to the argument
would need to know what they
were talking about and have the
presence of their convictions and
words. That doesn't often occur,
as people would rather revel in
fluff. It was always difficult for
me to communicate, which is
why, I'd imagined, the spiritual
longings of my soul, after all
this else had failed, stayed with
and brought forth, writing. Maybe
just talking to myself - a form
of fluency but with myself.
-
It used to surprise me how,
back then, there were still, all
over the city, lumberyards. There
was even a big one, Prince Street
Lumber, in Soho, and another
one (gone now, for sure, but
I'd have to check if Prince Street
Lumber is still there). Usually,
lumberyards take a lot of space
and maneuver room - interior
hi-low tractor and lifts. In the
city, all over, they were always
cramped and, even though
indoors, incredibly enough,
they daily spilled out too, with
all their stuff somehow coming
out each day allover sidewalk,
street, and passageways. They
were incredible - and often they
had Spanish guys lifting and
moving things, at the bottom
rung of their little labor pool,
and then you'd see the old timers,
these grizzled crusty old white
guys, carpenter aprons on,
pencils in their ears, standing
at the band-saws and table-saws
and all, to do the measuring and
cutting. There'd be sawdust flying,
noise everywhere - almost a noise
that echoed around the rims of
streets and corners. It was, as I said,
as close to open air as possible,
without being so. They were, also,
the first businesses I ever saw to
install those heavy, nearly-clear,
plastic hang-down things that acted
sort of as 'doors' but which you
could walk through by just walking
through - protections from the
winds and cold, Winter and bad
days. That never stopped these
guys - nor did it stop the large
array of trucks that were always
about - loaded trucks off to
their contracted construction
sites, supply trucks, or trucks
loaded with individual orders for
people redoing their apartments
and lofts. It was really a crazy
scene and a great way to glimpse
the sorts of inner workings of a
city's life, by which things were
kept going. I loved it. I loved
watching the regimented labor
interactions between men - the
grunts, the guys lifting and moving,
and, oddly enough, the more
personable and socially skilled
guys who'd deal with customers
and people often people with no
real clue of what they'd need or
were after. So these guys could
scheme out a room or a whole
floor or loft, tell people how
many of what board they'd
need, footage, etc., and even
make connections for them
with the varied contractors
they probably really needed,
more than trying to wade
through it all themselves
and end up with a crooked
room with doors that didn't fit.
-
Like anywhere else, I suppose,
New York was hell on anyone
who wanted to build or do
anything the 'legal' way - there
was a real and constant need
for permits and inspections
and approvals, and engineering
submissions and all that stuff.
I knew any number of loft-art
people who just said 'screw that'
and got away with just doing what
they selected to do, their way and
on their own. It was a game. The
other two things I realized was
that, one, it was probably good
to throw the lumber guys some
payoff money, because they could
rat you out real easy once you
began buying a ton of lumber
for your illegal 'project.' I know
that went on, from experience,
and any number of those guys
kept a real nice tip-jar, so to
speak, going. And, two, New York
and environs was a top-heavy
'union work' city; real trouble
could come your way if it was
found out your little 'project'
wasn't employing some
friendly-placed union guys
instead of the usual, itinerant,
man-with- hammer types
who'd hire themselves
out for day work. And that
went all the same for plumbing,
electrical, and masonry too.
Illegal loft-living, NYC 1970
style, and any refurbishing for
same, could get to be a real
problem, real quickly too.
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