18,869. RUDIMENTS, pt. #730

RUDIMENTS, pt. 730

(this here cat, on a hot tin
roof / just as it is for me)

'On these shoulders stand the

smallest men in the world.'

That came to me in a dream

one night, a long time ago,

and is probably the stupidest

thing ever too. It was about

the same level of occurrence

as the time I looked out the

front upstairs window of

the house on Inman Avenue

I lived in  -  it was actually

my sister's room; she was

about 10. I craned leftward,

so that I could see as far down

the block as Clifford's house  -

one of the families down the

block. But in doing that, the

line of sight was somehow

intersected with the light

fixture on a streetlamp just

past the house or two next

to mine  -  Wynne's, Fehring's.

Because of that I somehow

misread what I saw (the

projecting lamp fixture), as

a UFO that had landed atop

the Clifford house roof. They

had a telephone pole out front

too. It was a special one, for

me, because it had one of those

blue-light, fire-alarm boxes on

it, with the little light always on.

Anyway, back to the UFO  -  I

swore I had witnessed a landing.

The fixture, the 'bulb' and light

hub, somehow  -  from the angle

I viewed it  -  resembled a saucer

on their roof and no one could

convince me otherwise. Until

later, I forget how long later,

I realized what I'd seen, which

illusion of optics then led me,

of course, farther into things of

that nature, ending me up, most

probably, just this side of M. W.

Escher. Now I look at it all and

laugh, but back then it was real

business and an almost-terror

too. I was pretty spooked.

-

I never fully realized myself  -

even in NYC  -  and I often

wondered if many people ever

do. I've known lots of people,

and the ones more successful

about things, alas for them,

were mostly in business. They

may have 'realized' themselves

but they always seemed so

caught up in things they they

never seemed to 'enjoy'

themselves  -  which I figured

to be more important than the

rather fleeting advantage and

flag of money and onnection.

If they were 'comics' people

or rendered graphically, they'd

probably be drawn as haggard,

hunched over figures with a

huge safe tied to their back,

laboriously carting it around,

with the drawing-marks for

sweat, toil, and anguish showing

everywhere around them  (Of

course, if someone were to draw

ME, that same image could just

as much apply  -  joke's on me,

but at least it's not about money).

-

You now the cliche'd figure of

the standard 'Villain.' Cartoons

and all have always been filled

with that. I'm not so sure what 

(or if) would be today's image

of a colloquial villain. Probably

the President. Or any President.

It really wouldn't matter because

the activity now is completely

know-nothingism anyway. No 

one knows a thing about any 

of it; they just do what they're

led to do. They're all just

envious, and want what he (or

she) has. That's probably the 

villain today  -  but how do

cartoonists today portray Greed?

That's what they're all still at

work on, searching it out.

-

Back in the early-80's, when

things weren't yet so untidy  -

round here, I mean  -  Woodbridge,

NJ  -  a friend or two and myself

started up a Barron Arts Center

monthly thing called PoetsWednesday.

It's still around, but no one of today's

grouping knows a damned thing

about its genesis  -  maybe a guy

named Joe Weil, out in Binghamton

now. He took it over when we left.

Anyway, after we beat out heads

against the wall, with hard work,

lots of energy, and planning too,

by a year or two later we had

some really cool stuff going.

We were getting maybe 40 people,

on a good night, for these things,

and the gamut of what we did

was pretty wide. (Now it's been

turned into one of those things 

where there's a 'featured' poet of

whatever local note, and then 

anyone else can read too, but

before the evening starts there's

an hour 'workshop' with the

featured poet and people bring

their poetry tries in and some

sort of group-operation takes

place to improve the work-in-

progress. I've never gone, but I've

been in the other room waiting

and have heard the comments 

and format of the session. Ain't

for me (They'd surely correct

that)). We never had any of

those. A few nights we had

script readings, and one time

we dramatized something by

Thornton Wilder. It was all 

great fun, and edifying too.

John Lennon, as I recall, was

killed during this time, so I

guess some of it was at the

end of 1980 too. (Ain't it

funny, how time slips away).

-

Well, my point was about how

cartoonish it often seemed to me.

The people who came, many of

them, were parodies. They

could easily have been cartoons.

There was an older guy, like 70,

a big guy, out of shape and sloppy,

who spent most of his days sitting

in a mall, and he'd write about that.

You had to hear it, but there was a

lot about the girls going by, the

family things he'd see, etc. Nothing

very good, but funny. Then there

was this other fellow, also always

a return visitor, with stuff like,

opening line : 'Jogger girl, jogging

in sweater.' Really. A fantasy poem

about the jogger who'd just swept by

him. Then we had this kid from

Westfield, and his girlfriend. He's

still around, Peter Gadol, actually,

in California, and has a few books

published. He often dedicated

his poems to 'Shantih Clemans.'

He had a girlfriend, but I'm not

sure if that was her name. And

there was a music girl, with a

little band  -  angry, dense music.

I think she was from up by Newark

or the Oranges somewhere. And

then there was another girl, early 

Goth  -  always wore black; was 

dark and mysterious. Piercings. 

She wrote harsh poetry, always 

about blood and violence; about 

hurting others, wounds and 

revenge. It got pretty scary, 

and one (me anyway) never

quite knew what to say back.

Then there were the usual

high-schoolers; their romantic

and love poetry; old couples

swooning over flowers and

the sea, wiscracking old guys

going on about cars and old

flames. It was a trip, and if it

had been catalogued in some 

sort of graphics fashion, it 

could have been very cool. 

Wish I'd have been on top 

of that some.
-
So, to see, or to envision, the
entire active world before one's self
as a cartoon strip sort of come to life
adds an entire other dimension to 
the dancing panoply of movement
before you. If these comic things
could walk, how would they walk?
What 'gait' would they have? Would
it somehow be characteristic of that
which you envisioned them as? How 
would they speak, and react? Would
it be just like the word-balloon words
given to them? Really? Would all
their words and actions encompass
and embody our world? The way
things are now? Would they really
understand? Or would it all be
 just because you say it is? All
of this, everywhere, this world
around us, has changed and been
changed so drastically, could they
ever know  -  or (wouldn't) they
have instead to invent some
entirely new way of being? 
Otherwise, for them, wouldn't it
just be 1947-49, over and over,
forever and ever, just as
it is  -  for me?