RUDIMENTS, pt. 802
(dead stuff needlessly nailed up)
Over the years, as I think
back, I see that the things
that used to bug me have
never gotten better; only
worse. They just don't
bug me near as much. I've
stepped way back - age,
distance, attitude - each
have combined to have
me less concerned with
the miserable aspects of
a slummy world. There
was never any way of
getting things better
anyhow; it was strange
illusion. 1957-58, I get
hit by a train, I wake up
months later, cars suddenly
have four headlights instead
of two. 'Dual' headlamps now
two to a side. That was some
major shift; I sort of missed
it. And then fins and rocket
lights, and the rest - all the
crazy American-car stuff that
the rest of the world didn't
deserve. Or need. Who looked
askance at that? No one. It
was all taken in stride. But
as a kid, you try to process
all this and see where it came
from, and maybe why, and
maybe how. I had just been
returned to this mediocre globe,
remember, after my starring
role in an interlude play
entitled 'Coma.' Once again
everything seemed new to me.
Except language, weirdly
enough : that had intensified,
after never leaving. I woke
up from my long sleep with
a new and major hunger for
transmitting : ideas, thoughts
and experiences : into words.
I sure didn't need a translator;
it was all coming direct.
-
Language is a deep understudy:
something always ready to jump
in and carry the role. With the
farmers and locals of rural
Pennsylvania, it was mostly
quick, sharp diction; little
extraneous info given; no
side messages, no digressions
- like their very lives: straight,
to the point, and utilitarian. Like
a cow's moo. Kind of a user's
manual language. While, in
Elmira, and the colleges, and
among those sorts of 'edu-folk'
language had an entire and a
re-completed function. Always
filled with non-conclusions,
maybes, and hedged-bets;
no part of certainty except the
doubt. Like a philosophy teacher
walking along the campus -
at each shrub and bush yet
another digression about a
possible or a probable; with
everything in the balance. That
sort of language is always
inconclusive, the words
speaking of another worlds.
-
So, if that was that, let it
never be said that I was not
multi-lingual. I could toss
and turn words like thoughts.
When I got to seminary Latin
I dodged right through it, even
though I was riddled with the
doubts and predelictions of
hidden infamy - 'Maria cum
servum ambulat.' There was
too much there, in that simplest
sentence, to have me figure
it in to a sense of sense. This
'Maria,' walking with a servant?
Where were they going? What
was the relationship? Was this
servant male? The whole thing
wasn't right to me, let alone the
stupid word for 'with' which,
incredibly, had, in English,
an entirely different meaning
and connotation. World astray,
all things gone. The way those
other languages worked, though,
I liked. Ambulat was singular;
if it was more than one it would
have been 'ambulant,' as a plural,
walking. But isn't 'Mary,' though
singular, walking with the 'servant?'
Is this servant then too seemingly
being overlooked?
-
Try telling that to the next drudge
you see. It's not that easy - life
has many layers, and I'd found
that the utilitarian layer, where
most of these folks were dwelling,
had not much depth. Things
were kept plain and straightforward;
in a sort of newspaperese, or of
the type of talk a politician might
do, filling the time, suggesting an
idea by a few, stark words that ended
up representing nothing. Never
challenged on the misuse of words,
they just build on that and - before
anyone knows it - all that's left
is a grand, exalted gibberish never
not accepted. Like a sugary,
gross, Pop-Tart of the mind; the
worst kind, as kids like, with
the sugar glaze and the multi
colored nearly-disgusting sprinkles
glazed in. When you reach that
point with your language - face
it - you probably deserve having
your tongue tongue cut out. It's
that bad. My friend Fred Wennan,
from a wild family of dark misfits
up in Big Pond, used to have a
barn along the roadway there,
and the visible, road-side of the
barn was covered in the nailed
up corpses of various things they'd
shot and killed, he and his brothers.
I asked him once, 'Fred, what's
with all that? Are you sun-drying
them, or some other purpose here?'
He said, 'No, we just hung them
for so people can see we fucking
killed them. It let's 'em know what
they're dealing with, right up. We
don't aim for no pussy-footin.' The
boys were always in some sort
of jam or trouble with the law,
which law was pretty scarce up
there anyway. Like if you had a
month or two to wait, after you
made the phone call, you'd maybe
get a Pennsylvania State Police
car to visit when they made their
informal rounds. That sort of
talk, allied with action, of
Fred's, that took a certain kind
of talk all its own, their kind
of talk - sledgehammer like,
maybe to the forehead. It was
symbolism, as was all that
dead stuff needlessly nailed up
to the side of their barn; all
symbols of the aspirations, if
you'd call them that - but I
would - of their thoughts and
direction. Living up there, I
found a lot of life to be symbols,
even if the person doing it isn't
fully aware of it being that.
After all, what else is advertising?
How else is the symbolism
used in billboards and ads able
to grab at people and drag
them in? 'Roman Meal Bread?'
The rough-hewn man in a
toga and leather belt and
Roman platoon warrior boots,
standing straight and strong
so as to get you to buy, or
be interested in, his dark-meal,
wheat-bread, the trust symbol
of strength your fast-eyes will
ever see. The elegance of a
direct-hit, and you don't even
see it but it hits you nonetheless.
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