12,097. RUDIMENTS, pt. 806

RUDIMENTS, pt. 806

(hallelujah and amen!)

What used to really burn me

up, back in those years, was

all that 'beloved community'

crap  -  I think the Clintons

had re-introduced it years

later as in 'It takes a village.'

For the most part it was, in

both instances, merely a pile

of drivel and pure claptrap.

All through those Ithaca hills,

there was so much leftover

junk  -  scads of crumbling,

almost useless, people, desperately

trying to make their little units

work, whether commune, farm

or house trailer. Nearly every

part of it became a disaster,

and I guess those children

from then are now 50 year

old adults, or close, if they

made it through. I often

wonder. The last thing I'd

ever have wanted back then

was some hippie-dippie jerk

telling me about things : how

to raise kids, how to cook,

whatever. The entire point

of that 'village' stuff was a

form of tribal control. I'd have

stabbed someone first, and I

think they knew it. Most of

the poor souls we'd meet up

Ithaca way were already lost

remnants, like some crazy lost

tribe of Israelites, scavenging

as they roved the countryside

in search of some, any, form

of validation for both their

worldview and their mindsets.

All I ever saw was abuse, but

a 'soft' abuse, by another name.

Something from LaLa Land, or

a munchkin version of Hell.

This British writer guy, a pastor,

named Charles Spurgeon, once

wrote that 'a village is a hive of

glass.' I sure could see what he

meant, even though most of

these itinerants wouldn't know

a village from a tent. But what

he was saying was equally true:

You walk through all that

communalism and collective

stuff and you begin taking on

the attributes of the idea that

you are not yourself. Can't be.

Everything is seen, and people

are watching. You never mature

into a true selfhood; the twig

grows into a crooked branch.

-

I liked living where I was, for

those reasons  -  at least for the

time it was still fresh and right.

As I've said, after a while the

just-as-many negatives combined

with my own changes of mind

and heart to alter everything.

But that too was good for me,

because it was clear and it was

precise; and I saw it coming.

The entire process was of a

personality change. Backwards,

I guess, into what I'd come out

of. I felt a stifling need to break

forth. After John, that really

old farmer guy I told you about

previously, hung himself, I knew

the gig was up and the 'modern'

world was a'rolling in, even up

there. John Harkness, for me,

represented, as I've said, about

1885. A lot of things up there

did; for some reason that entire

era was the current in the air,

for those who could find it.

It wasn't the 1930's, though

there was a lot of that too  - the

newly-tarred dirt roads, vehicles,

and all that old machinery slowly

turning over to motorized units.

That was one large part of it, but

there was a larger, more stern and

spiritual presence I always fund.

The 1930's, after all, were but 30

years ago, back then. Think back

now, that's like 1990. Too near;

and still familiar and recognizable.

I'd imagine it all had more to do

with all the large homes and

things still about  -  they were

entirely different : large, quiet

spaces. Tall rooms, high ceilings

Kitchens and stuff were all laid

out differently; there was a sort

of different reverence about

everything  -  light, space, the

dark corners, the large pieces

of hewn and finished lumber.

I think John recognized all that

too, and when he began to see it

flowing, being taken away from

him  -  all those old ways and his

manners of doing things, by hand,

in a solitary way, all of that old

farm lore, he knew it was over,

even at age 80+, he cracked. It

got him. He went out to the barn

and hung himself from the rafters;

with poor, old Mary  -  equally

adrift  -  left behind.

-

I never got far past that; once that

occurred I started realizing the 

game was up, for me. That was a

hurting moment and made me just

wonder why I was even there. I

never did even know surely what

idolatry was, but my idol was the

past; I wanted nothing to do with

what present around me there was.

One time one of my friends told

me I was an iconclast. That meant

someone who broke icons. Idols

in a way, I guess. I never broke

any that I knew of, but my heart and

mind were just always someplace

else. In this case, the old days that

I could just about still see but which

were always filtering out  -  John

hanging himself sure was no help on

that count. It was beyond understanding.

The day of that wake or funeral or

whatever it was, the interior of the

sorry, vast, old house was, I swear,

already haunted by a sad goodness;

the likes of which I'd never seen

before. Some nitwit Minister came

around with his prayer and solemn

stuff, but the only answer was rapt

silence. There was no sense to me made,

sorry to say, Mr. Minister, about an

82 year old man hanging himself

over a disappointment about the new

'present'  -  not even the future.

And that's saying something.

Hallelujah and Amen!
-
I think I buried my heart
when we buried him.