12,094. RUDIMENTS. pt. 805

RUDIMENTS, pt. 805

(mary lee we roll along)

I often tried to figure how

I could even live with myself,

let alone how others had to

live with me. I had come

from nowhere, and was

fairly much headed to

nowhere as well. I kept

flip-flopping. I was ready

to bail lots of time, but I

was always too chicken.

There were a couple of guys,

as I've mentioned living in

shacks up along that old road

to Mt. Pisgah, a place which

kind of brooded over everything

down below it. Where I was,

I always figured they had the

right idea. It was distant; high

weeds and heavy woods kept

it from the rest of the world,

and those early-cool gigantic

white clouds of fluff and fog

would sometimes just hover

over it, concealing its very

presence. I was always reminded

of a spaceship of God's own

craft, hovering behind it all

in a smoke and mirrors trickery

like Ezekiel, Moses, Enoch

or Joshua themselves my

have seen  -  except that my

face was never burned.

-

I was back up there about two

years ago, and it's all different,

and everyone's now gone. The

National Parks Service  -  assholes

all  -  have a larger than life-size

statue now of some Indian with

a story line about his peering

out from here, Chief Pisgah or

some Indian-named bullshit,

and weeping at what he saw.

No doubt that as far as messages

go, and by the occupying powers

too no less, that's about the

God-awfullest and most stupid

point-of-view I'd ever imagine.

I guess it takes no brains to

wear a uniform and have a

couple of pins stuck onto

it, and a shoulder patch or

two and live off taxpayer

dollars. I'm pretty sure that

back in '71, when I was just

getting my footing around there,

any 'Chief Pisgah' guy up at

the top of that poor location

would have had, instead of

tears, a few Government scalps.

The funny thing, too, was that

when you turned off Route 6

there, making the two rights to

up Pisgah, it was never anyone

but a few, sparse, touristy types

who ever did it. There was

just one paltry sign, which was

really just a location name and

an arrow. No one in their right

mind would have had intentions

of going there, and as far as

I saw, no locals ever ventured.

Don't know why, except for the

same death spirits and spooks

that still haunt those harrowing

places. Everywhere else now,

there are flagpoles, obelisks,

and markers, extolling the vast

talent and effervescent American

energy of Injun-slaughterers like

Sullivan and his killer-campaign,

which was successful enough,

yes, to bring people like you all

the room and the wherewithal to

have Dairy Queens, Walmarts,

Nichols, and SuperDuper Grocery

stores everywhere. Everyone

nowadays worries  -  all those

little creeps and robbers  -

about the things you can't say,

what you can't call people, or

even talk about, yet they go

on extolling Nature while they

destroy it, and extolling, in

the same breath, the destruction

and decimation  of millions

of Native Americans, amidst

their tribes, so they can foist

their deceitful nation-state

down your throat.

-

Some people there were, I could

sense, even if they did 'good'

things for me, they were just

not in sync with me at all. like

Harry Glass. He was the guy

I interviewed with to get the

school district job. You'd think

that was a big deal, but it wasn't.

No one knew me. They hired me,

point-bank blind about me. I

could have been a murderer, or

at least a thief. No one asked

any real 'core' questions of me.

Granted, this was for a nothing

job, essentially keeping care for

the local schoolhouse, keeping

it heated (coal-fired) through the

Winter months, and basically

tending for needs. I contracted

for all that for $4200 (hundred)

bucks, yearly, (probably about

35,000, these days). Plus I got

20 bucks a day to drive the ratty

school bus around to all sorts

of hilly, outlandish places. Harry

Glass hadn't a clue, although he

was a nice guy. From Plainfield,

NJ, where he'd grown up, etc.,

The two men responsible, each,

for setting me up with jobs, oddly

enough, way odd actually, were

from Plainfield NJ. Floyd White

was other, at Whitehall Printing

in Elmira. His wife's name was

Margaret Hall, thus the Whitehall.

I worked there for two different

stretches, separated by the year

or so it took for all the rebuild

and stuff after the big flood of

June '72. They both were

transplants from NJ too. Harry

Glass was the most surprised;

I used to imagine, a la J. D.

Salinger, how Harry got by

in life as a 'Glass.' But he never

made mention. (Salinger's books

often had to do with the 'Glass'

family, and their lives and

adventures). Like the timeline

to all this, it's hard to explain.

But Harry Glass never once

mentioned Salinger. Too bad.

I never liked him much, and

after I was hired I never really

did see him again. But, I did

get paid, did the minimum of

work, and they kept sending

me welfare-assist guys to help

me out, which kind of meant

I gave them most of the work.
The one guy, older, was from way
down in Conshohocken, PA - he
always called it 'Connieshohocken,' 
which I hated. And he often said, 
about things, 'Mary Lee we roll 
along.' I hated that too. Bugged me.

They watched a lot of TV, in the

cafeteria, between tasks  -  real

junky stuff, like Beverly Hillbillies,

and Mr. Ed. Other stuff too, but

I never much watched. I hated

all that; heck, I admit, I hated

everything. I found people to

be stupid, dumb, dense, and

annoying too. I had no clue

how the heck I'd ever ended up

there, doing that stuff. Everything

right then was going foul on

me. There was a piano in the

auditorium, which helped me

greatly. I usually just holed up,

reading  -  Future Shock, and,

later, The Greening of America,

they were big titles then. Bury

My Heart at Wiunded Knee,

84, Charing Cross Road  -  a

bunch more too. There was

yet all of this hippie-era and

soft philosophy/social pact

stuff coming out  -  Marcuse,

Chomsky, B. F. Skinner, etc.

-

I read, while the losers kept

sweeping the floors and watching

their God-damned TV drivel.