12,208. RUDIMENTS, pt. 842

RUDIMENTS, pt. 842

(I read Kafka way too early)

Somewhere along the line

I realized I didn't really have

a beef with the world as much

as I had a beef with myself for

being in the world. That's a

pretty strange stretch of things

to deal with, but it's true as it

went. Most everything I heard

about  -  things that were told

to me  -  I just wasn't interested

in. They were too real, or too

grounded anyway, in the things

that meant nothing to me. The

farther along I got into life, 

the more this happened. It 

was, for sure, one of the 

largest problems I faced in

the seminary years. One is

meant to be getting more

drawn into the affairs of the

'world,' so to speak, so as to

be able to administer to one's

'flock.' I, however, was getting
more and more 'away.' They used
to like painting a sort of picture 
whereby a very patient gentleness 
was the epitome of priestly duty.
Gentle men with gentle, fine, and
understanding hands. Not 
knowing they were already 
describing the effeminate, and 
worshiping at the altar of the 
impassive and docile. I felt
immediately that there was
some psychological need going
on in this entire 'churchy' mileu,
and one that needed some serious
attention and repair. I, on the
other hand, was already into
the more radical aspects of the
'worker priest' movement,  having
fortunately read of it (in time
enough, thankfully, to save me), as 
it was filtering out, by book and 
journals, of France and England,
 jousting with the powers that be.
And I was, by contrast, getting 
more and more away from their
aims and goals, whatever they

were. Serious and vital issues, by

their standards, seemed all

like stupid junk to me.

-

One of the other things was,

and I'll readily admit to it, that

I liked girls. The whole guy

thing there, living together,

cloistered in a group like that,

it never worked for me. The

male aspect of being just wasn't

that entertaining to me, and I'm

not just meaning sex here. That

was completely easy to stay

away from and not deal with.

Creepy guy stuff was all around

me, but I didn't care. I had a

bent for the distaff side, and

mostly girls were on my mind.

Except of course there weren't

any. Now, in light of all the

perversions and idiotic church

behaviors we've seen, does

anyone really wonder why?

Whoever it was, behind that

entire system, really needed a

good talking to. I was in the

midst of 300, whatever, males.

Going through all their fervid

male stuff, while it was all

being denied to them, ignored,

and essentially written out of

existence while they, supposedly,

kept up some weird Platonic

love affair with the Virgin Mary.

Scrubbed clean of everything

normal and human, piety is

such a dumb joke.

-

What happens in cases like this

is that 'over-compensation' always

sets in. People become perverted,

or crazed, or over-sexed, or rabid

and mad about it. Perversion and

mayhem take the place of reason

and credible behavior. If there are

guns behind the counter, maybe

even banks get robbed, hostages

get taken, and people die, because

someone snaps.

-

When I got to NYC, all that came

apart at the seams anyway. The

frontal assault was exactly that.

Every 42nd street marquee and

storefront, almost, was advertising

for copulation, pleasure, fierce

pursuit, sadism, or vile sexual

habits. I couldn't look at a girl

along those streets without

imagining her undressed or in

performance. I was as unprepared

for any of that as was Lot for his

wife's serving of salt! Pornography,

whoring, man-sex, kid-sex,

runaways, beleaguered and horrid,

grimy old men, grizzled and

scratch-bearded, haunting places

and on the lookout for... for, things

exactly like me! It was starting

all over again, and five times worse.

The off-again, on-again memory of

seminary want and need had been

neatly twisted on its head, and

again I wanted none of it. Male

OR female at that point. Once I

got my footing and found where

I was, and to what I was heading,

I felt like Nelson Algren (a

writer) who, in the mid-1950's,

arrived in Hollywood rewriting

a book he couldn't stomach and

running from a wife he didn't

love. Quite the quandary; for 

him in middle-age. Possibly

deadly for someone like me, at
18, and even without the wife part

and the regrets. (Actually, I was
17 yet, for three months). To say I

wasn't sure where to run would

be an understatement. (This is

usually the point at which

the 'fallen' protagonist of a

story or fable or book first

descends into badness  -  

drugs, women, booze, 

thievery, murder and/or 

mayhem. The revolutionary

then rises from those ashes 

later. But that's only in

stories, and phoenix stories
more than not). As it happened

for me, I just turned further

inward, digging and delving

to a quietude of understanding

that was only good for me. I

liked the cold weather. I walked

only close to buildings, as if

creeping past others. It was

not for me to walk along the

center-sidewalk mass. I still

see that often enough today  -

the wall creepers, the strange

lurkers, keeping off the main

flow and walking close to

buildings; slinking along. I

spoke to no one and kept

from human contact. Inside 

the Studio School and such, I

had my friends and contacts,

as it went, but they were also

kept compartmentalized. 

I was able to distance.

-

I read Kafka way too early.

And then I too became a bug.