12,243. RUDIMENTS, pt. 854

RUDIMENTS, pt. 854

(a dump, and a lost pile of crap)
I've never been to Istanbul

but I've read 'Istanbul' by

Orhan Pamuk three times

already   -   he won the Nobel

Prize for Literature with that

book some years ago, back 

when a Nobel Prize of that

ilk really meant something,

and before it was slavishly

given to rhyming-couplet

midgets with rock n' roll

horns, and then picked up

for them by the same but

in a female guise. Seeing

Peter Handke get it this year,

believe me, really did my

heart good. At least it was

a step back into a literary

direction. I've always seen

things like this as combined

effects of effort and quality.

Effort's easy and is everywhere,

but 'Quality' has long ago

fallen off the chart and been

overwhelmed with the happy

force-field of pleasure and

entertainment. Things now are

just foisted off on us, as if

all standards, instead of

pulling up the bottom, have

allowed themselves to be

pulled down, from that top

perch into some much lower

berth of rhymes and rhythms.

It sells, and it makes money,

But, honey, literature it ain't.

-

Sometimes when I'm writing

this material myself, here, I

muse over both its caliber 

and its locus. Essentially I

have 4 things going at any

one time : Seminary; Avenel;

the Pennsylvania farm; and 

New York City. It's like a

flotilla of four small warships,

plotting through some inner 

sea and picking up along the

way, as cast-offs or found

stowaways  -  things as varied

as Camden, Ithaca, Vermont,

jazz, females, art world and

Studio School, etc., and it

runs right up to the present

day when so many things

around me (like this 'Nobel'

Prize), have fallen away to the

indentured list. There was a

time, twenty years ago, when 

it seemed safe to say, 'I know

everybody!'  -  but it's not

like that now. Many are 

deceased, from Indian Larry

and Jeff Gordon (no, not

the race-car guy), to any

number of others. In that

respect things have gotten 

fairly solitary again. But I 

have great fun and the elixir 

now seems just right.

-

'Counting ships passing

through the Bosphorous might

be a strange habit, but once I

began discussing it with others

I discovered it's common among

'Istanbullus' [residents, like him,

of Istanbul, Turkey].' That's Orhan

Pamuk speaking. In this book

I've mentioned. He writes, as do

a few others, in the vein of those

whose worlds don't stray far

from their homes, of birth and

place. Now, many people like,

instead, to travel far and wide,

relocate themselves to exciting

places, distant and rich. My circle

has closed back in, and made me 

happy. I can finish out this game,

I hope, right here, but with a

wagon-load of memory and 

experience by which to carp 

and holler about the malicious 

present. It's one thing to be in the

hands of fools; but inexperienced

fools can do no one any good.

Like Hitler and Goebbels, their

plans far outreach their reality.

In the history of America, it's 

been done time after time, 

and cities ruined. East St. Louis. 

Camden. Detroit. Great parts of 

Baltimore, New York, and

Philadelphia, thrown to the dogs.

That's the large city contingent.

What's even worse is what we

have here now  - small men, with

pea-brains running on automatic,

smashing all records for idiocy and

overreach on the smaller places
of our land. Pride goeth before

a fall. Ok. A fool and his money

are soon parted. Power corrupts,

absolute power corrupts absolutely.

(That last one was Lord Acton).

Growth and over-reach are great 

on paper, until you begin bringing 

in low-lives, borderline indigents,

and the ailing, those categories of

people who are already used to

dependency, taking and getting

from others, working the system,

and having others pay for their

miserable lives. Every one of 

those new places do not come 

cheaply  -  sewer and toilet, 

waste-water, cars and parking, 

congestion, lights, services, 

bureaucracy, clerks and clip-board 

people, agents and social workers, 

those who determine needs and 

allowances. But, we're getting 
them. As Margaret Thatcher put it, 
'Sooner or later you run out of

other people's money.'  You can't 

bring a dead town back. I can

go up and down the blocks around

me, and every 3rd or 4th house is

someone, in some capacity, working

for the government and living off

tax-dollars. I must ask, how is

that American? What principles

does that fact NOT violate in

the older, original scheme of 

the American Republic? Every 

one of those represented houses,

as well, has a fair chance of right

now having a political sign on 

the lawn for Mayor Goofball and

his Marvelettes. Is it any wonder?

-

What's gone out of the equation, 

totally, from Nobel Prize right 

down, is the factor of 'Quality.'

Noise has taken all that over.

The noise of clamor and interest

group, of the intolerance of those

who will demand never 'change'

but rather the continuation of their

status quo. That's a deadly disease,

living without quality. You can do

a million things in that capacity, 

and none of them would be worth

spit. Without quality everything is

endemic and everything is evil.

-

When I arrived in NYC, July

as it was, 1967 the first thing

I noticed (e11th street, lower 

east side, w8th street, etc.) was

heat and how tawdry everything

was. Yes, it was bad, and it was a

startling eye-opener. What saves

New York City  -  and this is for

right now too, because it's all

probably on balance about the 

same was it was then, but with

air conditioning. (Henry Miller,

'The Air-Conditioned Nightmare.'

You probably should read that too)  -

is legacy. Its legacy as 'place.' Other

places don't have that, surely not

here where I'm living now. In

NYC, if you're smart, you can find

and tap into that golden richness 

of a past that still is vivid, and it

lives, and can be found and 

accessed. It has openings! The

thing that must be done in NYC

is to keep away from the 'today'

and only find the 'Quality.' That's

the still quivering past, shaking 

yet and infiltrating the present,

for those who can read and see it.

Otherwise, just like here, it's a

dump and a lost pile of crap.

-

I've never met Orhan Pamuk,

but I bet we've spoken, and I bet

our fragment personalities know

each other well. Here's a cool

tip, if your car, by accident,

ever ends up in the Bosphorous,

with you in it : "I should remind 

readers that once a car starts

sinking it's impossible to open

a door because of the pressure of

the water against the door. How

to escape? Don't panic. Close

your window and wait for your

car to fill with water. Make sure

the doors are unlocked. And ensure

that any other passengers are

very still. If the car continues

to sink into the depths of the

Bosphorous, pull up your hand 

brake. Just as your car has almost

filled up with water, take one 

final breath of the last layer of

air between the water and the 

car roof, slowly open the doors,

and without panicking get out of

the car. I am tempted to add,

finally, that with God's help,

your raincoat won't get caught

on the hand-brake."