RUDIMENTS, pt. 627
(nothing's greater than myths falling)
I never had the gumption to
punch back. I'd always just
walk away from any idiot
situation I'd see developing.
I'd always wished I had it it
me to tell someone to go take
a hike. Figuratively, and a lot
nicer language than I'd use. I
get really sick and tired of all that
striving and false camaraderie
stuff - and it always seems to
me that the farther something
gets from the truth the more
outlandish the claim gets.
-
Curiously enough, I was talking
to one of my sisters today, who
was about 9 at the time of 1967,
and she told me how well she
remembers the trips her and my
father would take in, driving,
to NYC in search of me. I only
knew of one of these - maybe
two - but she said they remain
vivid in her mind and happened
a number of times. I was a little
shocked. She said, Saturdays, my
father would hop into the car,
drive in, and search me out. Never
usually being at 509 e11th, they'd
not find me there and as she
recollects, one time they walked
right in the door left ajar (?)
to look around. My father was
flabbergasted at the open and
junky space, and then, she says,
as he opened a cupboard to look
in, the cockroaches went running
and he went ballistic over the
heap of nothing I was living in.
They then went over to the
Studio School, on 8th, and found
me there. I remember nothing of
that episode, but my sister has it
all vivid - and told me more.
I never even knew anyone was
seeking me out in that manner,
but I was glad she had memories
of those days. It was pretty cool.
-
I remember once or twice, the
visits, and nothing much positive
coming out of them. One time
my father got like a 75 dollar
parking ticket for parking as if
it was Florida and he could do
whatever he damn-well pleased.
Another time, I remember the
kid upstairs from me, Billy-Joe,
and his fabulous hippie girlfriend
Holly, coming down into my
apartment (below theirs) to fake
a drug deal with me, in my father's
(and sister's) presence. Billie-Joe had
this crazy thing about performance
art and he had this three-minute
fake skit regulated down to the
second. My father totally went
'rage' when Billie Joe approached
him - yes, even him - for a toke
on this fabulous stuff he was there
peddling. (Well, I guess you had
to be there. It really was a riot).
Billy and Holly were gone again
in a flash, and the rubble of the
skit was left for me to clean up
with a smoldering Dad demanding
then to know all I was up to and
what the bejeesus I was involved
with. My sister doesn't remember
that one very well.
-
All in all, comedy sits very well
alongside drama, as long as drama
doesn't press the point of itself into
tragedy. That's how I saw it anyway.
My next move, later that day, was to
go upstairs to roust Billy Joe and
let him know how close to violent
death he had walked himself by that
foolhardy, damned skit of his. Had
I the gumption, (oh, if I had!) I'd
have truly like to pay him back by
rousting Holly a bit, just to teach
him what a real performance was.
(Ok, jerk. Quit the kidding, there's
ladies in the reading room).
-
It's nice to have someone around
who remembers the little, the small,
the ordinary things of a weird and
everyday life. Even if it is a hundred
and seventy-five years later; it
somehow validates having lived
it. We had a good old time then
as I related to her the unsolved
crimes and hippie murders of the
day, right there, at my doorstep.
Avenue B, where my cat, Blake,
had been adopted out to. Two kind,
hippie-artist type girls promised me
they'd take care of him. Then there
were dropping and dead bodies.
Police tape. Round-ups. The whole
world was crackling with energy,
but it was the wrong kind. Exile
was beckoning me. The Groovy
murders weren't that 'groovy' at all.
-
Looking back on all that now,
I still feel 'there.' Present and
accounted for and never having
left - a sort of parallel world to
this poorer kingdom of toil and
responsibility. And there's no
comparison either. Three-quarters
of the things now presented to
me are patently false. My days
are numbered - at least that -
if not over, and I no longer much
care to ingratiate myself with
others by stating the preposterous or
the outlandish as 'me.' I sometimes
think that it's the human touch
that makes us divine. Relating
these oddball stories is, to me, a
quite human move. I know someone
who was a complete reprobate
until he visited the Redwoods of
California. Trying to put his arms
around one one day, he realized
both his own lethal paucity, and
the size of those trees. He stepped
back, standing in awe, and - he
claims - God spoke to him and
from that day on he traded his
life to Jesus. I don't, myself,
believe a word of it and just
figure he's still as perverted as
can be, just in a different way.
I said he should have become
a lumberjack or a timber-man
and cut the damned tree down,
if he really wanted to see God
so much. Nothing's greater
than myths falling.
-
One other street conclusion
I came up with was that the
societal degradation that I
was witnessing had less to
do with the demeaning nature
of the newer kids as they came
upon the scene, than it did with
the fact of the increasing
ineptitude of parents as each
generation moved along. And
that conclusion was some 45
years ago, so it's all worse now,
and probably two generations
advanced as well. The retarding
excesses of everything just
pile up and destroy people.
Homes with piles of electronic
stuff, keeping parents and kids
busy with only very few even
knowing what makes things run.
When it stops, it gets thrown
out and replaced. Nothing has
the esteem of 'presence' any
longer, and all that is just
accepted. Ineptitude again.
Parents are increasingly doltish,
and their offspring/vermin just
increase that again. I saw it all,
and I still do. 'Rotten to the core,
send them off to war.' That seems
to be all we have left.
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