RUDIMENTS, pt. 626
('second that emotion')
I never was able to learn what
we were supposed to take from
history; not even what history
was. History never really existed;
it was more just what people
ended up saying it was. Stories
and facts and figures were as
changeable as the wind and every
so often, as styles of thought and
social ideas altered themselves,
so too was History altered. The
good guys became the victims,
the victims became the sainted
ones. Like Christopher Columbus,
as an example - the poor sucker
these days can't do anything right.
(As I write this, it's nearing St.
Patrick's Day and I'm fully
expecting, soon enough, the
blow-back on him too to begin.
Imagine that anti-Nature brat,
driving snakes out of Ireland!
Who did he think he was? The
snakes were here first, long
before us. In fact, I think there
was some sort of snake even
in the Eden story). Failures like
us abound; but only the winners
write the History.
-
It's like the people who say you
have to go through the lows to get
to the real highs. I never agreed
with that either; they obviously
never dealt with any real lows or
they'd not be mouthing such
prattle. That's pop-song bullshit.
That's all that is. For me, I was
lucky most of the time there was
no straight-edge around I could
quickly grab - even though that's
BS too, because if you're intent
on going down, anything in the
kitchen-utensil drawer will do.
No search needed. Anyone, such
as me, whose favorite song for
many years was a suicide-ditty
called 'Dress Rehearsal Rag,' was
lucky just to keep on living; glad
for any sort of time, the highs and
the lows, I never cared. Never had
the time or the notion. ('But if you
feel like loving me...I second that
emotion'). Smokey Robinson or
close. Well, anyway, I never made
it to the top, but at least I made it
through. Screwed up, distended
waste of a life, and piss on ya' too.
-
Once I got way up into that solitary
Pennsylvania Hill country, I was able
to loosen my straps some, get out
of that nightmare strait-jacket I'd
been living in. New York City had
been great fun, a massive and
wonderful experience of learning
and presence, but everything had
changed right under my feet. I was
in some predicaments, the whole
town had heated up, it was never
the same, I was a complete idiot.
I was still broke. My emotions and
nerves were flagging, and I knew
Death was calling, or just around
the bend looking for its dime with
which to make the call. I still never
answer phones. Don't even keep one.
I always found there's a major and
important difference about the stare
of the death-eye. When it's looking
at YOU, it's already too late. Friends
and enemies have gone down in that
flood, from any sort of violence,
mistake, overdose or betrayal you
can think of. I saw it twenty times,
most especially later in my own
years in the biker world of the
never-shifting allegiances of
life-long loyalties to one weird
group or another. Guys went totally
mad over that stuff, and I just
walked. One time I was mixed
up with a club guy, a real, major,
veteran one-percent dude. I was
told he was so renegade that he
lived underneath the Goethals
Bridge in Elizabethport in some
sort of shack or another. But
the guy had acolytes and followers
and, damn it all, when he talked,
even fear listened. There was just
Death in his eyes and everywhere.
He'd done that already, and had
done time for it too. He pipes up
to me one day, in a big Expo-Hall
Swap Meet thing we were involved
with, and takes me aside. Not asking,
just takes me aside. We'd known each
other only a little bit previous to that.
He says (I'm condensing this, and
cutting it short) he'd like to bring
me in, in to his club, under his
sponsorship - which meant, as he
put it, if I ever fucked up it would
come down on him too, for being
the sponsor guy. And he'd have to
kill me. Oh yeah, that simple and
forthright. None of it left me
much room to maneuver, except
I somehow maneuvered into
'No thanks.' In Biker lingo that
is. I never saw him again, but
it always lingers for me as an
uncomfortable 1990's moment
to remember. ('If you feel like
giving me a lifetime of devotion...
I second that emotion') - Smokey
Robinson again, or close.
-
Switch back - please - 20 years.
In Pennsylvania, (high-top PA,
I used to call it), there was not
much of that sort of rotted out
ethos. Life here was mostly still
given its purposefulness by the
work and needs it demanded.
People mostly didn't have time to
fart around with deeming what
social values were to be so
rigorously enforced. You were on
on your own, in a more pure, more
early-American way. You helped
out when a neighbor was stuck,
you got along, you laughed and
goofed with others, if that's what
it took. But at the end of the day,
when you took your boots off,
it was mostly just you. Sponsors
were for TV shows. You tried to
not have to answer to any one, and
you trod well your own path and the
rest be damned. The idea of having
to pay the dues for someone else
who was riding your back was
unheard of. (Well, OK, except
maybe for the farmers' bankers).
-
There was a wiry, thin, little
road twisting up to this local
height, called Mt. Pisgah, and it's
marked on maps and all; there
wasn't much of anything on it
along the way except for, here
and there, hunkered between or
along things, small cabins and
houses where strange people lived.
Alone. And 'hermetically sealed,'
let's call it. Not much got in,
and not much got out. I don't
know what information ever
got up or into there - maybe
they didn't even know Nixon
was President or any of that
stuff, tough I guessed they did.
Nor did I ever know what they
did for money, for food, etc.
There were a few stores around,
over to Troy and East Smithfield,
but each of them was 6 or 10
miles out. Whatever. These guys
were tough - probably they
bundled their grievances; even
if I never knew if they even
tolerated a neighbor or any
interaction. There were yet a
few broken-up and shattered
communes around, but these
guys were none of that. They
were old, and long ago they'd
definitely already gotten their own
disillusionments, and any 'young
hippie kids' they saw around
most probably just made their
blood boil anyway. I always
thought maybe I should have just
built a hut and moved up to there
somewhere instead. All that's
disappeared now, all gone. Up
atop Mt. Pisgah now is all the
usual Parks and History Dept.
fanfare, a statue of some Injun
looking out, with his long, probably
mythical name. and thoughts, like
they know. Honored in the breach,
as it were, this noble savage now
elevated by Death to a pedestal
of his very own, with a tales of
glory bullshit story trailing out
behind him. All hail, America.
I second that emotion?....
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