12,165. RUDIMENTS, pt. 829

RUDIMENTS, pt. 829

(the slam-dunk of normal stupidity)

Paul Goodman once said,

'I am an anarchist, and a

patriot; a curious kind of

thing.' I always liked that

and thought it pretty cool.

When you're a certain age,

it seems you're always on

the verge of 'becoming'

something. At 18 everyone's

already their own legend.

Mine kept changing, and

it was always quotes like

that which steered me. I'd

find something, I'd like it,

take the words to heart, and

start running with that  -  for

a while. It never much lasted.

Everything seemed always

to disprove itself. I guess

that's why I stayed with the

writer thing  -  words kept

coming, things I wanted to

say, and I also kept finding

more things to remember.

'The awareness of self does

not have fixed boundaries.'

-

At one level I never knew

what any of this stuff meant.

But I found quickly that writing,

and what others call 'poetry,'

afforded me a way off changing

things. I lunged to it. I'd

often sought to be a type

of mentalist  -  one who can

'influence' events by thought.

I found writing to be even

better, in that I could influence

others at a dual-level  -  both

by their thoughts and by their
their actions together, both.

I was hooked. It was always

by little, puny, things that I'd

be most effected : Robert Frost,

writing of a cellar hole 'closing

like a dent in dough.' I simply

re-wrote the entire world that

was around me until it pleased

me in my way  - recreated and

tougher. I can't stand weak

slouches and blubbering people

stuck in a trance. That's why

there are bowling alleys, and

lines at Carvel. Anywhere that

enigmatics gather, they blur

the lines of meaning; they

blur the lines of the enterprise

they're professing. It's another

version of politics, that same

old sham catcall of things never

being what they are said to be.

It's all called lying, and I was

most certain to steer my way

clear of all that. Everything

else, anyone else could have.

I was done. Filled with my own

hatreds  -  of process and

procedure and following the

rules and regulations dictated

at me. Like the short-haired

pimple-necked half men at

the draft office, a laughing

pygmy always finds something

to stop the laughter in others.

-

The sociology of self is not

knowledge, although that's what

the schools and groups around

me purported to advance. It was

all another version of 'nothingness.'

Mr. Heidegger, Mr. Sartre, I've

got the Being; I don't want the

nothingness. As I went through

a lot of things in life, I realized,

about life, that actually there's

too much of it. That was one of

the problems most people missed.

There's just too much. For a year

or two, years later, at Princeton,

that daily commute took me, early

morning hours, to the campus

jitney bus. Because of the early

morning, cold, instead of walking

I'd often enough take the campus

bus. From the train station it

was wall easy, and warm. The

bus, at that early hour most

often had the same 6 or 8 people

boarding, plus me. After awhile

I became a fixture  -  not a friend,

but good enough for a nod, good

morning, etc. There were service

staff people  -  not students, not

professors. They'd go on about all

sorts of things, to each other. It

all was a perfect example of

there being 'too much' of life  -

I'd end up overhearing all types

of over-lapping conversations;

what people had eaten, where

they'd been shopping, what

movie or TV show they'd seen,

what they were doing at their

 job, how their kids were,

and all the rest of that

vaulting zoom of what

life is. Way too much of

everything, and always. One

woman, about maybe 35, with

two kids, never failed snuggling

up close to this guy (they were

have a torrid affair, and weren't

shy about it) would go on

about the weekend, her kids,

and even her husband -  showing

photos, family junk, and all

in spite of fooling with this

other guy, openly. They would

go on, each morning, and it was

pretty pathetic to me. They would 

just go on. Mostly it was her, but

he'd throw in his share too  -  a big,

tall, shy kind of guy, Polish maybe,

or Russian. Probably 6' 4', with

huge hands and a smirk. One day

someone said something about

his size, and she said, 'Oh no! The

bigger the better!'

-

I used to walk the campus, just

thinking abut the illusion of it all.

Like NYC, it was all illusion.

Behind all those doors and entries

were the most ordinary of scenes;

people who were striving, who had 
their own families, struggling

through whatever, a silent workforce

of people serving the remnants,

quickly fading, of maybe what once

used to be an American elite but was

not really that any more. Any of those

stories were old and gone. The only

real 'Princeton' people who showed

up nationally now were usually people

found out  -  the crooks and criminals 

of the finance world, the usual oafs

and lackeys of monied scams and

striving, intellectual contractors

maybe, but contractors nonetheless.

And of course the endless political

types, think-tankers, and even political

wives, then. That was mostly all it

ever came down to  -  the slam dunk

of normal stupidity. When your nose
is sniffing up the butt of 'success.'
all good things need fall aside.