12,056. SHORTAGE

SHORTAGE

I have a domain of words

that I keep; much like a 

zoo, but of intentions 

uncaged. More or less

running freely, as others 

pass. Perhaps. Or rolling 

by, aghast. Open-mouthed. 

Agape. Whichever it is, 

much of that is my daily 

landscape.

12,055. RUDIMENTS, pt. #794

RUDIMENTS, pt. 794

(dreams of darkness)

America's old, aged, industrial

towns, all across the northeast

and midwest, in the 70's anyway,

seemed about the same. One 

breath away from breakdown,

near to expirations, infrastructures

shot, energies moribund. Elmira

represented all that in the tiniest

degree  -  'Faded Glory,' as they 

had it put. Every once in a while

something would pop up, some
oddly national, iconic manner, like

the MC Five, or some last gasp

of Detroit. Even Mitch Ryder

fit the role, for a while  -  half

already besmirched cultural

icons looking for a way out.

Elmira's glory, as imagined, 

was my own version. Ithaca 

too. As I got to other  places  -

Buffalo, Syracuse, Binghamton,

it was just all crap. Buffalo, from

the time in to the time out, was

a nightmare of a place. We drove

around looking for anything

useful, even picturesque. I was

way into industrial ruins for

photos, and I got a good bunch,

but the entire 'just passing through'

aspect of it all made me feel

too much of a voyeur to wish

to continue. At the Falls itself, 

we'd found an off-limits, old,

powerplant we slogged through,

old rooms and gauges and dials,

peeling green paint, bad windows.

Nothing touristy at all about it;

the average Vacation Joe and his

decrepit family wouldn't understand

a thing. Over the Canadian side,

as I said, they'd cheapened all

they could into a tacky morass

of honky-tonk and bars; probably

Maid of the Mist girls too. We

never looked. The girlfriend-girl

who was with us was power-hungry

mad about spirits and mysticism

and forces from the raging waters

and the powers of the mountain

and all that. I understood all

that stuff, but I never caught a

glimmer of it there, in the terms

she was putting it. All I saw was

crap; coin, and collateral. I was

done in five minutes with the

whole 'Falls' ethos. All it made

me think about was the dead

Natives, Ottowa Indians, and

all that whatever which once

lived there unsullied. I tried to

imagine what they must have 

thought; how they'd come upon

the raging scene; did they not

lose many (canoeists) in the

big-surprise? 'Holy Shit Mighty

Feather, I ask what is that roar,

AH!! rrrrr! Over the falls, Willow

Bark; nice knowin' ya.' Well,

something like that.

-

I had one question, and I never 

got it answered, probably because

I never asked it right. It was, in

its own way, a sort of mystical

question  -  I'd always gone to 

these places in a subdued and

slow fashion, always coming to 

them east to west. What I really

sought to know, wondering

about it, was what it all looked

and felt like to a new traveler

seeing it all, coming across it

all, from west to east. You know,

we all think nothing of so many

things  - we're totally jaded by

the travel of the east-to-west

sun of day; have you ever

wanted to have it west-to-east?

Maybe just for a few times?

One of my college teachers

there, or someone, once told

me that  -  had the USA been

settled west to east, instead of

east to west, what we know of

now as New England and New 

York 'wouldn't have been nothing'

but a sleepy, lazed, agricultural

backwater; an afterthought to

the rest of the nation. Maybe

so. Maybe not. Cool thought 

tough.

