RUDIMENTS, pt. 651
(all gone now but the memory lingers)
If anyone thinks a writer or
a creative person never gets
the blues, which thought is
probably not prevalent in
any case - most people
probably figure a writer is
always problematic - let
me say they do. But one of
the benefits of that character
type is that you can just write
your way through it, or paint
your way through it, whichever
sort of endeavor you're doing.
It works and it has probably
saved me zillions in shrink
appointments. Yeah, yeah, no
one calls them 'shrinks' anymore,
like no one calls a politician
a crook, but I do - because,
face it, what are they trying
to do really but 'shrink' your
awareness of yourself into the
manageable chunks they can
be paid for? Same thing. Being
better than all that, as a creative
person, all boundaries fall away
and the 'need' for any of that
is seen for what it is - not a need
at all but rather another way for
'Society' to go about claiming you,
so you don't show up at some small
town political rally with a gun or
go slamming through a supposed
question and answer period with
real comments and real facts for
a change. Everything is set up
against all that, and that in itself
is enough to make whitey blue.
Not saying I'm whitey, of course,
'cause I'm not. My kin have always
been darkened reprobates.
-
Now I'm not saying things are
never good. They are, lots of
times. Like Sam Clemens' friend
said one day to him (Mark Twain)
watching the crowd assemble
for one of Twain's humorous
broadside lectures : 'Sam damn
fools, Sam; same damn fools.'
-
As a for instance, let's take this :
the writer Thomas Wolfe was a
real trouble case. 'An undisciplined
ungovernable American whose sea
was the land of his birth and whose
words seeking 'to find language
again in its primitive sinews' rioted
out of him by the millions. A few
years before he died, he saw a
sequoia for the first time. He stared
upward for a moment in unbelieving
silence, then ran to the big tree, his
long arms stretched wide. It was a
boyish gesture, but this man of thirty-
five still believed that he might draw
into his embrace the biggest thing
that lived....Wolfe strode in size-13
shoes, and was embarrassed by his
6 ft. 6, 245 lb. frame, carrying his
eccentricities with him until fame
had transformed them into folklore.
He seldom washed, changed his
shirt, or had a haircut; he could live
for hours, even days, on cigarettes,
and coal-black coffee, then swallow
12 eggs, two quarts of milk, and an
entire loaf of bread in one breakfast.
Wild-eyes and forever talking with
all the intensity of his written prose,
he sprayed everyone in range with
reservoirs of spittle from the corners
of his mouth. Some thought him
ludicrous, but thousands worshiped
the ground his feet never quite touched.
Sooner or later he accused all his
friends of tormenting him, but he
needed them badly, and once, at a
party in his new Manhattan apartment,
he reached to the ceiling with a black
crayon, and wrote: Merry Christmas
to all my friends and love from Tom.'
Am I blue? No, I don't think so.
-
He: Let's discuss it. She: Not with you
in the room. That's like a 1920's vamp
comedy routine of a husband and wife
going at each other over something. I
don't think people write those sorts of
loose comedies anymore, though they
might, but the mindset of the whole
world is different now. Proper studio
operatives now would demand that one
or the other party here kills the mate
and the 'comedy' would then veer off
into the action-adventure of the chase.
Too bad. Too bad because nothing is
really like that at all.
-
I think probably the closest equivalent
I could come to a Pennsylvania country
routine, in Avenel, is a place, a house
with a workshop garage, that used to
be on Fifth Ave., just the third or the
fourth house on the other side of Fifth
from the old candy store. It was just
one of those plain, old, houses which
fill that street. It was owned by this
older man, Mr. Cermayn, (better check
my spelling on that one), I think it was,
who ran - out of his garage - a small
sewing shop and industrial needle-trades.
My father, being an upholsterer, used
him for stitching chair cushions, pillows
for the items that my father's machine
wasn't 'heavy duty' enough for - they'd
spend entire afternoons there, at the
rear garage workshop, doors open,
just going on about things while the
slow production of fabrics and cushions
went on. It was pretty cool - and it had a
real old-world flavor to it. Looking back,
it was a lot like the farmers and their usual
lackadaisical goof-off manners while
getting things done. People who work
a lot on cars in their yards (or used to)
have the same mannerisms about their
own works and ways too. There used to
be a lot of that in Avenel; it's all gone
now but the memory lingers.
-
I like smoothly running things, but
most people are not that at all. There
are always the bumps and ripples that
poke through and must be dealt with.
The changes of age and attitude
often keep people crimped, tightened,
afraid of a change or an alteration.
The vast majority of people simply
refuse to get past that, in fact,
insist on letting it trip them up. It's
easily recognizable by resistance and
irritability and crankiness. I never
saw so much of that as when I lived
amidst the lands, habits, and
properties of old 1930's farmers
passing slowly out of this life as
it wended its way into and through
the 70's. Change is a cruel master,
and many of these folk really
detested it all. These guys were
harsh, tough, and without regrets.
-
I like smoothly running things, but
most people are not that at all. There
are always the bumps and ripples that
poke through and must be dealt with.
The changes of age and attitude
often keep people crimped, tightened,
afraid of a change or an alteration.
