RUDIMENTS, pt. 845
(elegy for my life)
So many slow things end up
happening fast. Like aging,
or, even, dying. It all just
seeps in, like light through a
doorway, ajar, which keeps
opening, little by little and
more by more. It's not an
accident, exactly; it just
occurs, accumulating over
time. It's a sorrowful point,
after enough time of it, and
you're gone, and people make
mention, and then they don't.
-
I saw lots of old people back
then. It seems that old people
got old differently in 1967 then
they ever do now. It may perhaps
just be perspective - the way it
all looked, the way things seemed.
First off, and right off the bat,
everyone was always sucking
on a cigarette - the real kind,
not the steambath froth boxes
kids use now. The old sort of
tobacco age was different. Age
lines, pasty-looking dry skin,
wrinkled and yellow. One damn
cigarette after the other. You
could watch and see how bad
each person did or did not have
the shakes. Lighting and matches
and lighters, it all became a chore,
even as - for the really bad ones -
just clutching the pack and getting
one cigarette out was a major
chore for the wizened eyes and
sad hands. There was a different
kind of brain thing everywhere
then. People truly just smoked
themselves to death. Even when
young enough, they looked old.
-
I guess it's a memory thing; you
cloud the old thoughts in the wreath
of untalking smoke that hangs
around you, thinking maybe no
one can see into it, finding your
sorrows, or your sensitive points.
Between the clouds of smoke and
the shaky hands and all that, I
always figured there'd be time
enough to know when it was
already getting too late. The
Japanese had these 'tea ceremony'
things - many slow and deliberate
moments over tea, the settings,
the steeping, the pouring, etc. So
too did many of these old crusty
leftover people have that same
approach, but with cigarettes.
Over by the Bowery, the steps
of everything just got worse, and
progressively so, because all those
guys did the same cigarette thing
but mixed with alcohol. Endless
bundles of booze, whiskey, rot-got,
liquid slime; anything that could
go down. Not even stay down;
just go down.
-
I had a few writerly and poetry type
people with whom I'd occasionally
spend time - days walking, or
visiting their bizarre apartments and
living quarters, which were always,
it seemed, changing too. Mostly west
80's kinds of places; studios and
small places. One time the coolest
one I saw was some gigantic, pre-war
apartment; lots of rooms, rambling
around each other, high ceilings and
arches. It was hard even to make a
mental map of the place because
what once had been one huge
family-sized wealthy apartment
had over all these years been
altered and shifted around so that
something like 12 different people
lived there at once, sort of communally,
as far as kitchen and bathrooms and
the general sitting rooms went, but
each person in addition, had their
own room; private spaces. There
were rooms hidden around corners,
or entered through curtains at the
punched out walls of what once
had been closet-space. All of it
was roomy, and there were no
straight lines, and it was all
plush and couched and soft and
pillowy. It had started out as a
group of Columbia girls rooming
together, and had grown into
adding guys, a couple or two
thrown in, and shared supplies,
foods, and utilities. it was pretty
crazy and had been, as well, for
a time some hot-bed political
headquarters for a radical group
of some nature. It was very cool,
though I knew nothing of the
means of sustenance; how a
landlord would cover for all
this and no sprinkler, fire-alarm
kinds of things, rules or safeties.
There was, here too, a constant
pallor of either incense or cigarette
smoke lingering, endless cups of
coffee and debates of grand intensity
over this or that point of politics
or philosophy, over and over,
ad nauseum, or over some fine
point of a jazz solo on the
phonograph. It was crazy-cool,
but dirge-like normal too, in
that if the same thing was done
today it would have a million
rules, tattoos, vegan habits,
no-smoking, and probably also
15,000 phone and computer
hot-points, wi-fi and streaming
centers, and separated sections
for recycling and trash. But,
I guess that's the difference.
-
Sometimes I just got sad, even
when I had no reason to. Things
of the world saddened me - not
objects or the old things I'd see
everywhere, but the people
I'd see. I was always of the sort
that if I'd see that guy with
one leg at the corner of 21st
street one day, and then there
again another day, I'd instantly
want to get involved - being sure
that maybe, if he needed something,
I could bring it. It was a dumb idea,
but it did end up a few times with
me schlepping coffee or something
to eat to Jack at the corner, or
Jim on the old church steps.
I'd never think of doing anything
like that today, because the bums
and beggars are no longer
authentic, and they're usually
cranky or cross too. These old
guys were different - wounded,
or crippled, or sad and bent
about something, their hopelessness
ran ahead of them and it was
for real. Even if it was their own
fault, I immediately shared
their loss. I knew what a hurting
life was all about. I sensed how
they thought.
No comments:
Post a Comment