RUDIMENTS, pt. 865
(my bungalow in bangalore)
Siegfried. Wagner. The Ring
Cycle. Valkyries. Everything
together. Righteous reduction.
Spasms of fear. Outright lies
and distortions. A fantasy life
to beat the band. Yes! I'm up
against many of those things
here, on a daily basis. I met a
lot of e-people here and most
of it's real cool. The back and
forth is sometimes quite
interesting; it's like learning
of people's interests on the
fly, as they pass, as interests
converge. Every so often
a problem arises, and it gets
talked out or turns into fun.
'Many a truth is said in jest.'
That was an adage I heard
often enough as a kid, my
Mother used it, and then I
heard it a lot (I guess I was
always the comedian) from
the local parish priest, a guy
named Father Genecki. He
used to feign outrage and
then say that. It soon enough
became old hat. Most of that
stuff I can play off of, but
there are, always one or two
people that never seem to make
any sense, and it's quite sad.
It's a real mishap to see a life
washed up on the shoals of
complete illogic and fantasy.
I'd always figure, if you
don't like something, leave
it alone, don't go there.
Specifically if you're not
part of the mix. I can't
figure the attraction. It's
like taking the chief thief
in a company and putting
them at the cash register
for all their shifts. By
contract - for goodness
sake - shouldn't you just
instead be sending him
home early?
-
The way I see it, a person
who is busy remains busy.
A person who is idle, carps.
-
There was a sort of golden era
that occurred in the periods of
my and my peers' generations,
through the 1950's period of
growing up. By the end of the
1920's, the rush of immigration
was done. New restrictions had
been put in place, lessening
by far the appearance of 'new'
arrivals. Thus, for some 30
years, there was time for
second and third generation
people, adults, etc, to take
their 'assimilated places
within an America' that
had a theme and a purpose.
Very few, by comparison
to the other times, of the
language-and-custom
barriered 'new'arrivals
were around; everyone
had time to meld and
Americanize. It was a
calmer period. Jeepers
it had to be; if Mamie
Eisenhower was a fashion
icon, times must have been
tough, with slim pickings.
By the later 1970's that was
all over and, once again,
we had large influxes
of newly-arrived folk,
in their range from saris
and head-wraps to big
sombreros and westernized
attire. All new again.
That's a great difference.
It also is the account of
reality - the melding and
the wider brotherhood
between people - that
once again disappeared.
It really only existed for,
perhaps, the 40 years of
our time. All those kids
I swam through grade
school, and such, with.
In this respect, all that
harmonious being is over,
as it has to be. The overflow
valve for us was Vietnam
and all those young men
getting killed or battered.
Today's kids, I think, the
offspring mostly of those
'other arriveds,' use the
military, by contrast, as
an employer of last resort
and are, frankly, taking us
broke. Enough said. Some
Veteran's Day scalawag will
probably kill me. I'm kind of
sick of all that crap too.
-
In the beginning of my teens,
the first overt inkling I had
of how tumultuous things were
soon to change, and to be, was,
I suppose, being switched over
from what was called grammar
school - which was a very
basic and programmed means
of presenting me information -
to the more anarchic and
blitzkrieg-like ways of what
was then called 'Junior High
School.' It started simply
enough and then, almost
immediately, all these small
alterations began seeping into
my head : changing classes,
moving around in hallways,
carting books, watching this
overtly anarchic mix of kids,
with ages and attitudes all
different, clang around
boisterously in hallways
lined with noisy metal lockers.
Imagine! All of one's learning
life, at that point, reduced to a
narrow, metal, locker with a
combination lock, long in a row,
stretched out along the same
hallways used as a highway
for raucous feet at all hours.
The introduction to a new
form of impersonalization
couldn't be ruder. And it's
all just thrown at you. You
rove the hallways, unsure,
and afraid of getting hit in
the head by a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich. Everyone
talks loud. Out of order. It's
a jumble. 'Welcome to the
life you never wanted!' I'd
hear them say.
-
Thinking back now, I can't
understand how, in all my
NYC days, I lived without
a clock. Or a watch. Maybe
you never think of that but
it's a peculiar thing. I wonder
now how I structured, if I
did, the time I had? Having
a clock, or even a watch,
means - in a way - that
you've got a structure, of
some sort, going on. It's
different now, I know, but
this was 1967, and the
traditional ideas of things
were yet prevalent - yes,
kids, before cells and
smart phones and smart
watches now too. People
were fairly basic, in regards
to time and watches and
schedules and appointments.
I guess I went by the light,
or the sky, or others. Doing
whatever they were doing,
when they did it. I remember
walking a lot, sun-ups and
early mornings late nights,
all that. It was kind of
mystical, those half-states
between light and dark.
In the streets of the city,
the idea of light is almost a
physical thing, as are shadows.
They trail and they lead, the
canyoned streets, seeking light,
try pulling it in but oftentimes
cannot, until it's directly
overhead - so there are
always quality changes to
images, colors, vistas. I can
remember, back when all
that ship and boat traffic
was still vibrant, how, looking
west, towards the river and
the end of some block or
another, how startled I'd be
by the slow, sudden, silent
float of a huge boat, ocean
liner, or cruise ship sliding
on by. It was almost like a
paper cut-out thing that you
could manipulate in the cut
of the slide-track given. Back
then there were boats and
liners always going by on
their own schedules - and
the NYTimes, in fact, printed
the daily maritime arrivals
and departures. It was an
especial, unstated, elegance
to an older NY now gone.
No comments:
Post a Comment