-

These old cities and towns, they

were one thing -   the same, by the

way, went for the horrible places

in Pennsylvania too  -  Scranton,

Reading, and the rest. They were

truly beat to a pulp. Curiously, 
many of them were water and river 
cities, which became part of their 
problems. Early success was
because of water travel, people and 
freight. Rail and auto later changed 
all that, and these places just began 
withering as the highways ran right 
past  them, through or around. 
Rudely, without care. No one did 
anything by water anymore. How do 
you teach that to kids, as a school 
person, if you don't even realize it 
yourself? Everything was lost, and 
politics, I saw, had found a way to 
play on that absence, and guzzy up
the void, and people fell for it all.
America's best new science was
called 'Balderdash.' But we saw

none of that on this trip, having,

as we did, a go at a swift-spun

southeastern passage across the 

state, to Binghamton so we 

could catch Route 17 into NJ 

and hook up to the Garden State 

Parkway, to run it south, and 

over to NYC, RT. 22, Holland 

Tunnel and all that. It was pretty 

crazy, and mostly we had to be 

alert and drive as if on fire. He

and I switched off driving, but

not much. He was one of those

'I can drive all night' mad-men,

and one who never needed sleep.

I was too, but not to his degree.

I admit to that. No qualms.

-

All those towns along the way,

as I was saying, were beat and

decrepit  -  there was a certain

torn and shattered quality to

every place up there and along

the way that wasn't agricultural. It

appeared that the farm places and

all could take care of themselves;

bettering the premise between 

cities and large villages; the rows 

of farmstands, orchards, beautiful

old farmhouses and barns. The soul

already knew lots of this was on

borrowed time, so take it all in

whilst you may. BUT, the people

of these sad places, it seemed to

me had, in equal fashion, resigned

themselves to living deaths, and

quarrelsome living deaths at that.

The towns and small cities were

hurting and it was in everyone's

eyes. As if American life had

somehow gone out of America.

This was all pre-Internet stuff, so

the isolation was bizarre, as if

each person seen was sadly

marooned on an island of 

their own. I'm still not sure

people understand the amazing

changes that have been put into place

with all this global-communications

stuff, even if three-quarters of it is

pap-smear hideous and rank.

People at least now can filter out,

run through some other motions,

learn or try to learn, on their 

own; step forth, blossom a little.

-

We made it through, stopping as

needed in any of the little places

you used to see along mad highways.

Each individual. Each unique. I

was amazed, all along the corridor,

by the just-off-the-highway roadside

remnants; the struggling stores and

sandwich stops; liquor stores; stands

for souvenirs and local-color stuff.

It was all so different than what you

see now  -  the mass chain of the

human conflagration that brings

sameness. Chain-stores (no, not

hardware); plazas; motels, etc.

A struggling world, still out there,

has simple been pulled back a lane 

or two now  -  the adult boutiques

along Waverly, weird food-names

and gas-stops, truck-stops, and,

sadly too, casinos and racetrack

gambling place named either like

'Tioga Downs' (out by Waverly),

or after some God-forsaken and

blighted Indian tribe. I can't even

figure how the world has still

stayed in its same old orbit.

-

We made it through. Entering the

Binghamton area, the other thing 

that irked me was the lack of

any historical consciousness or

access to the places. Endicott,

Johnson City, (once the big home

of a million shoe manufactures.

Endicott-Johnson Shoes were once

a grand name). The old towns were

ruination. Johnson City had one

little sign that made mention, to the

effect that, 'Here once stood the

largest, depression-era, Hooverville

in the United States.' Wow. The cycles

of boom-to-bust were terrifying:

first  it was Sullivan's Expedition,

killing a zillion Indians to make 

way for 'peace' and settlement;

then it was a zillion shoes, two at

a time, for a zillion undeserving

people, whose unrequited thirst

for power and goods did itself

eventually go bust. Upended and

turned over  -  the largest Depression

era Hooverville in the USA!

12,054. QUENDLESOME

QUENDLESOME

Do you think the 'husbanding

of expectations,' can be called

the same thing as 'hiding the

surprise?'

12,053. KAITO TANAKA

KAITO TANAKA

Tea is served in small cups,

steaming, without handles. The

tea, the cups. We sit around

a small covered table, on the

floor sitting, are we. There

is not much to say  -  Kaito

spins a prayer wheel, some sort

of rotating contraption. It squeaks,

which I only find a bit annoying.

An entry-noise for these great

prayers, announced as they enter

some other realm? Tea sits. Steams.

I am, momentarily, fascinated, as I

see Kaito put butter into his tea.

