12,121. RUDIMENTS, pt. 814

RUDIMENTS, pt. 814

(it didn't fit at all)

There were three words

that always bugged me; it

seemed they always posed

a problem for me. Nothing

particularly crucial, and

always correctable, they

were simply things I

always had to carefully

step over : Lascivious;

Halcyon; and Pablum.

I know, I can tell already

of your slack-jawed

reaction to this, but it's

true. This was the sort

of thing I tripped up on;

unlike others, I cared little

for sports standings, football

scores, stock prices, or any

of that. I was, rather, usually

hung up on words. Halcyon

I was always seeing as halycon.

(You can look these up on

your own, if needed). Pablum

was in a constant conflict with

Pabulum. In actuality, 'Pablum'

was the brand-name of a

product-version of pabulum,

which was Latin for food

or something; some sort of

smooth mush. And, lastly

here for these purposes, I

always got lascivious as

lasvicious. Different. It

was as much fun as it was

annoying. I was like a

goldsmith seeking that perfect

whatever it is that goldsmiths

seek to prove purity. I had the

sails, and they were unfurled,

but had not yet caught any

wind. It was getting late,

and I was impatient.

-

My return to solid ground,

I guess, was something I

never accomplished, and only

now, at this late stage, is it

running its toll on me. So many

of the things behind me seem

as missed opportunities, wasted

efforts, miscues, and bad

directions. My halcyon days

never did arrive. I always

tried to steer clear of the

pabulum and mush that

the mundane world threw

at me  -  and I have always

liked remaining lascivious.

-

The day I got to New York

City, I was right off the bat

in search of the down and

dirty, somehow always having

thought it would lead me to

a big prize. Up along 42nd street,

there were guys on the make  -

there was one amusement

arcade over across from the

bus terminal, I guess that's

Eighth Ave (not sure now), and

in that arcade, among Ski-Ball

lanes and chutes and pin ball

machines there were all sorts

of perverted guys liking to

pick up young men. A person

could make 50 or 75 bucks

there easy enough, if one was

dumb enough. Some guys did;

they took the whole thing as

a career opportunity, in that

pathetic, brutally hot 1967

August of time. Like Herbert
Huncke hustling. I had plenty

of weaknesses, but it was

never for guys. So? I stayed

poor. Later on, stuff like

that could become part of

everyone's story, those guys

retelling their old days on the

miserable street. Half of it's

all made up. (Did you get that?

How could half of anything

be all made up? It works, but

it doesn't, but it does. And

what's half of everything
anyway? Very strange). It was
all a peculiar game of marbles,

to me, bumping the solids off

the cat's-eyes. Half the time I was

scared. You can hardly imagine

now how primitive all this was.

The 1950's versions of the

entertainments, of these arcades,

was still quite active, even

through much of the 1970's.

Things were seedy everywhere,

dirt and filth piled up, people

sagged and died, no one cared.

All these game things were all

mechanical  -  meaning they made

clackety and metallic noise, had

lousy sound effects, beepers and

bells, but no finesse or advancement.

It was all tinker-toy stuff. And

no one knew what to do with

themselves. None of this was

like now, where people are always

preoccupied: Phones and info

everywhere, people in constant

touch with entertainments, even

movies and stuff, on their stupid

hand-helds. Everything is soft

and easy  -  knowledge is rubber,

it gets bent and twisted by whatever

the prevailing monster-version

of things is. In that aspect, the

whole world has gone quiet.

There are NO tangible, fixed,

fast, or stuck, meanings now to

anything; let alone worries over

how to spell. I'm crazy now, just

as I ever was then; but I articulate

better. That's a funny word too,

because an articulate vehicle now

is one that bends  -  like those long

NYC buses that are really two

buses in a row, stuck together by

a section of dense rubber which

bends some so the long bus can

make a turn. Go figure. I could

hardly, at first, speak about what

I saw, from a sense of wonder and

foreboding too. All I could
ever, back then, think about,
(still recollecting hotly from those
yet fresh seminary days, was
Mark 10:31, 'Many that are
first will be last.' It seemed,
fitting and right, while at the
same time it didn't fit at all.
-
That also seemed a perfect fit
for the parody of 'living' I saw
here. All things were pretty
innocent too, even in their
bleakness. Imagine, today, an
arcade? A shooting gallery and a
line of Ski-Ball lanes, everything
running at 25 cents. It was like
a set-up for perversion and the
degenerate. Those guys with the
bottle in the brown bag, thy were
bottom feeders, with lousy teeth.
The rich people skimming of the
top had nothing on these guys,
who were mining the filthy mud
and muck for their untold amounts
of gold and silver. A person had
to remain mindful and very aware.
Especially, back in those early
days, a naif like me. These arcades
were open-fronted, nice days. No
real door or entryway, so all the
real lurkers cold lurk, staring
about to silently proclaim their
lechery. Male and/or female. So
much like today, in that realm.
Romero's was out, across the way,
and people passed the thoroughfare
constantly. It was unbelievable the
things you cold witness. Romeo's
was a spaghetti house, with 25 cent
plates of 'spaghetti,' by their terms,
but not so bad anyway, and an 
eating and viewing section at the
glass-front, with stools and a
counter, so if you wanted you
could gaze out as you ate.
Occasionally, you'd get to see
some police push-backs, even
a cracked skull, or the crazed,
deluded and delirious, screaming
about their case to Heaven.