12,077. RUDIMENTS, pt. 800

RUDIMENTS, pt. 800

(emmett grogan and peter coyote)

It wasn't only the past

that lingered up in those

parts. The present did

too  -  it seemed like the

area up and around Ithaca

was a time warp of sorts.

Seneca Lake sort of started

it; once you got there, and

the Falls across from it, and

the very meager downtown

facing everything, it was

almost certainly that it was

still 1958  -  colors and shades

of another time. Strollers,

revelers, picnickers, folks

driving through in search

of a pleasant present. No

one said much. There'd be

one or two lake cruise boats

puttering at the dock; and

people lining up, waiting at

the little waiting bar/shop/

restaurant. It was all very

pleasant, with an awareness

that this was the exception.

Golden times, a few months

each year. We'd been there

cold and hot, all times of

the year.

-

Things of that nature always

appealed to me. I liked seeing

people immersed, without

their knowledge, of the other

times they seemed to be in.

I supposed that all life was a

sort of revolving door of both

situations, and currents, wherein

time became liquid and lost its

meaning   - if it could ever be

determined anyway. My

Elmira writer-friend Jane

Roberts used to have the

point she made, or the point

which was made through her,

that people inhabit a sort of

multi-dimensional universe,

one in which there are many

lives, concurrent with each,

other, and not just one. The

'Civil War Re-enactor fellow

does that because he lives

that.' You get the idea. It's

what the Chinese used to call

a 'paper tiger.' All bluster.

-

I've made mention of my

love of that area, in its falling

down days. There were still a

few crumbling tribes of those

sorts who did 'ideal' or 'utopian'

communities. Communes, they

managed to call them in the

press. These were falling

apart, in all sorts of places.

Quarrels, not enough food

production  -  those little

farms weren't all they were

cracked up to be. Even cabin

fever, wanderlust, and just

plain lust too. After three or

so years, it seemed, they all

began falling apart. So there'd

be itinerants, dazed people,

kind of half-malcontent, picking

around tying to start anew, or

find something  -  much like

that Buddhist rehab kind of

group home I've talked about

a few times. They sewed

clothes, made pies and cookies,

sold foodstuffs, etc. But it was

under the auspices of some

Zen community, so it wasn't

by any means crazy and nutty.

There was rigor, and discipline.

Some of those dudes needed it.

Anyway, about this time, there

was this guy, Emmett  Grogan.

He had this sometime sidekick too

named Peter Cohon, who took the

spirit name Peter Coyote. He got

famous later on, as an actor and

a voice-over narrator guy  -  you'd

never know it was the same

person. There was a book out about

that time, 'Ringolevio.' It totally

fascinated me, I ate it up, and

read it with gusto. It all involved

a long, messy story, one that I

came fast up against again, and

quite by surprise, in about 2017.

The Cohon family, (Coyote's

original last name), were Jewish

settlers from the Bronx or somewhere,

who had a big farmland area over

the border into the Pennsylvania, 
and New jersey bordlerlands, way

east from me, at Mt. Bethel PA; by

the Water Gap, just the other side
from Portland, NJ. For some period

of time, after the farm had fallen,

Coyote had his own  commune

going there  -  caravans of people,

colorful vehicles, cattle and the

rest. It too eventually dwindled

away, and he went on to his other

stuff. We were visiting the Slate

Belt Museum on afternoon, 

2017, out at Mt. Bethel, PA. In

the course of a conversation with

the woman there  - a nice person,

named Della  -  I somehow made

a reference to Peter Coyote, to the

situation as I recalled it, to the farm, 

and commune, etc.  Della (probably

my age, I'd guess, perhaps a

bit younger) jumped! She was

surprised anyone knew, more

surprised that I'd so easily 

brought this all up. She was 

their neighbor. Living in a 

house abutting their farm, 

what was left of it, however

it all went. She immediately 

told me their real name 

(Cohon), and filled me in 

on what she remembered

and had seen. It was very 

cool, only because of the 

vastly broad and accidental

nature of the entire moment:

One, all those years later, and

it was as if one of my father's

big old curved upholstery 

needles had come around, 

grabbing up and stitching 

together about five different 

pieces of my life. Pretty 

amazing, and all in one

small spot.

-

There are further notes on

all this. The original point 

was made in order get across

the particular high-vibrational

aspect of all that land around

the Ithaca area, the Lakes there,

the lands up from Elmira. All

of a special character and

quality  -  which I fed off.

It all came together  -  the

communes falling apart, 

people trying to reformulate 

something, anything, by 

which to live and get through

the God-awful remainder of 

the 1970's  -  if, truth be told,

probably one of the least of

quality times of that century.

The book, 'Ringolevio' deserves

a read. Peter Coyote's outstanding

book, a memoir of sorts, covering

all this, also deserves a good

read  -  'Sleeping Where I Fall'

is the title of that one. The 

Diggers, the communes, the

wars, and the drugs. Emmet

Grogan OD'd, and died in a

subway car. He slept where

he was at, and never got up.

-

As far as I know  - and I'll

check that again soon, Della

is still around. There are,

funny enough, two 'Slate

Belt' Museums for that area.

Hers, in a wonderful old

church setting, on Rt. 611,

(a country road there, not a

big highway). And then, over

in the town of Bangor, PA,

there's another one, slightly

larger and different and more

official, run by the authorities

and Historical Commission

people and all that. My own

life, still going for a while, I

hope, having been an erratic

and ineffective sourcing from

and to nowhere, still however

takes its own satisfaction from

having moments like this come

to live, and reinvigorate my

sorry cells.