RUDIMENTS, pt. 875
(I hope by now he's seen the sea)
When I first got to
Pennsylvania, every
so often I'd run into
a word or name that
was kept privately and
locally-secret, pronounced
different than I'd ever
figure. After a while I'd
just learn to go with the
flow on such items. There
was a nearby place, not a
town to speak of, just a very
rural 'crossing' named Milan.
It had to be pronounced, not
It had to be pronounced, not
like the Italian place, but,
rather, as 'MyLin' with all
the due imprecision and
evasion due it. The same
went for another place up
along Rt. 14, heading to
Elmira. 'Gillette' was the
place name, but - unlike
the razor company - it was
pronounced as 'Jillit,' and
stayed so. Same went for
Bentley Creek, which was
hereabouts spoken of as
'Bentley Crick.' I didn't
mind, but it always had
me thinking about how to
pronounce the people names
I'd run across; like 'Lorton,'
first name, or 'Willard.'
It was almost a fear: could
'Bob' really just be 'Bob,' or
was I giving myself away?
-
I had a realization once; it hit
and then just never left. I think
I've been writing of it ever since,
in my own disguised ways and
such. Somewhere along the line,
in spite of everything, I think a
person realizes that things are
seldom ever what they seem,
nor do they possess the attributes
of what things they should seem
like, as taught to them by the
sloven reinforcers of the 'code'
who acted as their teachers over
the years. (They aren't even called
that anymore, for fear of being
caught out. Now they're 'educators').
Things aren't what they seem, words
are not what they sound like, and
most of what one learned in school,
army, from elders, and what one
has read in many 'grave' books, is
complete nonsense. Of course,
life's 'grief' begins when that is
realized and one undertakes the
'new' beginnings of a piecemeal'
construction of the 'right' life that
is good for you and you alone.
'Beware the wedge,' as it is said.
Don't let the foot in the door.
-
Maybe one event changes things
for the lucky; or maybe, like most,
it takes years of battering-ram
realizations to show you what's
wrong with the assumptions. And
only after it all begins seeping in
is it realized that 'existentially'
one must better get going, so as
to facilitate the remainder of this
life. What does the average person
do? Gets jobs and gets married?
Nice noose there, Buddy. I admit,
love and passion and all that exists,
but for purposes of my end, here,
in this context, it's all immaterial.
Some people end up living by
deceit - and I've found that's a
really crummy thing. There's nothing
worse than a lie - if everything one
imparts is true, and real, it's all then
perfectly defensible - you never
forget what you'd said, or say it
again wrongly (because you've
forgotten what you fabricated
precisely the first time). Liars get
caught up in all sorts of overlaps
and mistakes. Predictably, the
truth should always be preferred,
and in a Machiavellian sense, oddly
enough, it ends up being referred
to by its advantage - the getting
over on another : "I would suggest
truthfulness should be ordinarily
preferred, but without abandoning
deception altogether. That is, in the
ordinary circumstances of life, use
truthfulness in such a way as to
gain the reputation of a guileless man.
In a few important cases, use deceit.
Deceit is more fruitful and successful
the more you enjoy the reputation of
an honest and truthful man; you are
easily believed."
-
The situation I was in was
troubling, and the only good
thing about that was the isolation.
I was amidst groups of people
who, I'd known immediately,
weren't the type to take duplicity
or bullshit too easily - and if one
got caught out doing that there
could be hell to pay. I was
starting out at my own ground
zero; in the way that these folk
knew nothing about me, yet my
'recreating' of a character called
me called for the utmost care. I
wasn't exactly making it easy
either : for a while I'd be Joe
Farmer, happily and naively
going about my farm-boy tasks,
getting 'Pennsylvania Farmer'
magazine each month, absorbing
the ads and articles, dutifully
crossing the 't's and dotting the
'i's to learn everything I could
about silage, refrigeration, bulk
tanks, seeds and soil, and the
rest. Than the mailman would
deliver an Art magazine; there'd
be local kids coming over listening
to Neil Young and my perverse
record collection, and going
home with their heads messed
up. Visitors and friends coming
over for a weekend at a time,
when they did, and coming around
with me to see how things went.
Odd people. Weird. All sorts
of things seemed always around
me that could blow up in my
face and destroy my entire
story. A character actor couldn't
have done it better - hunting
rifles, a few pistols, chewing
tobacco, working on cars in
the mud and the cold. I think
back on all this now and just
wonder; scratch my head and
wonder, about all the differences.
I don't think I ever saw anyone
up there watching sports; a TV
game on a Sunday, Never. Baseball
night games. Nope. The women were
cooking, and the men were working,
or sleeping. That was that. I remember
my farmer friend Warren saying
how he never got away, they'd
never had a vacation, he'd never
seen the ocean. Stuff that really
never mattered to me but he was
hung on. I felt bad for him. I hope
by now he's seen the sea.
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