12,187. RUDIMENTS, pt. 836

RUDIMENTS, pt. 836

(don't bend over in the shower)

I decided I'd never go too

far, distance-wise. I liked

my direct and immediate

surroundings, hanging

about me as a cloak or

heavy cloth coat. It was

sometimes all I could do

anyway just to stay in place.

If I was anything at all, I

was some hermit, lost in a

very un-regal hole. My

friend Al told me that one

day I simply walked right

by him, ignoring his greeting

and all else. He was with

his friend at the time, Robert.

I can't remember what I may

have been undergoing right

then. Probably voices.

-

Between the years 1925-1927,

there was something called the

Copenhagen Interpretation. Neils

Bohr, Einstein, and those guys

were involved with it, and it was

the time when they developed

those basic premises that called

into question the then-established

concepts of space, time, and causality.

Maybe that's what I was thinking

of when I surged past Al and

Robert; could'a been anyway.
(I'd known them both since
the first days of schooling).

I loved that stuff  -  anything to

get me away from the more drab

and hum-drum, be-ribboned world

of logic and pale expectation. That

all might be but I didn't need it

not want any of it.

-

I grew over time to realize that

all things exist as once, but that

each operates in a different 'relativity.'

Each with its own time  -  ours, for

one  -  human time, plain and straight;

the time of a leaf, maybe 5 months,

rolling differently, and with different

aims and ends; the time of a squirrel,

something different, perhaps speeded

up, more peripatetic maybe, and

without the kind of 'conclusions'

we get as people; the lazy routine

of swans and geese on some body

of water, aimless to us, they just

circulate and face their own time.

The time of a goose can end on

a dime in the mouth of a fox. In

our own ways, do we face anything

like that? Sitting at some bar-stool

reverie, any day of the old Biker

week I once inhabited, any part

of this could be real, or false. A

girl walks by, and walks right

back out, saying the toilet's

clogged. I manage not to care,

but know there's somewhere there

who will. Some guys are just good

with the mops and the ladies,

and everybody helps Hazel out

(the owner). She's watching the

god-damned Yankees again on

that stupid TV. People who watch

sports in shitty old bars just piss

me off. Not Hazel; she'd do it

anyway; but I mean the people

who come in and seem to care.

I gave up on baseball a long time

ago, when I realized that the games

have already been played; all

of them. Anything we get to watch

is re-run - that endless continuum

of time and space brings us what

we perceive as the present moment.

But it never is. It's a bleed-through

of other things. How can anyone

care about old, dead things? The

football guys were worse, by far.

They never shut up.

-

It's not too much (is it?) for me to

be going on like this? Some guys

sit home and get way into home

brewing their own beers. I've

known guys with the weirdest

concoctions still calling it beer:

all those honey-brews, cinnamon,

clove and garlic. Dandelion wines

too. Why bother? But in a like

fashion, I sort of sit around and

come up with the recollections

of some switchy intensity with

back-flip remonstrances that

never have any repercussions.

I just go on, so I shouldn't talk, 
brewing my own beer like this.

-

Back at the Maple Tree, after a

while, we'd keep hearing stories

about Jim McGreevey; first as

Mayor (another slot-hole feature

job for another loser slot-holer).

We'd hear them from 'reputable'

people too, not just drunks.

Hazel, for one. And cops and

local office-holder types, and

guards; prison guys. How this

McGreevey guy was gay as a

fig, under the protections of

his driver, and the police. It
was said he'd be getting a
blowjob in his car sometimes,

while security/drivers waited,

the stories went, and he also

was running around with

surreptitious lover-guys. We'd

laugh it all off  -  in fact,

McGreevey, pandering votes,

always accepted campaign-time

requests for appearances at our

meetings, and especially when

running for Governor. One

night, at the Rahway Italian

American Club, he showed

up campaigning for Governor,

promising us the world; a no-helmet

law, insurance modifications, etc.,

once he was elected. He didn't

really seem gay to me, just

dumb. Or dumb enough to be

involved in these sorts of ass-

licking frantic situations. He

even brought some half hot babe

along with him, a Hispanic girl

from Perth Amboy or somewhere,

Matos was the last name. The cover

story was they'd married  -  my

friends said he'd finally gotten

his 'beard'; a heterosexual cover

for the election. He won. My

one friend said old 'Jim' was as

gay as they come, just look at

his lips. I said, 'Huh?' It was

funny but I never got any vibe

from him except that eager-to-

please politics drive. Cloying,

yes. Annoying, yes. Fairly

artificial, for sure. But, all that

car stuff and the rest, I never

believed it  -  and then, there

he is, like 2 years or less later,

Governor Resigner, because,

'I'm a gay American.' Damn

it all. And the wife thing, she

disappeared like a slice of

birthday cake. Just goes to show,

I guess, sometimes : When you

drop the soap in the gym shower,

don't go bending to pick it up.

(That could be a Jim/gym

word-play too).
-
Actually, as it turned out, the full
intrigue here was almost fascinating
and none of the subject has ever
really been covered. His lover-boy
(McGreevey's) was an Israeli agent
named Galen Cipel. A mystery man
who never faced any charges and fled
immediately back to Israel. (It's
always said how 'Sex' can compromise a
politician, and this was a prime example;
who knew what info and funding was
going back and forth and what influence
was traded for sex)  -  the Governor's
Mansion (Drumthwacket) in Princeton,
to which I'd been, and was invited
numerous times, as a legislative Biker
guy, for lunches and breakfasts and
speeches and presentations, Gov.
Christie Whitman right through to
McGreevey), had at its rear a grassy
swamp-meadow, behind which were
nice condos and apartments. Cipel
had been put up, with state funds, and
given some sort of job/stipend thing too,
and a path had been worn between the
two places, in these condos, and Jimmy
lips laterpath down. Sneaking away,
as it were, from his own security guard.
You can look it up; no need to just
believe me admitted he'd been the one
wearing that.