12,152. RUDIMENTS, pt. 824

RUDIMENTS, pt. 824

(so long, it's been good to know you)

There are a lot of things

I like - the problem usually

works out to be that the

things I like are the same

things, often enough,

that most people have 

an incipient bias against.

I'm old enough now to

no longer care, and to just

say my piece and move 

along. Society has gone

crazy. The world is a

dirty, old sock.

-

John Stuart Mill put it once,

"But it is the time for great 

men to come forward. With

small men, no great thing

can be accomplished..." He

wrote that in 1859, which,

I admit, was a long time back

for a world that changes and

rolls over ever 30 minutes, but,

'On Liberty,' for the rest of

what it is, filled a nice spot

for me. To be truthful, I

always felt fated for something,

but it never happened and even

though that feeling lingered

through the dumbest of my

days. And I had some dumb

ones. One time, I was giving

a reading on the roof of the

Plainfield YMCA; it was

like June of 1979. I love

doing a public reading, but

haven't done one in a very 

long time  -  not that I'd not 

want to or wouldn't jump

at the task. It's just that no

one listens anymore; they 

don't know how to listen. 

The basis for all that is 

gone; outlook and what's 

ruefully called 'education' -

which is now more the 

empty bucket that gets 

to sing. That night though, 

in the very last days of old 

Plainfield, before the 

troglodytes took over and 

the town was thrown to 

the wolves, the derelict 

hordes of landscape

Hispanics who treat 

the place as their own 

guava plantation now,

I had the literati of that day 

in my hands  - enraptured, 

enthralled. It was pretty cool, 

let me say. And out of the 

audience, some guy later

comes up, thrusting a real

serious business card in 

my face, saying his name 

is Roger Williams, from

upstate in NY somewhere;

A monied guy; married, or 

living with anyway, an ex-nun. 

He thought my reading was 

great, and wanted in. He 

wanted to run me everywhere;

ringer, washer, and any 

conditional form of fame and 

fortune he could find for me. 

I said, 'Roger Williams? Are

you the same guy who founded

Rhode Island?' He laughed. We

exchanged names, faces, numbers

and addresses. He said he'd be

back in touch, to send paperworks

and things for me to sign, etc. It

all sounded good, for ten seconds 

and then it also felt way too slick; 

too glib. For the next couple of

years, 6 or 8 anyway, all it turned

out to be was seasonal Christmas

card greetings, here and there a 

'progress' letter, but never any

terms, contracts, requests or

anything to sign. It all faded 

away, and then he died. That 

was the end of that career. I

found I didn't even really care.

By that time, anyway, I had

started my own small publication.

At least that opened some small

doors for me  -  nothing big  -

but through it I got to meet a

lot of people and had some

interesting experiences.

-

Anyhow, can you even imagine

what it felt like for me, on the

cusp of 30, as I was? I felt like a

rocket, up on that warm rooftop,

ready and set to blast off for the

moon. It all faded away, but it

was a cool moment, and the Y

did ask me back. The problem

is  -  and this I find still prevalent  -

that the towns and boros who take

up on this stuff ruin it. They don't

know shit about arts or poetry, or

how to present that stuff. It ends

up bureaucratized, needing

approval, for both format and

content, and they also have the

stupid urge, every time, somehow

to hook it up with workshopping

first. Which is so typically

municipal  -  they can never have

anything just 'be.' It has to fit

their small-brained zoning

fixations on fitting a format,

following a rule, and even making

that strange and broad assumption

that someone who 'writes' can

then successfully impart to others

the hows and whys of writing.

Which is pure bullshit, but which

gives a feeling of validity to the

blowhards who do this stuff.

Boy, it just makes me sick.

Whenever I see any of those 

people I feel the need to run. I

think 'they' should all workshop

one another, and maybe they'll

come up with half a person.

-

I feel like I've done lots of things

and been to lots of valuable places,

but places you'd never think

had value. Because most people

just don't think there's value 

anywhere. What I'd most wish 

to do, turning my back on all 

the rest of the normal crud, is

go to Avenel Park, throw down

a hat, for coins and dollars, and

give a two or three hour reading,
with the semi-circle of people
around me; out loud, raw and
unamplified,  the old fashioned 
way, like in ancient Greece, or

or like Lincoln on the hustings,

unworkshopped and so real, 

and let people hear some real

truth for a change, let them hear

the Sing-Out from a talented

heart.

-

Avenel Park? You know that place?

They call it something else now,

named after a local mayor who

was killed  -  giving us what we're

getting now. I'd bet the usual scum

and cops and street-sweepers would

be there in an instant to shut it down.

That's the kind of stuff that doesn't 

happen anymore. That old America

is so long dead and gone.
-
The new America? It tries telling
us that rap and hip hop stars are
talented. That graffiti is where it's
at. That old ways are dead and
gone. That music and art and
writing must now be colloquial
to have any value. That we must
only cater to the low. That no effort
need be made for anything. That
you can, yes, truly, find numerous
was of doing nothing, having no
value, being not roadworthy
for anything at all, and yet have 
ways of living off the taxes
and the dollars of others.
That's actually what they teach
in school now: 'Work for the
Government; you'll do great!'
I respond viscerally : Open
up the floodgates, and let
the flaming waters in.