11,898, RUDIMENTS, pt. 742

RUDIMENTS, pt. 742

(So, like that, everything goes)

Having a commendable

character  is like reading a

good book; people  like to

talk about it, use it as a

reference. I was always

considered  commendable,

though I never knew why.

I just took it all in, went

with the program, but more

like  an oddball than anything

else. You know that skin we're

born with; in? Mine never fit

me. My posture was more of

a falling back then ever a

going forward. I was cowed

by everything.

-

I found that it's not often a

person gets to write a good

paragraph. When it happens,

it's an achievement  -  but this

rotten life accounts for it as

nothing at all. That's what used

to bug me about 'education.'

The seminary, for instance.

We were put on a very rigorous

schedule of study  -  weird stuff -

years of Latin, church history,

Christian world history, lives

of the saints, English and

grammar and composition.

We'd go to school, from early.

7am Mass, then a mass breakfast

(no pun, but it works), then a

couple of classes, then some

more chapel crap and another

mass lunch, then more studies,

then maybe an hour or two of

free time, sports, drama, art,

tennis, whatever, then another

chapel thing and another mass

meal, 'dinner' it was called, and

then like a half hour again, to

catch up, and then back to class.

Yep, no teachers now, but a long

period of study and study hall

from that day's lessons, etc. And

then it was 10 pm, lights out and

the rest and we got to do it all over

again. Unrelenting boredom mostly.

It was a church seminary, but we

were more treated like a bunch of

Eton British prep-school brats.

-

By 9pm most every day I was

ready to burst. That was when

I usually got in trouble  -  those

after 8pm study periods. It was

dreadful; the same 18 guys you've

been with all day, in class, and

again they're just sitting around.

Throwing pencils at each other

when the hall Proctor was near.

There'd be a priest or two out in

the hallways, slowly walking

along, reading his Breviary, and

watching out for anything that

went on or broke out. Each

classroom, at the rear hall

corner, had a large pane of

reinforced glass, the kind with

wire embedded in little diamond

or honeycomb shapes. You had

to be careful because sometimes

they could see you, the Proctors,

but you'd not see them and thus

didn't know it if you were

being watched or had been

seen. It was pretty low-tech

torture, and I got bagged a

few times. Those Proctor

priests  -  all the priests and

brothers  -  had this wide,

leather belt cinched around

them, and from it hung a huge

set of rosary beads, the whole

shebang, and each bead was like

the size of a jellybean. Well,

once caught, the deal was you'd

get bent over, stretched across

a desk, and they'd wallop you

with these beads. Like a whip.

I got it, as I said, a few times.

For being out of order, messing

with others, cracking jokes,

throwing things. Nothing really

'hurt' hurt, like pain, but it was

pretty humiliating nonetheless.

Then, if you were considered as

really lame, you'd get a session

with this priest they called the

'Spiritual Director'  -  like a

guidance counselor/psychologist

combined. Claiming he could

set you right, or straighten out

your failing brain before it was

too late. I was born too late, they

just didn't know it. This Spiritual

guy's name was Fr. Carlton Brick.

Strangely lame name, but real.
There was another one too, with
an even stranger name : Fr. Jude.
(Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases).

-

How they called all that 'education'

was beyond me; but, remember,

these were often the same guys

blabbing about a virgin birth and

being lifted to Heaven. All that

theatrical glamour and emotional

stuff I always took as pretty gay.

OK, not 'gay,' but rather just a

streak of girly that I never dug.

I probably should have mentioned

that to Fr. Carlton Brick too, but

I never did. He was still on

weird crusades about ripping

kids a new butt-hole for getting

caught reading Catcher in the Rye,

which, in 1963, with its totally

innocuous and really lame little sex

scene, was a joke; but reading it

and getting found out could get

you murdered there. Anyway,

I never knew who oversaw this

stuff or by what committee and

board meetings in Wisconsin these

German guys ran all this, but

it was nearly the silliest and

most stupid thing in the world

to do to a bunch of toxic and

new adolescents. As boys, we

were out of our skin, and I've

already mentioned how mine

never fit anyway.

-

The only thing Catcher In the

Rye ever made me want to do

was run off to NYC. Which I

did do anyway, in a few years.

I won't say my brain was

'poisoned' by this seminary

stuff, no, but it was definitely

influenced. Those seminary

years were like a circus-trainer-

act education. A hundred things

at any one time to stay abreast

of, many of them just plain

stupid. Like wearing a tie, each

day. That made you conscious

of ties, their look, the fabric,

the Windsor knot, how to 'tie'

all that tie stuff. (A very direct

word, oddly enough, named

by what it is, and the act that

makes it so).  It brought me,

and others too, to the point of

pretentious clambering over

the 'right' ties, patterns (paisley

crap was big  -  like swirling

spermatoza patterned all over

a silky material, and hanging

around your neck (?))  -  the

pretense being that we were,

like some rich kids, into and

aware of all that status crap.

The complete opposite of what

was supposed to be going on.

See how I mean  -  nothing

made sense. I used to volunteer

or sign up for most anything,

just to get out of there. That's how

I got mixed up with the farming

end, the slop-patrol of the daily

feeding of the pigs in the farm

lot, and even for that medical

emergency detail that I signed

up for  -  night runs with kids

to doctors and dentists, or

kids who'd get hurt at sports.

broken fingers, sprains, etc.

Emergency toothaches, and

weird fevers too. It got me 

away, and I got to see Camden!!

We'd grab the sick kid, and,

with Fr. Malachy I think it was,

in his newly assigned Ford,

run off to all these weird spots;

clinics, doctor's offices, and

hospitals too. Other times, with

some Brother Cornelius or

someone, we'd load up the old

pick-up truck with scrap metal

or whatever, and head off to one

of those Philly or Camden area

metal yards. To be redeemed!

Just like the church stuff, but this

meant weighing the scrap metal

and receiving money back. And,

lastly, like 1964-65 maybe, there

was a rash of religious movies :

'Greatest Story Ever Told,' or

'King of Kings,' or 'Becket,' 

whatever, all church-themed

films. These would get us some

group trips to Philadelphia, to

sit through all this crud in a

movie house. Watched over by

the same guys who'd later

whip us with beads. It was all

nothing; pretty easy, and, really,

like Edith Piaf, 'Je ne regret rien.'

(I regret nothing). So, like that,

everything goes.