12,052. THIS IS ALL IT GETS

THIS IS ALL IT GETS

About time. Maybe something else

in Alaska, where the seating is ample

and the chairs are plush? Let's make

plans to meet. I can run hither and

yon (like someone used to say. I

can't forget; yet the name is gone).

Single-engined Kodiak plane,

scouting the mail-run for the

far reaches of Nome. 

12,051. YOUR BUTTONS MAKE ME THINK OF NASHVILLE

YOUR BUTTONS MAKE 

ME THINK OF NASHVILLE

Hey, man! Your buttons make 

me think of Nashville, or even

 Memphis; somewhere else I've

never been. It's funny, thinking

like that  -  out of reach parameters

on the ridge of non-achievement.

I wouldn't know what to make

of that, and I don't even like what's

called 'Country' music. Especially

nowadays  -  all that twang and

dumb emotion. Who cares what's

got your baby in a bunch.

Those were pearls that

were her eyes?

12,050. HALFWAY TO THERE

HALFWAY TO THERE

I think there was an ancient

volcano, Santorini or Minoa;

Some Greek thing that blew

its top. It was named Thera.

I often wondered, as they

saw it steaming before it

erupted, if they ever thought,

'Halfway to Thera!' In their

language of course, which 

probably wouldn't have been

the same anyway.

12,049. AFRO-DISIAC

AFRO-DISIAC

I don't know, can you even

say that any more? Something

meant as a compliment and

people get all twisted up and

raunchy over it. Such is the

stuff of this life, these days.

All that rage; false anger.

I think everyone now has

a spastic colon. 

12,048. RUDIMENTS, pt. 793

RUDIMENTS, pt. 793

(the slow burn)

There used to be a guy named

Edgar Kennedy, in films of the

1930's, late era, I guess. His

specialty was the 'slow burn.'

That was about it, he wasn't

goo for much else; no emoting,

no drama. He was simply this

half-comedy guy they'd throw in

whenever they needed someone

of his character, for comic-relief,

or some repeated side-reference

by the camera within the film.

The idea of the slow burn was

the accumulated frustrations 

of small annoyances slowly 

building until this Kennedy

guy would crack  -  evidenced

by the grimacing and contortions

of his face, and then the explosive

give-out of frustration and ire.

It was funny to watch, though

it became soon predictable,

and then mannered, and 

boring. Such is fame  -  and

anyway he made an entire

career out of it.

-

Sometimes I could envisage

myself getting like that; but

it never really happened. I

always managed to keep things

in check. One time, living in

Elmira, there was a whole

rash of occurrences on a three

day Memorial Day weekend,

that almost drove me nuts, but

I just laughed it off. A friend

and his girlfriend, both living

in the San Francisco area -  

actually a weird little town

called Benicia  -  called one

day. It was a Weds. evening,

as I recall, with the Memorial

Day weekend a few days away.

They were calling from some

diner somewhere, about 100

miles away. They'd been driving

cross-county, had their dog

with them (an Irish Setter, a

breed you don't much see 

anymore. Funny how breeds 

lose favor, fall off the radar, 

and fade. Like Afghan Hounds

too  -  never much seen now).

They asked if they could stop

over, re-group, stay a few days,

and then figure out what to do.

We said, sure, OK. Got some

food and wine and stuff, knowing

already what they liked. He was

kind of one of those wine-snobby

guys: Napa Valley influence, and

all those California wines. Always

going on about dryness, after taste,

slate-echoes, remnants of fruity,

all kinds of wine-junk. To bug 

him, I used to put my ear to the

wine glass, and say things like,

'Yes, yes, definitely, I can hear

it too!'

-

So, they arrived. They were

driving a maybe 1965 International

pick-up trick, all packed up for a

cross country drive. Bench seat,

dog snuggled in too. Once they

arrived, they didn't look much

worse for wear; certainly not

traveled-out, as I'd soon learn.

