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!