RUDIMENTS, pt. 617
(is it just hell?)
I was on my out of Philadelphia
today, and I saw a large billboard
right up along the highway. It
was one of those usual pious
and reverent depictions of the
Virgin Mary (a perennial
Catholic favorite) and it said
'Pray for the Souls in Purgatory.'
I almost gagged. Talk about
medieval concupiscence, this is
the absolute flip-side of that.
Souls in Purgatory? I still to
this day do not understand why
the Catholic Church isn't shut
down - forget all that Freedom
of religion crap and separation
of Church and State. These
people are ridiculous, unendingly
so, and I find it demeaning to
see a billboard comporting to
their ragged turmoil. Whatever
happened to their idea of Sin?
All these scandals and priest
violators, they get off without
any reference, so long as we
take care of the poor sucker in
Purgatory? Who dreams this
crap up? Please don't come
around me with your badass
stupidity until you willingly own
up to the constant violations
of your own pathetic creed
being overlooked and swept
under the rug, if there's any
rug left. Yep, again, sometimes
Satan comes in the name of
the Lord. What a crock it all is.
-
When I was in seminary school,
I quickly realized that no one
had a handle on any of this - the
idea of Doctrinal investigation,
the evolution of Doctrine into
a newer age, was just not there.
The leaders were dark and grim,
the teachers were for the most
part ignorant of any matters past
and rules, (their only concern),
and the spiritual ecumenicism of
John XXIII was a mishmash of
nothing so much as sentiment
and action for the sake of action.
Nothing made any sense. The
great lawns of 'Mother of the
Savior Seminary' were not in
any way involved in the organic
growth of spiritualism and such
except as it meant - as I already
made note - rules, regulations,
process and ritual; by edict and
declaration. All of that sick
traditionalism of the past, while
the priests and brothers, world-
wide, with their tricky little hands
and fingers, were searching out
and 'feeling' for, as it were, the
future. In the guise of young
boys. It was a really bad game.
-
Much better suited for its work
as a gay Bed n' Breakfast, I think
the seminary could have made
out well, and avoided its bankruptcy
by doing that, well ahead of time.
Of course, it was mostly unheard
of, that entire idea, in 1965. But
it came close enough. Since
those days everything has fallen
to pieces anyway, so it probably
doesn't matter. Why live in the
past, when it was that past which
gave us this future?
-
Everything still confuses the
hell out of me anyway. Just
yesterday I read that the Nobel
Prize for Literature, which was
not awarded last year - due to
one Committee scandal or
another - will this year be
given out as two awards, one
for last year, and one for the
current year. My own opinion
is that the real scandal was in
the 2016 awarding of it to
Bob Dylan, and that that tripped
up the Committee and is what
really they've never yet quite
recovered from. It's very
mysterious - those who
defend it have to find a way
to call his 'lyrics,' and rhyming
couplets as song, as Literature.
Which I find impossible. And
then today, in reading about the
Supreme Court taking up a case
of raw and violent lyrics in rap
songs, I find this (which shoots
the foot of that whole lyrics as
high literature bullshit): "The
song's lyric's were never meant
to be read as bare text on the
page; rather the lyrics were
meant to be heard, with music,
melody, rhythm, and emotion."
Nobel Prize for Music anyone?
Oh, no, these Dylan guys can't
read music anyway...
-
If the musicians can't read music,
but still get all the exalted stuff,
and the religious-doctors can't
doctor doctrine, where, I ask,
where does that leave any of us?
In a pile of cultural rubble, amidst
a spiritual retreat, left far from
anything worthwhile or with
meaning. Plastic crucifixes and
plaster Marys, anyone?
-
It's not that I ever made the
needed distinctions. I just didn't
much care. My life had become
an amassing of incidentals and
I tried remembering each one. The
best way of doing that was writing.
That sounds grossly utilitarian,
but in a way what else is it when
you acquiesce to accept the words
and messages sent you? It's the
pure utility of taking what you're
given. That's the reality of all this,
and that's what they all refer to, even
that Nobel guy Dylan, when they say
they no longer know or understand
how they did it, where all that stuff
came from, how they wrote the
things they did. Of course not,
now that they've taken their eyes
off their prize, now that they've
turned their selves and careers
and production into ashpits of
shit living on reputation alone.
Why should they? It's like having
a billboard that screams, 'Pray
For Those Who Used To Have It
It And Don't Any Longer!' So,
I ask, is that Purgatory? Or is
it just Hell?
-
When I finally dug out, when I at
last got to New York City, it was
already my own personal haj,
my own crusade of transformation.
I'd like to say it was all laid out and
prepared for, but a lot of it was
accidental, so I won't say that.
I was headed, fortuitously, in
all the right directions, and most of
them were a barrel of laughs.
Had to be; otherwise I'd one way
or the other be dead. So, I began
watching characters; just as if
I was a playwright and I needed
to see everything in a stage-fashion
manner. There was this dinner guy
I keep seeing, in the Village Diner.
Almost every time I was there he'd
come in, nicely, even carefully dressed,
tie, and a little hat - like a funny
gentleman. He'd order meals, I noticed,
things like liver, meatloaf, etc.,
not huge, rarin'to go steaks, like
the stevedores and punch guys did,
but just odd, little, stranger foods
than others. But he always brought
his own utensils - knife, fork, spoon.
They'd be wrapped in linen, a
napkin I guess, and he'd simply,
nicely, roll them out and eat with
them. No one bothered him over it.
They weren't like 'diner' forks and
stuff either - these were heirloom
eating utensils. Large and heavy
Silver and ornate. Very special.
He'd read - a book or pamphlet -
as he ate. It was always very
nicely done. The girl there, Tre,
she'd wait on him and bring his
food back and forth, coffee, etc.,
and never bothered over any of it.
She said he was nice, his name was
'Hal' - as he knew it anyway - and
he seldom spoke, other than orders
and requests, and she just let him be.
He lived over on 12th street, and he
tipped regularly, and OK. I always
pictured the guy's life - what could it
have been? What story was behind
it? He was like an opening to Act One,
Scene One, and any writer could
have any developing outcome from
that that he or she would wish.
Boy, was he fraught with a
million possibilities.
Purgatory, indeed.
Pray for Hal!
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