11,806. RUDIMENTS, pt. 704

RUDIMENTS, pt. 704
(take the good and the bad, together)
I'd guess to say, we were all kids.

one and the same, pummelled

and confused. Not by anything

particular or violent, just more

an irksome foreboding that

things around us were about to

begin moving. It may have

'seemed' solid  -  that old bear

of a world  -  but it wasn't so

much that at all. We had fathers

who'd sit around yet and go over

oddball memories or wartime,

there were at least three guys

on my block with wounds and

scars from shrapnel and such,

and we'd see them, swim trunks

and shorts for Summer. Nothing

much was ever 'made' of it all,

just the storied crap that kids

do  -  'see that rippled skin and

scar on Mr. Orlando's leg? There's

a live bullet in there, but they never

took it out because they were

afraid it would go off.' Senseless,

goofball stories, about nothing.

That was a world, and now it's

all gone, and so are all those

guys, and the wives too. The 

last one or two I can think of, 

maybe still hanging on, are 

barely there; in homes somewhere,

being catered to, until Death. 

When it all comes down to 

endings, it gets pretty simple.

-

Most of the kids  -  I end up just 

wondering where they all went.

Like the song 'Ophelia,' by The

Band. That rubber finger grows,

and I wonder where you are, the

old town ain't the same without

you being around, Ophelia, where

have you gone? Something of 

that Nature. If wishes were candles, 

I'd have this whole freaked-up 

half-assed town on fire. Add to

the paste; the grass is in clover.

-

As much as I hate missing things,

I hate having them too. That's

another of the central quandaries

of my life. Would I actually 'want'

all this old matter back again? Hell,

no. Not for the Now and not for the

Ever. What's over and done is just

that. Every old bog and swamp

here in Avenel and Woodbridge

is now sluiced and piped and 

hidden away  -  there's not a 

waterway anywhere worth its

salt (or its mercury or chromium

or oil either). Unless its shunted

aside and gathered in a new

dump-pond of apartment and

warehouse runoff and they go 

calling it Nature and Preserve

while the trucks and the big

whiz-bangs all go rolling by

and 3,000 South Asians and

Mexicans work the pristine and

remotely-processed warehouses

speaking not a word of this place's

language or sharing any of its 

history or ethos. Then they throw

up some toxic-meadow import

species trees and call it 'Ernie 

Oros Preserve.' And they then

manufactured a narrative to go

with it  -  Ernie Oros Nature's

Superman, on the placard. I

knew Ernie Oros, and so did

Planko's Tavern  -  all through 

those St. George Press years, he

hung around. When he could 
stand. I'll quit that now, OK.

-

One thing for sure I learned 

was that all of this life is a 

manufactured lie. The regular 

story books will tell you it can't

be done  -  the physics books 

would maybe say 'possible.' 

But  -  and here it is  - it CAN 

be done. Self-generated, rolling

energy can become continuous

and does not have to stop. It may 

not add to itself, may not 'increase,'

but with a modicum of tending,

it can be continuous. My proof is

myself and Frank Stroehlein.

We used to set out, on bicycles,

maybe 10 years old, maybe 11,

from 116 Inman Avenue, on 

out little experiment. We'd start

out, on the bikes, with maybe 10

or 12, at most, pumps of the

pedals, to get things rolling.

That was it. We'd found that, 

if done right and without any

real, undue, obstructions, after

those initial few pedals, with

whatever travel-speed we'd

gotten up, by coasting, and 

with, all the time, a gentle 

and constant 'weaving' of 

the handlebars, we could 

make it to Avenel Park, all

the way, without any further 

pedaling. I don't know the

distance, maybe it's a mile or

a tad more? But whatever. We'd

devised, experimented and then

proved a premise. Outside of

logic, straight thought, or

schooling, we'd  -  by going

around the bend of strictness  -

flirted and succeeded with 'idea'

and function. Plain and simple.

-

That was just the way it went,

some form of f'd up Avenel

prologue to the rest of Life.

My sadness these days still

blunts it all  -  Frankie's dead,

died as an electrician somewhere,

Jim Yacullo's dead  -  he was 

another kid pal who did this 

with us. It's just me ('he thinks

to himself') left to run this 

waterwheel? (Well, we used

to ride it past Al Zinze's house!

He was a Science guy...Perpetual

Motion Machine, was it, we'd

kind of discovered?). Not really.

We took roads instead called

Stasis Street, and Status Quo

Avenue. All dead-ends.

-

The breadman came by one day,

I forget his name now and all

that, except that he called everyone

'Goombah', whatever that was;

I suppose the equivalent to my

father's calling everyone 'Chief'

or 'Bud.' Anyway, my mother 

had a stray cat, early on, this was

maybe 1956, that she'd taken in,

and it had some horrible open

growth, wound thing on its

rear thigh, one side or the other.

All it ever did was stay curled

up on the top step of our cellar

stairway, wound side up, 

festering. It made me sad and

afraid each time I saw it  -  of

the consequences, the idea of it

suffering, and even of its death,

One day my mother showed it

to this Goombah guy. On his

next visit in, a few days later,

he took it away, the cat, saying

it was 'cancer' and needed to be

treated. So they said. He drove

away with the sorrowful thing in
a cardboard box. And that was

the last I ever heard of that cat,

the episode, and/or any cure.

I still grieve.

-

The good and the bad always

does get all mixed up together.

Only a really person can tell the

difference. I was never one of them.