RUDIMENTS, pt. 741
(take the bullet, and be gone)
Along this roadway area,
the seminary sand-land,
there was one section, on a
rise, with a really nice copse
of fir trees, and short grasses.
Just something about it; I don't
know. From the one spot I'd
see it, it always had perfect
light and a great, textural
feel. I used to call it my
'Gethsemene.' Only because
that's what it reminded me of.
If I had to bleed sweat, and
be tortured by thoughts and
temptations in isolation, that's
where I'd have it take place.
If an angel ever had to come
down from Heaven, to speak
with me, that's where we'd meet.
It's all gone now; in fact paved
and gouged and built upon too;
a regular, sickening, world.
-
Whatever the mystic manifestations
of the life-force are, whatever the
mathematics of intrusion could be,
I always felt I have it. That's - note -
present tense, not past. Back in
my days of living at the Studio
School, as I've endlessly made
mention, besides having that
nice room in the basement area,
I often slept instead on the floor,
way upstairs, in the library. Back
then it was just 'the library,' a
bunch of really old shelves, built
in, and a zillion, it seemed, art
books, from shows, galleries,
courses, as well as endless,
books of 'Art History' and
artists everywhere. It was total
bliss for me; I'd eventually end
up asleep on the carpeted floor,
at whatever hour. I never knew
nor cared, and the only schedule
I was keeping anyway was the
devil's schedule. I stayed in
and slept in my clothes. (Yeah,
my habits were awful). The
early-morning watchman guy,
Mr. Rush, he'd get me up, either
I'd hear him coming around
or he'd find me and clang on
something. We had the
agreement; I was as much
his secret as he was mine. Mr,
Rush was a little, natty, black
guy, from up Harlem way; he'd
come in each morning. His job
was sort of like being an orderly,
maintenance, cleanliness, trash,
etc., as best it could be done
in a place like that. But he was
quite steady, methodical, quiet,
and logical too. A really nice guy.
Probably 50 years old, back then.
I never knew how much he was
aware of anything, or why I
was even there overnights as I
was. I guess they had told him.
I never did.
-
It never much mattered because
I was surely the solitary type.
Back then, I didn't much do
anything of the social stuff -
crazy booze, women, riotous
parties. The reason I liked it
there was because it took me
out of all that. I'm my own
kill-joy in that way. To me,
there, all my new necessities
were nothing but demands for
aloneness. There's something
about a big city when you've
never lived in one before. You
so easily get mesmerized, or
stunned. I know I did : by the
closeness of the street, the
nearness of the noises. The
sound of people's passing feet;
women's feet anyway had,
back then a certain, unique,
post-midnight, high-heels tap.
Most folks still wore serious
shoes, leathers and hard
bottoms. Nowadays it's all
soft; leisure and boat and
running shoes, sneakers.
People will do anything
these days to look casual.
Going to see the President,
or the Pope, it's all the same.
Speedos and slip-ons.
-
My first measurable 'impact'
from being in NYC was probably
the realizing that many people
just did what they wanted. There
wasn't so much of that self
consciousness that I'd been
used to, growing up. People
like teachers, and Avenel
people, they were often tight
and twisted; what I used to
call the Mrs. Metro, and
the Mrs. Kuzmiak types.
They were each town ladies,
with some store-clerking
responsibilities but who
always seemed to be so
overwrought and thereby
humorless, stern and caught
up in their own traps. I never
saw any of that among my
new groups in NYC. I'm sure
it existed, I just didn't see it,
but none of the art, hippie,
crazies, or loner types that
I mingled with professed a
care in the world in that
direction. And I no longer
had to be concerned over
that little-town stuff; and
that was good enough
for me. Jim Tomberg, as
a for instance, solved
everything over a drink
and a cigarette. He must
had so many problems,
though I never saw them,
that his fine, old, happy,
life descended nicely into
one huge drink and one
constant cigarette. It
was enough almost to
make one envious!
-
Sometimes I probably sound
like the loneliest guy in the
world, but it's really not that at
all. More it's just other people
and a real dedication to my
own work; the kind of stuff
that makes it hard for me to
understand others or clear my
head of my own jumble so as
to understand what the heck is
going on. Things I just don't
get : phones and people staring
at screens all the time, the crap
they wear, the noise they listen
to, even the cars they drive.
What's all with that now? I
never know. Over time, foods
have changed, pastimes have
changed, and even the way
people now deal with one
another - that's all new too.
I realize I've got no way in.
Getting old like this is peculiar,
like being that last fish in the
barrel, the one people are
shooting at. All the other times,
the barrel's been full, schools
fish all dating around in odd
groups, then it begins dwindling,
and soon enough, like I said,
your up to being possibly
that final fish. Take the bullet,
I figure, and be gone.
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