12,116. RUDIMENTS, pt. 811

RUDIMENTS, pt. 811

(stanley got hung out to dry)

You know how it is, as

you age, people with

whom you grew up, or

family members, etc.,

insist on showing you

old snapshots  -  from

when you were a kid,

or 6 or 8, or 10 or 12,

years old. It's like looking

at a salamander before

it has turned into a frog,

or however that biological

sequence runs. I guess

it's fun and all, but you

just know it's incomplete,

without fully yet being

equipped with the right

appendages. I had a lot of

that  -  not the appendages

thing, I mean the photos. I

came of age, as a kid, in that

odd period of time when

people were all of a sudden

getting personal cameras

  -  Kodak, Instamatic, Brownie

 or this or that, whatever,

there were bunches of the

most simple point and click

units coming out and every

family with intentions had one.

That meant a zillion photos

of the brats: Little League, 

school plays, graduation,

bicycle riding, swimming,

on and on in endless fashion.

Like scuba diving naked, it

was impossibly impossible.

I don't have a phone, but I

guess it's all worse now. I

see the same crap everywhere;

people taking pictures of the

'circumstance' and not the

'thing.' Like a photo-bomb

of self, the sick-selfie just

shows a 'where' not a what.

All those photos, old and 

new, were like the automatic

zombie shots of someone

with no clue as to their real

place or surroundings. The

historical aspect of anything

was passed right over  -  in 
those photos nothing has a
past, not even a being. It's 

just them. Stupidity now

rules the kitchen nook.

-

I got sick of looking; tired

of seeing my self running

off, already at whichever age,

the tracks as they'd been laid

down for the train of me to

follow. Watch the tunnel.

See the bridge. As if every

one of life's options and

probabilities was going to

be likewise visible, and

announce itself beforehand?

Wrong assumption, Mr. and

Mrs. America. Those old

photos sure can mislead and

misdirect. Caveat Emptor, I

suppose, there too.

-

When I was at St. George

Press, I'd often be looking out

and see old friends going by  - 

that was weird, in that the few

that I saw, those 12 or so years

on since our last contact, had

become unreachable. It was

sad, though I tried. My one

school chum, from like 5th

and 6th grade, Peter Marshak,

had turned into one of those

intense, straight-ahead, fierce

walkers always intent on

getting somewhere, but never

getting there. He blazed only

forward, never even seeming

to look sideways. My other 

friend, Ken Lackowicz  -  

with whom, fortunately, I've 

since regained some contact 

and who has become a

wonderful old guy now 

(like me!) was, at that time,

in a post-Vietnam, military

stage of working all that out

of his system. He'd be going  

by on a bicycle, quite often,

and with steely determination.

No contact possible. Others

I'd see in their new roles as

fire officials, town workers,

phone company guys, etc. 

It was all at first disconcerting,

as in 'What the heck am I

doing here?' and later I just

rolled with it, probably 

foolishly. This one lady, long

dead now, Marion Vance (yes,

with the 'o'), she'd come in

twice weekly, or more, for

her account - jobs to pick-up

or start - and she'd literally

say just that. It never made

me feel very good. She'd

get close and say 'What are

you doing here? You're 

wasting away, wasting your

talent. Get out of here.' Then

she'd always start telling me of

this that or opportunity I should

follow up on, NYC stuff most

often. It always sounded worse

to me than the meek drudgery

I was already in. The things

she didn't understand were that

I had no belief in anything

real, considered life a disaster

of conclusions and circumstances

not worth redemption, and had

absolutely no interest or abiding

faith in any of the end-results

that this would, she claimed, 

have brought me to. It was

impossible to explain to 

anyone else the pickle I was 

in; as lost as either of those 

people passing by me.

-

One day this guy walks in :

Stanislaus Polski, from Perth

Amboy. Believe it or not he

had been in the seminary with

me. I always liked him, and gave

him major considerations, though

he was the butt of lots of communal

jokes and heckling. Stanley was

a unique character, sad in his way

too. His parents were Polish,

from Poland  -  the language, the

religion, the old world everything.

First generation Perth Amboy, a

large Polish community, Stanley

was clumsy, a bit of a doofus,

and had strange troubles with

English  -  difficult constructions

to understand; he spoke oddly.

He had the fire inside, for God

and the mission. He stayed at

it, long after I was gone, all

the way to the end of what

would be his near-ordination.

Then they cut him; simply

dropped him, after all those

years, saying his communication

skills were lacking and he'd be

no good. That was the story

he'd stopped in to tell me. I 

don't even know how he 

knew I was there. He was 

devastated; without recourse, 

hurt and adrift. In so many ways,

so was I! I couldn't square with

him my plight against his. He

was raw and hurting.  I gave

him my solace, and poor 
Stanley moved on. I wished 
all my friends the power of
grabbing themselves back up 
re-entering the flow of
energy we live by. When I
saw that, I was glad and I was
thankful. When I saw it not
happening, I too got sad.