Weds. finished up, they bedded

up for some rest. Early the next

morning, I hear the garbage men

outside, apparently having a 

rollicking good time over the truck

in front of my house. I could

understand, a bit  -  people in

Elmira didn't see much out-of-the-

ordinary stuff. The truck was all

loaded up and packed for overland

travel, thereby looking a tad

safari-like, but what had caught

their attention was the water-bag 

on the front bumper. I forget what

it was called, Camel-Pouch or

something. People used them

for cool water, as and if needed,

for the trips over the Rockies.

Like an emergency pouch of

water,  10 or 20 gallons maybe,
if and when needed. It was a lined,

heavy canvas, and had a bold, 

reddish image of a nice-looking

camel (logo) on it. I thought 

it was neat, but it threw these 

garbage guys over the edge, 

laughing, and at 6:30am too.

-

Well anyway, we hung out, 

went over to the College, got 

some food, drank some wine,

talked travel sights, cars; the

two females enjoyed it all, as

did all of us. The Red Setter,

however, another story. My 

dog was OK with it all, but 

their dog was nuts. Probably

travel-crazy by that time. 

They were in the yard, the two

dogs, plenty of room to roam.

But the setter was bizarrely

out of control, barking, yapping,

snarling along the fence, etc.

So my friend tied him up,

with about 8 feet of rope, to

a sapling type tree we had

back there, probably 8 or 10 

years old. We went inside to

eat (mealtime) and when we

got back outside, that little tree

was nowhere to be seen, except

for some sheared and torn

remnant of a trunk sticking

just barely out of the ground.

The dog had calmed down

nicely, however, and the two

were just laying there, resting

near to each other. He'd thrashed
it, ripped right from the ground.

-

My friend get the bright idea

(Travel-weary ? not him), that

after a night's sleep what he'd

most like to do  -  with us along  -

is set out the next morning,

early, (that's 2 dogs, Kathy and

our son, him, and his girlfriend)

for Niagara Falls, (some 400 miles

off, I'm guessing, northwest. Look

at a map), see the Falls, visit the

Canadian side, get back in the

car (my car; we were to use my

large wagon, since we needed

the space), and then continue,

for the remainder of the weekend,

to NYC, and then back. Well, 

hot damn, thought I, if that

isn't a tall order. I asked a few

questions  -  lodging, money, etc.,

but he was ahead of me and

had it all figured out. Parent's

house in NJ, to provide all.

So, yeah, we got it rolling.

-

Later that day, whatever time it 

was, we got to Buffalo. Into

some park, with a picnic area.

This guy was fastidious about

eating, lunch, wine again, etc.

We got to some picnic section,

got a table, and he brings out

from one of his bags in my car,

his Coleman camper-stove! Some

Campbell's beans cans, a cold

package of hot dogs, and rolls,

and all the other little junk 

needed. We had a pretty nice

little lunch there, dogs rolling

about, everyone happy. Then

his dog goes wild all over again,

and takes off after some father

and young-son team walking

along. Not biting or anything,

but running, noisy, and all

needed for scariness. He bowls

right into the little kid, sending

the tyke sprawling. The kid's

wailing, the father's gone ballistic,

and the battle-lines were drawn.

I just stayed there, enjoying

my hot dog, while the California

guy was over there calming all

this down and trying to placate

the flaming dad. The ladies too

went over, to sooth the poor,

scared kid. My son and I just

sat there, licking mustard, as it

were, with our own dog in place.

-

It all got straightened out; no

police, no anger, no damages.

Back into the car. Getting lost

in Buffalo, by the way, is a

bummer. We finally made it

out OK, and got to the Falls, 

American side. They wouldn't

let us over the bridge, ID's and

all were OK, but the dogs were

somehow not worthy of Canada.

No inoculations, no doggie

paperwork, whatever. I didn't

care; the Falls already bored me.

I hate all that rainbow-misty

postcard junk. My friends, 

however, were determined. 

They said we could walk over 

the bridge, but no dogs. (Walking

to Canada had always  -  you

understand  -  been one of my

life wishes; Not). So, we park 

in the American side parking 

lot and (against my better

judgment) leave the dogs in 

the car, suitably ventilated, 

and it wasn't warm out, etc. 

