11,849. RUDIMENTS, pt. 722

RUDIMENTS, pt. 722

(breath easy / rest hard)

There was a time that I went

through a Houdini stage of my

very young days. It may have 

been in the year or two after 

the train wreck. I didn't know

much about Harry Houdini, 

just the basic stuff I'd gleaned 

from kids' books at the local

library. I remember spending

inordinate amounts of time

trying to see how long I could

go without breathing. I don't

mean exactly 'holding my breath,'

which I guess is one thing, by

procedure; I mean more just

stopping breathing. A bit like

being dead; just going off-air.

I try it now, and I'm about 

dead in 14 seconds. Yet, back

then I seem to remember passing

the minute mark, even half that

again. Maybe. Or maybe it's my

mind, with a trick. A minute and

a half doesn't sound like much?

Try it. The major theme of Houdini

wasn't about holding one's breath

anyway, but to work out of locks

and shackles, while underwater

in a tub; with quick skill. One 

certainly needs all the excess 

lung capacity obtainable there;

thus the breath fascination.

As I see it now, even if I'm

already failing at 14 seconds,

it's more fear than it is anything

else. There's a more mature

mind pushing the irrational; how

empty that dead halt seems, no

air, no sound either (they seem 

to run together). It takes me 

right out of body. Very strange. 

To be so cognizant of not 

breathing is almost like 

looking back to watch 

yourself die.

-

And then I woke up. Yep, in

the sense that  -  Harry Houdini

or not  -  there was no escape.

I could hold my breath for a 

year and probably still be alive.

I was a tenant, in this place,

this 'Avenel,' this pre-formed

configuration of space and time.

So many things around me just

seemed to work against me. I 

think that the predilection of

'Life' is for its efforts to go

more into stopping a person

than it is for advancing a

person along. Life doesn't really

was for you to escape the big

fire conflagration underway.

'Listen to your betters,' it

says. 'Buck not, lest you be

bucked.' Along those lines.

I always did contrarian things,

of which mostly others would

be aghast  -  walking the tracks,

crossing them,  trespassing,

ruining things. It all sure seemed

like anti-establishment stuff,

but really it was just anarchy.

Dumb kids get that way; they

aren't pushing limits, because

they don't realize there are any.

Take it from me.

-

There's a place around here

called Bunns Lane. It's been

around forever, anyway like 

the late 1950's. In a big city

they'd have been called the 

'projects' but here they never

were. They were used basically 

as another tap-root for the big

tree of graft and corruption that

always goes on. A few people

here too did jail time, the Housing

Authority chief and a  few others.

They got found out, like, invoicing

over and over for refrigerators and

things, at inflated prices, and

finagling around the paperwork

and all to rake it all in. Junk like

that happens always  -  small

town minds think small. In big

towns they do it too, but on a

bigger scale. Same small idiots

and their small thoughts, just

a larger milk-wagon to drink 

from. So, this one here, Bunns

Lane, after all these years, had

been torn down, in stages, and 

still going on, and newer versions

immediately erected and all the

same people get placed back in,

into brand-new places the envy

of the rest of the township's

poor folk. I don't care about that,

and that's not the point I'm making.

For me here now, it's the roadway.

It's been all torn up for months,

patched and cut and dug and 

patched again. You can't go

fast there, even if you wanted 

to. I've driven it a hundred 

times probably in 8 or 9

months, and I realize now the

solution it affords. A real

money saver. Of course, no

one ever tries 'saving' money,

so the idea's about as dead as

a condom in a maternity ward,

but  -  they pave all these roads,

endless man-hours and machinery.

Smooth and fast, painted with

new lines, turn lanes, and the

rest. People drive it. Fast.

Because it's new and it's smooth,

etc. Then, since that happens,

they roll through with 'speed

bumps' to slow people down.

Really slow them down. I

wonder, why don't they just 

let them be, like Bunns Lane,

bumpy and decrepit and in

disrepair, so that the best you

can do is like 12 mph using

any good sense. Maybe 20,

if you're crazy. Think of all

the money that could be saved

by not paving for speed and

then having to slow it all down

again. Just freakin' leave it,

and the slow happens for free.
Living on a rutted and bumpy
road, I've found, 'humanizes'
you very quickly, and you're the
better for it.  Probably too much 
for those little Muni-dweebs 
to think about.

-

I spent many a night in New 

York City, up. Not sleeping.

I was either out walking, or

hunkered down, reading, in 

my cool basement hideaway

room in the Studio School.

I devoured many a volume of

forgotten lore down there. 
(That's a Poe reference, yeah).

Nights go quickly when you

pay them no attention, and lots

of times all of a sudden it was

morning again of the next day.

That got confusing. You run 

on ahead of yourself that way, 

losing track of what day it is, 

and when was what, and all 

the rest. There weren't any 

appointments or things on a

schedule to worry about. It

took  me a long time to again 

reach that point in life. After a
seeming lifetime of doing the
bidding of others, it comes as
a shock that 'it's all yours again.'
Someone should write that up 
some. Good story there. If you

ever do get out into a city night,

you see a lot of real characters,

and things too. There's a particular

sort that comes out at night, let's

call it 'crepuscular'  -  like  the

Theolonious Monk tune, With

Nellie, or whoever. Half-light

and all its destinations: The

drive-by-night truckmen, 

banging'and smashing their

freight around, taking smokes

while they wait for receiving

crews; buying something to eat

in some crazy all-night dive;

checking out the hookers and

divers who seem to end up

everywhere at certain hours

The old waitress types, florid

and decorative, going on and 

on about themselves, talking 

about ideas and reams, doing

puzzles with the same pencil

they take your order. Everyone

talks, but no one says much of

anything. Common currency.

Wars and rumors of war.