11,841. RUDIMENTS, pt. 718

RUDIMENTS, pt. 718

(such is our progress, pt 1)

There was never any flamingo

that I ever saw that was real

on anyone's lawn, pink or 

otherwise. And anyhow, if 

there was, old Joe McCarthy 

would surely have come

and taken them away, 1950 

style. At the end of Avenel, 

down by the swamps, where 

everyone used to learn to 

drive in the dirt paths that

doubled as lover's lanes 

and birthing rooms too,

there was an internment 

camp for Commies. My

mother, for a while, worked

in the mess-hall kitchen, or

whatever that was called.

She had to wear a hair net

and some sort of bluish 

smock  -  I think that's the

word. I always mixed it up

with those hospital robes or

scrubs or whatever they are 

that some medical people

wore. Kind of it was all the

same, except that my mother

looked ridiculous in that

hairnet and get-up. It's amazing

what people go through to make 

a few bucks. Funny even. I

remember, over at St. George

Press, the days when the same

two goofy Fire Inspector guys

would show up, in their pithy

little fire togs with Inspector

badges, everyone would just 

roll their eyes. The joke was

that the day before, somehow,

we'd get a call that the inspectors

were coming, and we'd then

spend an hour or two covering

things over, cleaning up the stacks

of paper and cut-offs, solvents,

inks, and chemicals. Those guys

didn't know 'printing' from the

hole in their backsides, and they'd

roll in, all righteous about their

task, expecting everyone to bow

down to their paperwork and

badges. The funniest part was,

years later, when the place finally

DID burn down, it was all by

design and those guys didn't

know a thing, or, hey, maybe

they did. Money talks, nobody

walks, like the slogan used to

say on the side of the Flagship

in Route 22 in Union, NJ  -  suits

with two pairs of pants, for 25 

bucks! (1966 dollars).
-
A lot of everything has to do 
with  appearances  -  the uniforms 
and badges, as silly and faux-military 
as they may be  - go a long way towards
supporting the fantasy of might and
power. 'History' itself is most often
a gauze that we place over the mist
of the past, to try to capture it;
some people dwell in those mists
of memory denoting rightness and
strength, and never get over it.
History really is what we make
up of what we say is the past.

-

Anyhow, back to the prison camp,

and the kitchen and all  -  my

mother's almost medical-looking

scrubs always seemed to fit

because the place really hadn't

much of a difference from a

hospital, and the food was

probably just as tainted, for the

inmates. People suspected of

subversion (that's so old-hat now;

who's not!). They used to put

something called Saltpeter in

the food too, so the men wouldn't

get erections  -  it was from the

French practice. I think they

call it Salte Pietre or something,

named after the Paris Hospital

where they first developed it  -  

maybe it wasn't even a hospital

but a prison. I forget. You better

look that up. The French Foreign

Legion used it too, for their guys; 

but I was told, when push came to 

shove with the lovelies, it little

mattered and was, basically, 

ineffective. It gives a whole new

meaning to the shakers of 'Accent'

that used to be on people's tables

in the 1960's. Down in the Avenel

swamps, where the internment

camp was - I think it later, actually,

was turned into 'Royal Foods', a

distribution center for restaurant

and diner supplies. And there's 

another place there now too  -  

along the same stretch of road  -

Economics Laboratory, or ELC

now, these days they like acronyms,

and they made and sent out by 

the truckloads industrial-strength

cleaning products, janitorial

supplies, soaps, detergents, etc.

When I lived out in the far country

of Pennsylvania, each Friday night,

if I looked, (I guess it was there,

even if I didn't look, actually),

there'd be a large, Economics

Laboratory, tractor trailer pulled

up at the turnout where truckers

overnighted when they were on 

the road. Even back then, 

disconnected as I was from

most everything, it would give

me a kick to see a truck from

Avenel NJ, with the name and

place on the side, in such a far

off location. Kind'a cool.

-

Back to the swamps, OK. The

thing I found out, over time, about

Avenel  -  prison camp, prison, and

all the rest, was that it had always

been a dumping ground, a slag-heap

wherein the State of New Jersey

would always find a way to dump

its unwanted and useless effects.

First it was the prison, and its farm

lands. That was taken away after

many years, and replaced with the

hideous  collection of freaks and

cast-offs put into the State School.

That stayed in pace for years and

years. As I've written of before,

it was fence-lined, and if a person

crossed the tracks, from the rear 

area of my house, along Inman Ave.,

which I did all the time, there'd

be malformed, wailing, scary,

strange, and super intense, 

deformed creatures clutching, 

grabbing at the fence, screaming out. 

These were severely deficient kids,

turned out by their parents and

given over to the care of the

State. For a while my girlfriend

of those days was a volunteer

there, and she'd know some of the

situations and characters  -  each

with their own strangeness :

Mongoloids, severely retardeds,

lunatics, physically infirm, etc.

She had her one favorite creature,

whom she used to feed as part of

her work-task  -  John Balby or

Valvy or Valby, or something. 

He'd mutter and moan, weird 

noises, and then chomp on the 

spoon containing the foods and 

sway and moan back and forth 

as he ate. They had a small

and special relationship going. 

The people along the fenceline, 

in the same way, and as maddening 

as it ever was, and tragically so, 

would, if you extended a hand, 

clutch and show extreme thanks 

for the moment, as if they were 

emotionally starved for some

sunlight of interpersonal contact

and not the institutionally deadening 

and horrific stat-solutioned dump

they'd been placed into. You could

make some real heart-to-heart and

soul contact with these poor

creatures; like apes in a zoo.

But no one cared, because

this was officially detailed and

programmed State institutional

care. Basically a holding pen for

these kids  -  there were some

oldsters there, into their 40's, 

and it was all truly amazing.Thus

speaketh Avenel. with a grunt

and a moan. It's always been

a sewer.

-

In some madman's version 

of a George Jetson set, (probably

some fool's idea of modernity,

jet-age crap, serving the very

oldest of human needs, that

being asylums for cast-offs),

the State School was built, 

architecturally, in what were 

called 'satellite' groupings  -  

round buildings, each with 

their courtyard and passageways,

some connecting one to the 

other. If seen from the air, or 

by diagram,  this configuration 

showed itself to be somewhat 

a series of spoked and rounded 

huts, thus augmenting the 

consolidation of cooling, 

heating, water, sewer and 

the rest. There were one or 

two larger powerhouses and

service buildings. I used to do

some of their state printing

too, and was often enough 

allowed in, to get to the offices

and administrative sections (a

central building in one of the

satellite hubs). I never saw any

sense in warehousing people

in this manner, and, probably,

until about 1850, such creatures

would just have been cast out

and abandoned or killed. Such,

such then, is our progress.

(part 2, next).