RUDIMENTS, pt. 654
(hold on there a minute, buddy!)
When I was a kid, there
was no deadlier sport in
old School 4 than the
red-ball version of the
game of volleyball that
we played, (or had to
play) indoors in those
two concrete rooms that
were used for 'recess.'
The two rooms, with sort
of built-in bench seats,
also concrete, along the
wall were painted in a
gloss-gray version of
industrial paint, and the
overall impression given,
with doors closed and all,
was of 30 kids, left in a
sinking submarine, and
trying to kill each other
with flying red dodge balls
which went careening around,
mostly headed for people's
temples, faces, foreheads
or noses. Take it from me,
it occasionally worked. A
good dead-hit was enough
to take someone down, dazed
and blinkered, and often, as
well, back up with a good
sized spot of red welt on
their face. In was all in the
spirit of getting back at the
school (well, someone had
to pay) for making us also
occasionally have to 'square
dance' in some stupid
arrangement of boy/girl
similarity (OH! If we only
knew!). It too never quite fit.
There was, as well, a period
of time for me, in about 5th
grade I suppose it was, when
a recurring and frightful series
of dreams at night kept hitting
me. They each were serial, in a
growing sequence, and involved
me being from Mars, with a secret
'alien' factor in my make-up,
with secretive longings and
magical knowledge and powers,
and they all/each took place
IN that very recess room we
kept getting sentenced to. In
these dreams, always also
recurring, a friend's Mother,
a neighborhood kid, was in
on the know, of this, and with
me, but it was 'our' secret, as
she too was one of 'them.' It
was all very weird. I never
spoke to anyone or her, about
this, but I did write things
down once or twice. In any
case, I really disliked that
basement gym and recess room,
and thought the entire idea to be
base and stupid. And, as far as
'education' and not 'socialization'
went, completely useless. I have
to say, it's been a long time since
and I still haven't been to any
'square dance.' I also remember -
which factor I detested - having
to, because of shortage of girls
or something, occasionally dance
with this creepy kid named John
Mannerly, in place of some other
5th grade Mary or Jane who did
not exist. Now for all I know, John
may have been and may have turned
out as, a perfectly fine, wise and
wealthy individual. I don't know.
All I do know, and remember, are
the recollections he's left me with.
Clammy hands, always moist, and
sometimes even wet, and to make
it worse, they were in some weird
way 'perfumed.' Whether it was
soap or whatever, it always ended
up on my hands too, for at least
the rest of the day, and was quite
distasteful and unpleasant for me. I
don't know John's current sexuality,
no, but to me, looking back, I'm
pretty sure I could have bet a lot
of money that he liked boys. An
early harbinger of.....well, maybe
I should check out the Avenel
Arts Center staff.
-
Everything back then was far and
distant, and I tried making sure it
stayed that way. If I had had any
inklings, then, of all the entrapments
which that schooling and that
atmosphere would be trying to
lead me into, I'd have run away
by 1959, believe me; but I was
too stupid or naive or reticent
about things to doubt or have
reservations about such upstanding
factors of that life as the foolish
teachers around me, the social
dictates of things like fallout
shelters, air raid drills (under the
desk? To be protected from
flying glass? In a atomic bomb
attack? Were these assholes even
half serious?); Sputniks, Commies,
large cars, parking lots, pointed
bras, stiletto heels, and Marilyn
Monroe. Well, if that was the
real world then, you could have
it. One saving grace was, right
by that torrid dodge ball killing
zone, there was a tabletop set,
by the restroom doors at the
rear entrance, of eraser-cleaning
machines - like circular and
rotating power burrs, that would
clean the erasers. For the 6th grade,
it was me and Theresa (Terry) Knox
who got the assignment. It was
pretty cool, at first. In the first
stages of cleaning, we used to just
walk outside and clap the chalky
erasers on the school's concrete
wall; white dust and all, flying
around. And then they introduced
and installed the electric-cleaners
on a benchtop platform. That took
all the fun out of the whole routine,
and I hated it; but as I recall we
were still both stuck doing it. It
was supposed to be an 'honor' -
like being selected, back when
they had them, to be one of the
crossing guard kids. That too
is all over now. They actually
pay people now, mostly old
geezers, to do that task. Theresa
was the person who taught me
to say Danke Shoen, for 'thank
you.' I think they were German,
or German/Jewish, not that the
subject ever came up.
-
There were plenty of awful
moments back then, but it all
passed and I wouldn't wish the
same experiences on anyone
today - not that any kid would
have to undergo that. Everything's
different enough that they surely
must live through their own
horrors, which I can't share
at all. Past a certain point
it all doesn't matter anyway,
and I passed that point points
ago. My personal opinion? One
out of three of the kids you see
today will be dead in twenty
years; gobbled up and spit out
as mangled meat by the mad
war-machine which still runs
things. Another third will be the
everyday skunks who sit around
their homes and yards lost in space,
doing strenuous lawn duty, or just
staring at one sort of screen or
another. It's that final third that's
interesting, for that gets broken
up into, perhaps, sixths - (totally
random) 1/6 doers, 1/6 scholars, arts
and idea people, 1/6 adventurers,
etc., etc. And ad infinitum too.
It doesn't matter, and what's
inevitable is the death-knell for
society as we now know it.
-
My own life was always very
segmented, as I saw it. The crisis
of the train-wreck years, the
seminary, then that final delirious
remnant of high school, which
just confirmed my hatred of all
things systemic, then NYC and
the Studio School, which somehow
gave me a life back, then the
far-off wilds of high Pennsylvania,
then Elmira and Ithaca, and the
rest of my boring life, basically
consisting of loss and treason,
so as to work, raise a kid, have
a family thing intact, and yet
still stay sane and closed into
to what really mattered. NYC,
thought, and ideas. My form of
'continuing education' by which
I eked out a modest, base, life.
-
Excuse me while I load this
gun, hone this razor-knife, and
tie the right loop into the end
of this rope. One or the other
of these reserve positions must
need always be kept at the ready.
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