11,702. RUDIMENTS, pt. 661

RUDIMENTS, pt. 661
(reality is a bloodbath)
'Let's have the why and

how of it, there are lights

on in every room here,

what are we, made of

money?' I never wanted

to have to be like that;

it seemed like such a

baseless preoccupation.

Not to be avoided, no,

but at least to be aware

of 'trying' to avoid. It

always just seemed

cheesy to me to have

to be that way. I guess,

however, if money is

a real concern, a few

minutes of extra lightbulb

times is a serious concern.

Once I got out of my

house, I never met any

other people who seemed

worried over things like

that  -  they just all rolled

along, buying what and

when they chose. It sure

put a lie to all that dumb

'classless society' crap we

used to learn about in

what was called 'Civics'

class  -  or be told about

anyway, because I knew

even then it was a line

of crap. Just go down

the line of any highway

new-car dealership lots

and see the difference

for yourself. Rich cars.
Poor cars.

-

There never was much of

a connection, to me, between

school and 'the real.' School

always managed to leave out

the practical stuff and go for

the silly ideal, which was

already proven as unattainable

and unreal. The whole thing

was a rat-race for crawlers,

to see who would come out

on top. It was E Pluribus

Unum anyway, not E Unum

Unum, or however that would

be said. From the One, One.

Now, I admit to not knowing

what I'm talking about. Never

did. But, then again, neither

did anyone else and they'd

never admit to it. Going to

school the idea that was

pounded in was that THEY

knew  -  the guy or lady

up front  -  and you didn't.

It was simply that sort of

power relationship that was

foisted upon you as an

unwitting kid, and by force

and with no choice in the 

matter. Most people just

went along, I suppose.

It never seemed fair, nor

sensible, to me  -  and I

wanted none of it. After 

I got the real basics down,

like having learned to read,

reason, make choices and

pick at numbers, I really 

needed little else because 

all the other 'else' was 

subjectivized prattle, in

the 'who sez?' department.

It's still like that today, and

I'd be sure to meet anyone

halfway and have a go at it,

head to head, debate to logic,

to prove my point. I've studied

and I've researched and I've 

concluded and I've proven.

And that's more than any of

the little glomheads (that's

glom, not gloom) lording

over me have ever done. I

own reality by now. Their

sick little sub-stratospheric

antics can't touch me. Even

with the painted trucks and

cars by which they declare 

and define their pathetic 

worlds. One of the things

about 'fiction' is that I've

never had time for it. I'm

too constantly busy, and too

constantly underway with

my own  material to have the

moments or inclinations to

thread with, and follow, the

convoluted inventions of

others. That's where trouble

begins. I have found life

to be all about numbers, and a

continuing series of constantly

changing equations, made

of numbers. A person must

constantly stay abreast of the

changing factors of those

numbers to attain the correct

sums, and only the correct 

sums are going to make things

correct. It's a very difficult

moment  -  at each moment.

The only other answer is 

silence, which may be 

better anyway.

-

The thing was to do every

little thing, with deliberation

and with care, while still moving

along, constantly. For me it was

about never stopping. In reality,

that's a debilitating practice,

but it's one I kept to nonetheless.

I'd watch people painting, and

there were numerous different 

kinds of painters. Slow, fast,

loose, or tight. The thing with

painting was that it belied all

else that I professed. One did

not need to be deliberate; the

entire idea of painting, in the

1960's especially, was to work

fast and work intuitively. That's

something of what the Studio

School was predicating their

form of 'instructional knowledge'

upon. It was more philosophic

that anything else  - the idea 

was based on a 'what is reality'

premise. If one needed the

exercises of simply painting

that which a camera could do

for you, than you were in the

wrong place. Those days were 

gone. The conscious camera-eye

had displeased all that old stuff,

and freed up the arts, of all types,

for multi-visional levels of a

far more intoxicating reality.

All the stops had been pulled

out and everything was set to

full 'Open.' That was a harsh

and heavy lesson to absorb,

and it made visual fools of

everyone and everything else.

I could no longer even look

at a normal person and share

their premise, ideas, outlooks,

and supposed understandings.

I was beyond that 'pale'.

-

At first it was very harsh

and intimidating, and sad 

in its way too. It becomes

very difficult to be that

distanced from others, and 

once set in, that distance 

only grows. Understandings

change and alter, and, as if

unmasked, the fallacies of 

that which everyone else

accepts are seen as blatant 

and yet so bad as to be

unimportant and certainly

not something to bring up or

try to correct others about.

Frankly, compared to 'Art'

as concept, they simply didn't

even any longer exist. Why

talk to a wall if the wall itself

is made of dead, stupid, bricks?

-

After a while the struggle is

seen as too myopic, and the

spirit wants to move on. For

me, at those time periods when

all this was most crucial, I

seemed always to be in the right 

spot. I'd managed to stay clear of

systems and grids, so I was not an

integral or enrolled part of anything

that would miss me. That little

bit of freedom in and of itself

was great.
-
As I'm writing this (an aside here,
before I close) the clock has just
rolled over to midnight, making
this 'Easter,' by the Christian
calendar  -  one of the more 
shameless, and sham, 'holidays'
of that entire pathetic tradition.
It's a perfect example of what
I mean  -  lost-dog people all
straggling around searching for
meaning and  -  in order to find 
some  - attaching weird mythology
to most everything they can. The
completely bogus aspects of any of 
this are overlooked, and people 
make instant liars out of themselves 
by playing along (and, yes, once
again, force-dragging their own kids
into the same mire). How is
anyone then supposed to pluck
meaning from the incidentals of life 
if what's presented to them is all 
the same crap? It's very psychotic, 
besides all that perfect timing, death 
at 3pm; clouds go dark, skies crackle;
Down from the cross, dragged across
town, put into a 'tomb' with a perfect
winding cloth, sweat and blood stained
facial images preserved forever on rags,
marginal and not-so-marginal people
given incidental roles  -  the rich, the
whore, the matron, the fey disciple, etc.
Three days, not 2 and 9/10's, not 3 and 
a half, it has to be three (psychotics are
always precise because you have to accept
THEIR game and their timetables). Time is
treated here, (time which is a long, single
continuum) as if it was parallel and not
continuous. These biblical folk never
saw a pop-top beverage, or a windshield
wiper; they never experienced the
written miracles and knowledge of the
physical world we now have  -  lungs,
breathing, roadways, transmission
of light and energy, all the presumed
miracles that dolts so quickly forget
about   -  yet for church purposes (of
exploitation, of power and control) are
pushed and foisted on the unwitting, as
parallel factors of time that are still
running concurrently as we exist.
It's all so false. Logic and reason are
nothing but a bloodbath. That's your
Baptism. That's your how and why.