(and back then people weren't 

so crazy about all that stuff 

anyway). We walked the 

bridge over to the Canadian 

side; went to the misty falls;

saw the old generating stations;

the Midway of Junk the Canadian

side had going  -  wax museum,

cotton candy, clowns, trinkets,

sno-globes, Niagara Falls underwear,

you name, they probably had it.

I'd about had it by then; I'm 

guessing, two hours, maybe an 

hour and a half  -  and we still 

had a long way to drive.

-

We got back to the car. My 

dog was soundly asleep in the

rear, station-wagon portion. The

setter, however, had torn up

the seat, gnawed the corner

of the dashboard, whatever that

plasticy stuff was they'd started

using back then instead of metal,

and, apparently, pawed something

apart underneath the dash. Ha. Ha.

I tried laughing it off, but was pissed.

The car started, we managed to get

heater tubes back on (he was a car
mechanic, by the way), and together,

nothing was leaking, and all seemed 

good enough.

- 

**pt two next; across the state, eastward,

to NYC, and NJ too! (American side).

12,047. SPEAKING OF

SPEAKING OF

Speaking of...the ankle bracelet

of the mind, the house-arrest in

Paradise, I've never had any of

that. I've lived alone most all

my days, in a colored-stone

glory of oneness.

-

My beak is gracious and I

atone for nothing. The slender

lines on my face and fingers

are just age, not wisdom. If

it were the other way around,

I'd think I'd be in favor.

-

Heretofore. Useless. Me.

Speaking of....

12,046. THIS IS ALL INTENTION

THIS IS ALL INTENTION

Plausible, I guess, but intention

nonetheless. How the berries now

ripened for the Fall on that unruly

bush are fed on by the birds in

happy numbers. I figure such an

end was part of the intent.

Funny how that goes.

12,045. RUDIMENTS, pt. 792

RUDIMENTS, pt. 792

(past and present and future too)

I always needed exemplary

things in my life. I never

had any, so I made my own.

Each step I took, therefore,

was done with some plotting

and some reflection. The most

accidental thing that has ever

happened to me, fortunately,

I guess, was getting creamed

by that train. It set my life on

a different path, scattering all

my things and getting me back

together after I'd restructured

it all. I was working blindly

too, in a shade.

-

One thing I did learn was how

I didn't have to shout things

from treetops, or rooftops.

There were other ways to

get points across  -  I didn't

really ever have to address

anyone, though I did anyway,

unless they came to me first.

I never wasted a moment's

energy on dealing with losers.

I've noticed still, here locally,

you can find them in pairs,

usually, one stating a lie, and

the other swearing to it. Yeah,

trees get cut. OK, fine.

-

I sometimes liked washing my

hands in blood  -  country cow

and chicken blood. I can bet

a thousand dollars that no one

reading this has ever done that,

but, I can attest, it's a startlingly

spiritual thing. A real stunner.

There were times, around the

Leona Meat Market (more like

a factory) when the killing days

were busy. It was a real sad

place for me, and made me often

just want to go home  -  I got

pretty sick of people selecting

their cuts of meat, getting things

all nicely wrapped in white,

waxy paper, and then bragging

on about how good it all tasted.

Some times there were, at

Warrren's mid-day farm meals,

that they'd announce the name of

the cow, or heifer, or bull, or

whatever, we were 'dining' on.

The waxed paper, from freezer

to stove, was most often marked

with a name : 'Daisy,' 'Mary,'

'Jake,' or 'Mope.' Physical

characteristics, walks, attitudes,

etc., of the cows often became

their names.

-

Leona was little place, on a map

anyway. Just a dot nearby, where

some roads crossed and this one

family, long-time dwellers, had

a meat-rendering plant, a 

slaughterhouse, a farm, some

trucks, and a whole operation

that had been going for years.

