11,965. RUDIMENTS, pt. 769

RUDIMENTS, pt. 769

(the dark spots being water...)

Like the figment of a castle,

or an ancient galleon on a

moonlit sea, that's pretty fairly

what my own life's ever been

like. Out there the distance,

and thoughtfully seen, but,

perhaps not real either. For

the times I did reach out, all

I got was air. Not much to

be done after all that.

-

Out in Pennsylvania I found

that mostly the only things

that counted were utilitarian

things  -  items which had a

use and a meaning that could

be called precise and described.

And that was all that was ever

sought. Their use of language

suited that as well  -  the road

went straight, and with few

curves. Anything that you

started had to bring you right

back, upon completion, to

the start point. There were no

alterations or sideways-cues

tolerated. You did NOT leave

the track. The odd thing was,

a fair number of those folk

were plain-religious folk,

and I considered that sort

of attitude to be, frankly,

irreligious. Religion, to me,

was always a dare and a twist;

a sought for, unseen ending,

except by faith for wide open

and glorious future vistas,

filled of the possible and the

daring. Never the same road

back in that one took out.

-

These were pretty grounded

people, not seafarers in any way.

There were some lakes and ponds

around, but you didn't see much

out there about boats and water.

The Finger Lakes were, yes, about

30 miles or so up, above Elmira,

but that was a trek, and all that

equipment and gear and boat too

had to be trudged there, trailered,

pulled. These farmer people

were busy, most always, and the

darn cows got needy twice a day,

for milking. Even if you say 6am

and 6pm, considering the travel

and set-up in between, that wasn't

much of a day for being out.

Farmers were always griping

about never getting a day off.

-

That's why kids were plentiful.

Boys as farmhands  -  for those

needed vacations for Dad, and the

daughters too, they were farmhands.

Everyone had a small streak of

that 'freckly, chewing on a piece

of straw' quality; it just sort of

drew you into their work and

adventure. You wanted to know

more. A troubling thing was that

every so often I'd see how one

of the sons around, somewhere,

different ones, were very tightly

wound, with a seething intensity

that spelled danger. I imagine that

sort of behavior or trait is in

all the population, but some of

them did seem like the type that

could crack and go real bad. Lots

of armaments around, that sort

of consciousness. As sad as it

was for the deer in the woods,

I sure always hoped they'd take

it out on them and not other

people. Aggression wears a

high hat, one that stands out

in a crowd. Personally for me,

that being the era of Vietnam,

my not being there and showing

as well no military bearing,

consciousness or desires, stood

out  -  but, fortunately, I was never

asked flat out why I wasn't in the

military, or how I'd handled that

'Vietnam' thing. For many of

these families, military service

was the high honor  -  you'd see

the framed photos of their 18 or

20 year old, on the mantle, framed

and away at war. My other farm

neighbor, Willard, over on the

other side of my long hill, had

a Marine son off fighting  -  I

only met him once, home on

leave for a while before another

re-up. I kept it way cool.

-

These land-locked people were

funny  -  there were lots of ponds

and such on the large farm lots.

Remember, even I had two. The

way the ground waters ran, the

streams and rivulets often joined

together at places, and were

sometimes spring-fed right

there too, and just naturally

made ponds. Some people had

swimming platforms out in the

center, others had a rowboat

tethered, some had little seating

platforms and stuff  -  but in fact

there was little use made. Mostly

it was (in my case too) ducks and

geese and plain old wildlife. I

just liked looking at my ponds,

kind of curious dark spots, seen

from a distance, on an otherwise

greened up Summer land. That

dark spot being water.

-

I had missed a lot of things by

living the way I'd been  -  all that

on the curve city stuff, cheap,

just getting by. I'd been bouncing

around between the Studio School,

NYU environs, New School stuff

and Cooper Union too. There

was always something learnable

at Judson Memorial Church, and

of course the main library up on

Fifth Ave and 42nd. But when I

did bail and made it out to PA, I

had some sever deficiencies. Books,

for one. I probably had 100, and

 that was considered a real lot. I

had some oddball subscriptions,

Artforum, Avalanche, Paris Review;

the sorts of things they'd never

heard of out there and which the

mailman probably just scratched

his head about. So one of my prime

efforts, and much later too, when I

got to Elmira College, was building

a sort of library of my own. We both

had that interest, my wife and myself,

and it was easy to fill  -  although

nothing like today with all that

internet access to old titles, used

books and the rest. Elmira itself

had two bookstores, jokeable, but

whatever, and the College there

had one of its own, but this was

all long before the days of B&N

Superstores in every town and

small city. I scoff at them now,

but in the 1980's and early '90's

Barnes & Noble was a good

purveyor of needed books. On

every trip back to NYC, we'd

scour and get lost along Book

Row and Fourth Ave., all those

old and strange bookstores of your:

Biblo & Tannen; National Books,

Astor Place, 12th Street Books, etc.

There was no one with whom to

talk books or ideas with in Columbia

Crossroads. One of those kids that

used to hang around my farmhouse

was a high school senior, studying

a little of Henry David Thoreau

and Transcendentalism  -  he was

very interested in that, and we

looked at books and talked. Not

much came of it, and he always

was mis-pronouncing Thoreau

as Thoreoux (Thor-E-Ox), as

if it had that x on the end. It was

weird, but I never pressed it.

He's the same kid who later

drove his Mercury Comet into

my pond, spinning out on the

dirt road in a huff. He and his

friends had taken to coming over

to my house, listening to records,

(mine), and smoking weed until

they were sometimes just too

zoned out to leave. There was

one day they'd gotten on my

bad side and annoyed me and

I made them leave, threw them

out, let's say. That's when he

got in his car and tore off, way

wrongly, and losing control.

We had to chain his car up

and drag it out with the John

Deere. Lucky for him it did

re-start without much fuss. I
really got to hate wit hen these
kids, in their local Troy High 
School, started messing around
with pot. They were coming out 
of an absolute, no-brain, nowhere;
and suddenly partaking of this
half-drug that would simply
screw them up even more :
no learning, no interest but
lethargy. It was horrible, and
all these kids were anxious and 
happy to be on that bus marked
'Dead-End Express.'

-

I should have just looked him

in the dreary face and said, 'Why

aren't you in the military?'