RUDIMENTS, pt. 691
(leveled, crushed, destroyed)
It would probably be safe
to say that, past a certain
point most of the things
I did to make up my 'life'
were bordering the irrational.
I never got abnormal or
perverse or bizarre in any
of those clinical ways -
this is all meant more
towards the observational,
private stuff; the sorts of
things I stayed with to
write about or work from
or just 'observe to absorb.'
It's a private, strange world.
The main problem comes
when it has to mesh with
others - which is for sure
why the workaday world
was always a big problem
for me. Using that word
'mesh' is probably a good
use too - the general idea
is that my 'fabric' is of a
weave and texture unlike
most others. I'm the corduroy
that got crossed with some
silk and lace and then sewn
into some denim with a
flannel lining, to be worn
with a flannel shirt, and a
tie that has little clown-heads
all over it, and a Windsor knot.
Ain't that peculiar?
-
Working with others always
drove me crazy. I remember
in second grade, Miss Shur,
as I recall - it was one of
those parents' and teachers'
conference days. My mother
and father somehow had both
attended the mid-day open
house at the school. Parents
were able to meet with the
teacher at designated times,
go over (me) the student, the
good, the bad, habits and
behavior and such. And then
they were allowed, if they
wished, to sit at the rear of
the room, and observe the
session. It was almost
totally stupid because each
kid knew they were there,
the parents, and so nothing
was really 'normal' at all.
Anyway, the big thing that
day, for me, was something
about 'deportment' - which
was a word I'd never heard
before, and which, for some
reason, my mother valued
moreso than all A's. I was
lucky, in that I had a reported
'Very Good' deportment.
I think it was, like, 'attitude,'
and how well I worked with
the other kids, and how I
carried myself. My mother
was real pleased. Right after
that, we got in the car and
my father was driving up
Route One towards Bayonne,
and he decided, along that
section by the airport, to
demonstrate what the teacher
had told them was a bad habit
of mine : evidently she'd said
that when I was writing, I
didn't write relaxed, I was
all scrunched down, my head
close to the paper, and I gripped
the pen or pencil way too tightly.
I actually had no clue what the
heck they were talking about,
but, at 60mph, my father decides
to demonstrate, while driving,
and goes into the cramped
writer's crouch. Good grief!
I recall a yelp from my mother,
as we nearly gut killed as the
car lurched nearly into the
concrete divider as my father's
eyes were WAY off the road!
So, that's school for you.
-
I took a lot of things too
humorously too. I say it
now and I face it off - I
find many tings just plain
funny. Always have. And that
surely detracts from any of the
'dedication' I'd imagine one
should have towards the serious
tendencies of the major task
at hand : like career and work
and achievement. See that hill of
beans over there? Yeah, that's
the one. It doesn't even amount
to that. I used to skip school
on career day.
-
Certain things are just perfect.
Like this one : In about 1955, the
artist Larry Rivers painted what
is called 'Washington Crossing the
Delaware.' It was groundbreaking,
set a lot of people astir, and was
purchased early on by the Museum
of Modern Art, at what today seems
a laughable $2500. Reviewing it
on display, and accounting for
Rivers' career til' then, poet Frank
O'Hara wrote (and I always thought
this was so great) "Larry entered
the scene like a demented telephone.
Nobody knew whether to put it
in the library, the kitchen, or the
toilet, but it was electric." Another
good one (these guys were all
great cut-ups) involves Kenneth
Koch (who came to Elmira College,
I've written, for a reading and
then hung out a while with
famous art-teacher guy there I
got to know, NY 1950's Beat era
painter, Gandy Brody), John
Ashbery, and others. They were
sitting around one day, having
dinner, prepared by Arnold Weinstein,
one of their number - whowas
known for his crummy food, and
in particular his lousy antipasto
usually consisting of 'three olives,
two slices of salami, and a chunk
of Velveeta cheese.' John Ashbery
declined it. 'What's the matter,
John, are you anti-pasto?', Arnold
asked. 'No,' John replied, 'I'm
pro-volone.'
-
That sort of stuff was right up my
alley - the art banter, the absurdity,
the abstract linguistics. It was all
I cared about, and in most respects
I could never get it together enough
for myself to care about those other
societal attributes - owning, getting,
striving, and the rest. Let alone the
idea of watching where you were
going as you drove. I'd rather the
scrunch. Even in the art world, by
references, there are things to
learn. And I learned them. Larry
Rivers also did a series of Dutch
Master Cigar guy paintings - also
famous now. They're all called
'Dutch Masters,' and with a number.
The whole sequence. 'I'; 'President's
Relief,'; etc. BUT, the cool thing
is how they lead you to other things :
Geography. "The hills and valleys
of the Bronx were shaved clean
in the eighteenth century as life
moved north from New York
Harbor. Sprouting from these
bald surfaces were reds, yellows,
browns, beiges, bright at first,
all to become gray. Schools,
stores, courts, factories, houses,
low, high, narrow, fat functional
sculptures throwing shadows
over miles of gray gutters and
sidewalks. The hills of the Bronx
really continue to exist. A few
hundred yards from the Harlem
River, which divides the Bronx
from Manhattan [Larry Rivers
was from the Bronx, like I'm
'from' Avenel], Tremont Avenue
begins. Tremont (the name means
'three mountains' in Italian) takes
many wild turns until it descends
shapely to Webster Avenue, a
valley known in time for bottling
milk, baking breads, adjusting
brakes, recapping tires, and the
Yankee Stadium. This Webster
Avenue is named for the Daniel
who dominated the Senate in
the 1850's, the cigar company
in the 1950's, and my [Rivers']
paintings for twenty years."
-
This narrative goes on, and is
great, about Tremont, cigar
factories, Old Gold cigarette
billboards there ('Not a Cough
In a Carload'), liquor shops,
bakers and grocers, Belmont
Avenue ('Beautiful Mountain')
and Crotona Avenue (was a
Greek city situated high up on
the coast of Calabria in southern
Italy). I use these things only as,
an example to show, for myself,
how 'Art' was never just art. It
took me places, I constantly
learned from it, following
leads, ideas, and creative
hunches. For me, that's what
Life was all about. The rest,
you can have. I don't get too
caught up. And furthermore,
all that wonderful topography
that I kept, and keep, reading
about - the old, natural 'place'
that once New York was and
where we live now, here, all
about us - its ALL gone.
Leveled. Crushed. Destroyed.
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