Back in New Jersey, when I was

growing up, my aunt and uncle

lived in Leonia, up by Fort Lee

at the George Washington Bridge.

I used to think funny stuff about

that  -  Washington and all his

troops, on the run, fleeing the

British, guarding their positions,

scampering madly along the 

Hudson to stay safe. And now,

there's a bridge there, after all that

fighting, death, turmoil, and

retreat. Named after him too.

Anyway, that Leonia had an

'i' in it. This did not.

After things like that got into

my head, slaughterhouse, meat,
animals, I knew I was deep into

another culture; it seemed one

without elites. I'd just come from

a NYC outsider status, another

culture again, much the same

in that fashion of being outside

of it, but one with just about

nothing but elites. Strange

dichotomy to that situational

contrast. My head was sometimes

just a running dream. I remember

getting up one day, a Saturday,

late for me and with nothing

going on, and I looked out the

window and there's this girl or

young woman, quite a beauty,

sauntering by in the field across

the dirt road, at her own, solitary,

slow, and singular pace, on

horseback. I was immediately

lost. What was I seeing? Is this

a normal apparition around here?

Those sorts of questions can sure

broadside a person. She did

eventually come over, on the

horse. We met and greeted; wife,

kids, me, new lodgings, etc. Turned

out she was the grown daughter of

the man and lady up atop the other

hill and they stabled her horse for

her and she'd come over as often

as possible, to tend to her horse,

ride it around, run, trot, saunter.

She'd grown up there, and knew

everything and everyone around,

mostly. 'Cept us, of course.

After that, I'd see her around now

and then, and her horse. She drove

some kind of Ford station wagon,

Country Squire or something. I

never found out any more about

her, husband, kids, all that. Just

the horse story and the dedication

that entailed. I did get wordy/friendly

with her Dad after awhile. Called

him Jenkins, when I talked about

him. To his face, it was Roy. He's

one of the new burials up on that

graveyard hill I wrote about,

right up the top of my house's

hill, which  -  from the other

direction, was also his. He was

an old Navy guy, from what I

saw by the decals and stickers

and things he had around, and

he was probably maybe 50 by

the time I met him. I never did

meet his wife, 'cept at a distance,

to wave or nod as they drove by.

If they chose to drive in the 'other'

direction from out of their house

a ways off, it would bring them

along past us, on the dirt road.

-

It was funny how I'd gotten

amassed myself in the middle 

of all these worlds. It was like 

being in the middle of some 

creation maelstrom, things 

blowing around, getting started, 

other things dying. Dreams and 

memories passing as they crashed 

right into new things I'd never 

heard of before. Like a lady on 

horseback in a field of wild

things. Who would have thought? 

Not I. Or not me. Or whatever

anyone wants to call it. Back in

Avenel, last I knew, it was Mr.

Hill who drove a Country Squire.

He was a regular hard-working 

guy, at one time my Scout-Master 

too, on all the camping trips 

and Summer-camp weeks. I'd 

see him each morning passing, 

on his way up to Merck, in 

Rahway, where he worked. He 

had a son, Bobby, my age, and 

then a bunch of daughters,

three or four maybe. I forget. 

For me, growing up, that was 

life. And now, a tiny part of 

that life, well, a representation 

of it anyway, in that image of a 

Ford Country Squire, was all 

changed over and had different

meanings. The world sure had

a funny tempo  -  things changed,

as I did, and no one ever really

recognized the core. The core, 

I mean, of what a person really

was. As Humans, we only

grab like a small portion of

all that Life has going on at

any one moment, In essence, 

everything is perfect, and the

greater spirit takes it all in

has maintains control  -  a great,

broadening stillness that's the

world and creation. But, the

fidgety human? Only grabs 

the smallest part, makes snap  

judgments, calls things out, 

stops processes short. All the

while, unbeknownst unless

recognized within grace, a million

other things make up the moment.

When the eye sees something, it

sees the totality; we may see a

hand, or a few fingers, but the

greater working mind, in that

genuflected instant, sees the

entire person  -  past and

present, and future too.