The vast majority of people simply
refuse to get past that, in fact,
insist on letting it trip them up. It's
easily recognizable by resistance and
irritability and crankiness. I never
saw so much of that as when I lived
amidst the lands, habits, and
properties of old 1930's farmers
passing slowly out of this life as
it wended its way into and through
the 70's. Change is a cruel master,
and many of these folk really
detested it all. These guys were
harsh, tough, and without regrets.
-
I get a good kick, still, out of things,
even when I'm bleak and surly. What I
see coming out the end of the poop-chute
of what's left of today, however, isn't
very pretty : 'The best way to bottle up
anger is to turn men into women.' When
I read that the other day (I was re-reading
a book a friend had given me about a
month back), I was taken. I lift this quote,
for now, without full attribution - which
will be forthcoming as I 'review' the little
book - but it sure suits finely the day's
situation around me, with all those
super-sensitive fake political dudes
pissing on everything in their niceness.
'After years of consensus seeking,
reaching out, coming together, building
bridges, linking arms, and tying yellow
ribbons, the feminization of America
is now complete. American men have
been turned into their own secret police,
under orders to kick down their own
doors in the middle of the night and
arrest themselves for 'insensitivity.' It's
so pervasive that it has even changed
the way men talk, not just their tones but
the whole thrust of their conversations.
Persuaded that normal masculine
directness and unequivocality might
make people angry, today's men have
adopted the age-old feminist stratagem
of hurt feelings and the newer feminist
technique of politicized nagging to get
their points across.' Now, I'm not to
vouch for any of that, because I'm not
in the center of maelstrom, BUT I can
say, from my point of viewing it, that
the real dishonor is being done when
people lie and misrepresent to others.
Period. Women are abased and dishonored
by being lied to. Men, who should be
equals to the bearer, are belittled by a
boy-man taking their gullibilty for
granted. Men, women, I see no
difference in the end-user, but I do
see a vast difference in the abuser.
-
It used to be that when you walked
down the street you knew what you
were getting. Now you don't. Every
10th step brings you closer to someone's
pathetic, hurt edge, and no one owns
up to anything at all. Meanwhile, we
live in the subconscious ruins of the
world that has been taken from us
by the smiley little hoofers in their
painted-up cars. Meet me at Cermayn's;
we'll hang out for a while and talk.
-
Back in those 1970's, of which I
often write here, for varying episodes,
my Geology teacher guy at Elmira
College - who later, you may recall,
moved to Austin, TX, just packing it
all in, after living so nicely right next to
Mark Twain's cemetery - he got me
way interested in Eric Sloane. He was
a writer, a special writer, with a real
feel for what was already, back then,
lost: fences, wood, old roadways, barns,
etc. 'Reverence For Wood' was his
big one; but he wrote numerous books.
I still make the connection : 'Mere
antiquity is not what interests him.
Instead, he puts a shine on the
tools of the pioneers, constantly
admiring the skill and care of
craftsmen who thought enough
of themselves, their work, and the
times they lived in to date and sign
everything they made. Building houses
without nails, one that would go up
and stay up for a hundred years,
how to make a folding ladder,
a wooden tub, a cider press. Woods
were selected according to capability,
in these projects; and when a wagon
was built - oak frame, elm sides
and floor, ash spokes and shafts,
pine seat, hickory slats - it lasted
about 12 times as long as does a
Cadillac now. Young boys would
get up on Winter mornings, run
across the road to the barn, push
the cow or oxen aside, and then
stand and dress in the warm area
where the animal had been sleeping.'
(Try that now, any of you mamby-boys).
-
'If a house had more than ten panes
of glass, the owner paid a glass tax.
So most houses had just ten and no
more. Window glass, in fact, was
so valuable that a family often took
the panes with them when they moved
from one house to the other.'
Yeah, man.
-
Back in those 1970's, of which I
often write here, for varying episodes,
my Geology teacher guy at Elmira
College - who later, you may recall,
moved to Austin, TX, just packing it
all in, after living so nicely right next to
Mark Twain's cemetery - he got me
way interested in Eric Sloane. He was
a writer, a special writer, with a real
feel for what was already, back then,
lost: fences, wood, old roadways, barns,
etc. 'Reverence For Wood' was his
big one; but he wrote numerous books.
I still make the connection : 'Mere
antiquity is not what interests him.
Instead, he puts a shine on the
tools of the pioneers, constantly
admiring the skill and care of
craftsmen who thought enough
of themselves, their work, and the
times they lived in to date and sign
everything they made. Building houses
without nails, one that would go up
and stay up for a hundred years,
how to make a folding ladder,
a wooden tub, a cider press. Woods
were selected according to capability,
in these projects; and when a wagon
was built - oak frame, elm sides
and floor, ash spokes and shafts,
pine seat, hickory slats - it lasted
about 12 times as long as does a
Cadillac now. Young boys would
get up on Winter mornings, run
across the road to the barn, push
the cow or oxen aside, and then
stand and dress in the warm area
where the animal had been sleeping.'
(Try that now, any of you mamby-boys).
-
'If a house had more than ten panes
of glass, the owner paid a glass tax.
So most houses had just ten and no
more. Window glass, in fact, was
so valuable that a family often took
the panes with them when they moved
from one house to the other.'
Yeah, man.
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