RUDIMENTS, pt 759
(it needs better icing than that)
Tycho Brahae had a metal nose.
His actual nose, or a good part
of it, was lost in a duel, and he
had - from that same duel -
a large scar up into his forehead.
It was said the nose was made of
silver or gold, but twice his body
was exhumed (once to check for
death-inducing poison, not found,
and another time to check the nose).
Apparently, along with the poison
story being false (a burst bladder
had killed him instead), the nose
was found to be of brass, and it
adhered to his face by means of
some sort of adhesive; often
replaced, I guess. Brahe was
an astronomer, getting some
things 'right,'and some still
wrong, as people of that time
did. He was, besides being the
teacher of Kepler, the last of
what are called the 'naked eye'
astronomers. Before telescopes
and lenses.
-
Be all that as it may, I'd never met
anyone before who had any interest
or knowledge of Brahe. It interested
me because I'd gotten used to seeing
those Civil War, Matthew Brady, and
others, photographs of the dead and
the wounded : Piles of legs and arms,
after amputation. Accounts of men
whose lower jaws had been blown
off (apparently a not so uncommon
field-battle event), and whose
tongues and saliva, therefore, before
they did eventually die, lolled about
and spittle flowed. Terrible, nasty
fate, I'd say. It was ghastly, as all
war is. I'd walk around the Elmira
burial and prison field (much of it
now turned over to other purposes).
One had to really dig and know
and search, to find, other than the
orderly graves, the rock and field
lines which delineated the old
prison fields and death and
execution quarters. The large
maximum-security prison, atop
the hill, of course, still stood,
and now houses (and still does),
the worst and most vile of New
York City's crime-timers. It really
must be faced off (no pun) that
this is one of the most terrible
situations extant. Only a dreamer
would still connect any of this to
the Civil War. Ergo, me.
-
You need to figure, in the 'modern'
day and age, what's the use of any
of this. For myself, I walk around so
alienated by the obtuse ignorance
of all I see around me that mere
suicide isn't enough. Like a
birthday cake, it needs better
icing than that.
-
So, as I was saying, (I think), at
first I wanted to connect these
southern black people to the
Confederate Prison camp as
their reason for being here
(Elmira), but then I realized
the folly of that. In fact,
the complete opposite. I
never dug for further info,
but just decided it must all
have been for the cheap labor
they provided to man all the
old industry that once was there -
like all those southerners who
went up to Chicago's industrial
stuff by traveling up Route 61,
North to jobs and money. In its
way it was still 'escaping.' The
same, I figured, with Elmira.
There was once some real and
powerful might in America's
industrial efforts, and millions
took forceful jobs in mills and
mines, industry and automotive,
from Gary, Indiana, and Chicago,
to New York and the rest. That's
now all died off and fallen away,
like dead apples off an old Hudson
Valley apple tree (which used
to employ, that apple industry,
thousands and thousands of
Italian immigrants).
-
If Tycho Brahe got a metal nose
out of his deal, I figured maybe
lots of those Johnny Reb prisoners
needed limbs and prosthetics too.
But that never gets mentioned
and no remnant of any large and
in-place prosthesis factory was
ever around. I mentioned before
about the one person I met who
ever knew anything about Brahe.
She was a girl, working with me
at Barnes & Noble. I was taken
by surprise one day. We found
ourselves both looking at the
science and astronomy section
with Tycho Brahe books. She
dove right in, a blue streak,
telling me all sorts of things
about him. The science aspects,
and personal-life stuff about
him. Funny; up until that point
I'd always figured him to be
Tycho Bray (by pronunciation),
but she quickly pointed out it's
Bra-hey, in correct pronunciation.
Goes to show, what you don't
know, you don't know. Her name
was Erica. Still is, I'd imagine.
She had maybe two or three tattoos
back then (20 years or so back).
Last I saw her, she's covered
head too toe with deep ink,
rich colors and art. Tattoo
haywire! A real walking
canvas.
-
The conundrum that is life has
always driven me crazy, and I
had a head start anyway. No one
ever calls people 'burn-outs' any
more - that I hear anyway - but
in some respects even though I
was never that, I carried many
of the same earmarks of your
average burn-out loser. But,
Heaven knows, it's all so
different, my version. At least
I walk around proud of my
accomplishments because they
exist, as profoundly intellectual
and creative statements reflecting
my evolved view of the life
around me. I've kind of come
full circle, and have ended up
now back where I began; to finish.
I've had people say to me 'How
can you end up so poorly, back
in a dump like that?' Well, to me
is the completion of the circular
life-rotation I was given, and now
I return to connect the other end.
No one around here - except
maybe for two or three people -
has a real clue to what I do, nor
does anyone here favor me with
their regards. I get no accolades,
no return, no local fame even,
for what I'm doing, because it's
like a bad smoke in a blizzard
of nightmare fires. No one here
can even see me because their
own shitty smoke is so dense.
The people around here who
are the mouthpieces for the local
powers are out and out shitheads
anyway. I wouldn't even want
to hear them nor want to watch
their little jerkhead pirouettes
around each other. Kissing lips
and frogs that turn to toads.
Like I said, it needs better
icing than that.
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