RUDIMENTS, pt. 666
(the slag heaps of memory)
Just like anything else, it
all depends on what you like;
that's the part of this life that's
held wide open, for everyone.
Back in 1967, whatever else
it was was they may have
had going on, it was 'slimly'
possible for anyone to work
on being whatever they wished.
At ten in the morning, any of
those guys along the walkways
of the entry to Washington
Square Park, on the Bleecker
Street side, they didn't 'want'
to be anything, they just were.
This was back when, believe me,
street people weren't yet' black'
or 'Afro' or any of that. They
still had the famed 'N' word
flying around. It wouldn't yet
get you ostracized, like now,
even though it could get you
killed. Had to be careful; but,
anyway, these guys already
had their places and stances
within the park - they quickly
muttered 'weed' or whatever
the street name of that moment
was. The words were furtive,
and they were spit out. And no
one ever stood still. It was said
on the run, always in motion.
'You want smoke?' 'Mary Joy'
whatever. Half the time I never
understood what they were saying
anyway. They knew what they
were and that's what they were.
Business was quick. Secretive.
The old farts, by contrast, at the
chess tables, half-oblivious to
the circuitous world, still in
their suits, facing square out and
down, stern, unmuddied by any
passion, they held steady. Their
draw, and their money draw, was
their chess-game;chess-game
challenges, and money. Chess
guys came through all the time,
they were a breed apart, and I
could never figure them out.
There were a few chess clubs
up along Sullivan Street, pretty
nearby. I never knew what the
difference was between the club
guys and these park-chess bums.
Sometimes they seemed worlds
apart, other times not. I was
always on the prowl for some
Bobby Fisher type (he was a
big-time chess whiz champion
in the 1970's). Chess always,
like so much else, seemed a
solitary and quiet game, or sport,
or whatever. It's never really
solitary, don't get me wrong,
but in a way it is, like two
ONES playing alone against
each other. There's no real
communication underway, just
weird strategy and thinking
ahead. These chess clubs and
the better-dressed sport guys
claiming a professionalism in
the game, they always baffled
me, like MENSA people also
did. The two forms of them were
a lot alike. Haughty, yeah, but
faces stuck up their own butts
too with that righteousness about
being better, smarter, even more
urbane than others. It's all a
snookerful of you know what,
but they pull it off. I always
thought 'Predatory Chess' would
be a better name for what they
played in the park, on the open
chess tables and benches. It also
baffled me when they began to
introduce timed games. A clock
for elapsed time and timing at
each table, for speed; people
were then playing against the clock,
somehow, in a game that I always
viewed as ethereal and timeless.
Certainly without time. Who and
why they ever came up with time
chess was beyond me - like having
stopwatch sex or something. No fun
at all. A few things in my life, at
least in the periods when I was
still mostly sane, always represented
the insanity of over-living, to me.
Which is, anyway, where I wanted
to be going. Bobby Fischer, he was
crazy. Classical pianist Glenn Gould,
he was crazy too. Like Howard Hughes.
One of those baseball guys - I forget
with any surety the name but I think
it was Jimmy Piersall - he was crazy
too. Went crazy. Baseball, as another
example, was getting all mucked up
as well. A timeless, rigidly formed
game of structure and rules, but
played in joy, on green grass, open
fields, untended possibilities. And
they tried, and still so try, to put
a clock to that game. No wonder
that guy went crazy. Like Bob
Gibson, throwing at heads, was
crazy too.
-
I always demanded a full setting.
Like when you go into a restaurant;
fork, spoon, knife, glass, napkin.
That's the way 'Life', to me, should
also be presented - the slapdash and
the sloppy are all trash. When a person
begins to write - at least in my old
days - a person needed a nice, new,
clean notebook. It just gave a feel.
Like a chessboard has a knight, a rook,
King, Queen, etc. all arrayed, that's
the way the start-out for writing should
be (believe me, I know, it never is).
Pens and pencils are of the utmost
importance and - speaking of crazy -
the quirkiness and odd habits of writers
bear only a scant second-casing to
some of the things I've seen painters
do, about brushes and all, and their
spaces to work in. BUT, at the same
time Gould and Fisher were no
slouches. They were each madmen
in the things they demanded, and
sought, for matches and performances:
Room temperature, foods, seating
arrangements, positions and who
was facing what. Having a clock
against all that, I suppose, little
mattered. By the way, I used to
wonder (having read 'The American
Way of Death,' a book about the
funeral industry, by Jessica Mitford,
sometime in the mid 1960's) about
clocks in funeral homes. I guess
that doesn't happen and, goddamn,
I guess that proves the 'no need for
time' point, if anything does.
-
Down in Chinatown, where Five
Points used to be, the old fetid, slum
area, along Mulberry Bend and all,
there used to be a battery of old line
Italian funeral homes - big time
places, marble columns, vault-like
interiors, these Guidos didn't skimp
back then in the funeral department.
It mostly all gone now - Chinese,
and the real slummy stuff all removed.
Most of it now is Columbus Park,
grass, and government buildings. The
few old funeral palaces left are now
Chinese. You can still catch a funeral
there, but the Chinese do it all differently.
Little drums, processions along the
streets, at the doorways of the funeral
places the odd people gather in old,
ritual clothes, a line of musicians,
the usual ostentatious funeral cars
and flowers and all. They are quite
interesting, in their own way; just
not near as dark and morose (to me
anyway) as the old Italian-quarter
funerals I'd see - people wailing,
really miserable, squat old women,
head to toe black, veils, jackets,
clunky shoes, Mafia militiamen it
looked like, watching every move.
It all fit perfectly into the open
tombs that these funeral places
always seemed like anyway. Now
the Chinese versions of all this are,
seemingly, lighter. Pinks and yellows.
Maybe still dirgelike, but nor so
redundant about reiterating the
'DEAD' scene. After all, everyone
already knows the person's dead.
Why so the dark and bleak
gnashing of teeth? It's the same,
often enough, for the cemeteries.
The old parts are fine and reserved,
old dignity, quiet; the slag heaps
of memory are gentle and still.
Then you get to the new parts -
flowers, clowns, teddy bears
and balloons. Really, what gives?
-
There was always such a mix of
things for me to observe. I stood in
awe, often. I learned to swim by
swimming, plain and simple. The
elements of the solid New York
world around me had quickly
become my water.
-
I feel that I myself have long ago
rounded the bend - a certain quality
of 'sanity' has long ago left me. I'm
not sure exactly what elements of my
experience caused all that. But, in
any case, I've cut all the chords and
I've gotten pretty adept at the free-float
of open space. Untethered astronaut,
that's me. It seems to suit me well.
I'm just fully more comfortable that
way; and I often like to try, to take
people out, to pose. Most people have
no clue where they stand, because
they don't stand anywhere.
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