12,124. RUDIMENTS, pt. 815

RUDIMENTS, pt. 815

(all in the service of death)

There was an entire gamut of

things I experienced, yes, but

much of it I kept to myself : 

Infatuation, love, fear, anxiety.

pride, revenge, loathing, excess

and doing without. Nobody really

knew me, and I made sure of that.

My experiences had taught me,

somehow, that each time I stood

up, something was sure to knock

me back down. And I was tired 

of it. There's a patterning that

goes on in a beaten down form

of consciousness that results

usually in one of two things  -  a

complete range of angers and

furies, which are never a good

thing (and which I didn't have), or a

sort of non-productive, or not good

for much anyway, cooperative

nature that willingly accedes to 

what it's told. I had gone more

into that vein of things, which

I eventually came to detest.

Therein was my quandary.

More on that in a bit.

-

I never really lost a night's

sleep over things, but it never

felt right. I compensated for

it in a rather insane manner of

production   -  the self-production

of my own 'things.' Words, art,

poems, drawing, stories, and

other items, mostly unique to

me in that they met no one else's

criteria, were unrecognizable by

the usual standards of title, degree,

schooling and obeisance to the

supposed norms. As an example,

it was 1967, a war was raging,

the sort of war that's hard to

imagine today because it was

imposed upon us, as young

males  -  who died by big

numbers in what eventually

degenerated into a decayed,

anarchic, sick military force

of basic, crazed and drugged,

maniacs. Of course, no one on

that other side of the divide

felt that way  -  that's why they

were there. It was a no-win

situation otherwise; I myself

was what I felt a casualty, in

the cheapest way  -  I'd not

bled a drop, gotten shot, nor

had I pulverized anyone or

had my psychs scarred. I had,

however been ruined, just as

much -   I'd been hounded,

chased down by authorities,

forcibly made to report to the

supposed authorities lording 

over me, made to answer for

refusing to register, and nearly

drafted in place, twice. At the

induction center downtown,

and again in Newark, to which 

they dragged me. This was 1968

wartime, to me. Little did they

know what was going on at

11th Street, and I said nothing.

We were harboring fugitives,

arranging travel and run-offs

to Canada weekly, holding

some 16 people a week on

their flight from enforced

servitude. That's only the

start of what I won't go on

about. It sure enough kept

me propelled, busied, and

creative. 

-

Looking back now, I see the

mountains and I see the valleys.

Everything I had done was a

symbol that actualized an act.

I was a conscious propellant

for my own flame. Mountains.

Valleys. Highs. Lows. I only

later came to see, in a form of

self-analysis, that all parts of what

I later achieved in Pennsylvania

was, as well, a symbol. I had

made geographic reality out of

those symbolized forces I'd only

been living in through a NYC

version. Like riding a motorcycle

fast through fire. Once I got

to hide away in Pennsylvania,

I realized that I'd taken the

symbolic episodes and made 

them real  -  yes, the hills and the

valleys, the heights, and the lows.

That was a very powerful, and an

exhausting achievement, worth

five years of rest-up, for sure. 

But. The trouble with that is,

the world doesn't view you

positively at all; you're trouble,

a rebel, an avenger, some jerk

on an 'anti' mission. Boy, did

I learn that.

-

So what's it get you? Nothing.

So many things I can remember.

Everyone had their own way out.

I remember a Bob Dylan quote, 

when all those folk singer guys

at the Kettle o' Fish and the 

Gaslight were operating. They

had no deferments, no college,

nothing to keep them away from

the 1964 era's draft. Dylan's

advice to those guys  -  Eric

Andersen, Phil Ochs, Jim 

Kweskin, any of those guys, 

(I'm just throwing names out);

here's Andersen : "Well, this

is funny. We basically had no

protection because we weren't 

in school, and we had no

psychiatrist to say we were

'unfit for military service.' 

When time comes for the 

exam, you're on your own. 

You had to go in and do the 

greatest performance of your 

life to get out. Or get cuffed

and sent over. Well, Bob's

advice? 'Take mescaline, man

take mescaline.'" Somehow,

a government can make 

criminals and addicts of

everyone. For myself, I began

feeling like some surrealist or

symbolist painter, putting together

the very weirdest tableau of

things with which to represent

this world. It's amazing how

this all stays with you. I can

remember that hideous trek

on my bicycle, along dense

and sooty Broadway traffic

one afternoon for a follow-up

hearing  -  I got to that place

and my insides were churning

with fury, like some demented

Thom Paine holding a fire-stick.

I left my bike in the lobby and

went upstairs. My America,

right then, represented itself,

its killing self, to me as dirty

green walls, disgusting corridors,

fat-necked men behind desks,

hideous females carrying papers

and files  -  all in the service of

death foul death and there just

ain't no other.

-

This was my first real run-in

with 'authority,' as it was

called. They pull you in and drag

you around. I saw boys crying,

knowing they were on their way

out having just lost their plea

or appeal for deferment. The

men running these sessions were

pig-fascist-beasts. There was

no conscience here; there wasn't

even a knowledge of History,

and if I'd probably sneered and

said 'Dien Bien Phu' they wouldn't 

have a clue. Let me tell you,

these men were worth nothing.
And there was nothing in there
worth saving. I managed to, that day
at least, brush them off like the
bad dust and dirt they were. What
we had on them, was that we
KNEW. We were versed in
the crap we were fighting,
whereas their ideology had
not a clue.