RUDIMENTS, pt. 889
(both sides of his coin)
Before Mark Twain I don't
think there had ever been
an 'American' who stepped
outside of himself and
looked back - the concept
was new, the idea of the
performance itself was
new. The man was walking
out, treading lightly and with
gentle steps, sometimes, on
what it was he didn't know
would hold him. Self-reflection
was, certainly, not an 'American'
trait in those early, formative
years. No one yet much knew
what to make of things; the
blood from the War Between
the States was still running;
pooled as it was in a flatland
between pain, sacrifice, and
'meaning.' Of course, no one
knew, and the entire, still raw,
conflict had in fact been one
over 'meaning.' In fact, Up
to Elmira, bodies were still
coming home, years later.
Families would hire those
who made a living from the
search. Families with contract
with search firms, or individuals,
who scoured battlegrounds,
morgues, lists of the battle dead
and wounded, and maimed, to
find people, or bodies, and have
them transported home, or brought
home, as invalids, or even what
once were called 'vegetables.'
You may recall. Back in those
days, and the times of that war,
it wasn't that difficult to go
unclaimed or lost after the
wreckage of the battles. Years
later farmers down in the states
and places where the War had
been fought, were still turning
up, or discovering, the field dead.
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Twain had sort of developed a
devilish, funny yet evil, sarcasm
with which to poke and prod at
people - who very often didn't
even realize they were being
shamed or parodied thereby. It
was a new discovery on his part
for Mark Twain to have found that
way in, or around, the still vital
and probing questions which
needed settling. I used to sit
around up there, Elmira ways,
and just thing about the world
he was speaking to. It was
difficult to fully grasp. There
was, in Elmira's downtown -
right smack in the center of
everything, (not the same
graveyard as Woodlawn
and Twain's, farther off by
a mile or so), an old Civil
War graveyard out behind
the Sears store and its extra,
secondary, parking lot. Long
unused. This graveyard, on
two sides, was ringed with
homes, another side held the
Sears, and the fourth side was
the main drag of College Ave.
This cemetery was a perfect
place for reflection - a
pathway and lined sections,
and respectful, distinguished
graves with names, regiments,
dates, battles and battle-campaign
dates. Many of these local fellows
had, apparently, been in numerous
battles, drives, and campaigns
along their way. Insignias, regimental
nicknames, little, carved trumpets
and swords and flags, in the varied
stones. Probably 200 cases, interred,
each individual case and soldier
with a battle-story and some
probably horrific last moments,
untold. It was a sad spot. I always
felt I could still hear the shrieking
rebound of noise and terror that
echoed from the 'other' side of
this location. Wherever that
would have been.
-
I'd try to think what things I was
everyday-conscious of that were
things twain probably had never
heard of. Mostly I knew, but some
were questionable. I'd think of
him, forging his way - travel,
talk, performance, writing, while
balancing these places and homes,
and a family too. It was pretty
startling, and I sensed the void:
Indoor plumbing and toilets with
water-flush? Not so sure; sink taps
with combined hot and cold flow:
No, I didn't think - I pictured still
those separate faucets and handles
for 'hot' and 'cold'; Telephones: I
didn't think so, at first; hot air and
blown-air heat? Controlled fire and
thermostats and all that? I didn't think
so; Electric lights and illumination?
I wasn't sure; I knew he'd lost a lot
of money, back then when typewriters
were brand new, in bad investments
in the new technologies of typesetting
and those advances - half the reason
for these talking-tours was to earn
money to get out of the deep debts
that were always at his door; Cars
and autos? No. Or if so only in the
most cursory and theoretical way;
Repeating rifles and guns, personal
use firearms; Yes, but I knew not the
vintage or array. Amplified sound?
Movies? Amusements? I just really
didn't know. The more I thought
about any of this, the more distant
I became from my own present, and
it was probably all OK with me.
-
Sometimes I sensed I was no longer
in control. Some other than me had
taken over 'me.' Everything around
me was in some post-utility age and
I no longer meshed. I'd get lost in
the rigors of the old, while all else
seemed dead. The old train depot,
right near there, hadn't been used
for travel for many years. The old
tracks were still in place, but nothing
ever came. The old depot, over my
years there, was a succession of
small-bore Chinese restaurants,
and one stab at going fancy, but
quickly retreated from. There was
a pizza place within the cluster
too, 'Pudgie's Pizza' - a small
local chain of three or four spots,
around the area. Mostly just a
fat, or thick, bread-like thing
a form of red pizza-sauce on it.
Hardly pizza in any real sense,
but for up there, it worked. The
Chinese food was OK. But it was
always lonesome. There was a
used clothing joint there too run
by two hippie fat-friends of ours;
they called it 'Fat City.' Which
I always thought was pretty cool
and funny; it has another meaning
too, like 'living large' when things
are good. But the name here did
work on varied levels. I forget
how that one ended up, and have
lost all track of the people. The
funny thing about Elmira too, long
after its heyday - the people trains
were all gone; no trace of that. But,
elevated and sort of cutting the town
in two, were the pillared, mushroom
top columns, all through the center of
town, with the elevated freight trains
rumbling along them. That stayed
pretty busy, and you'd see open car
loads of weird things rolling by :
fire hydrants, fire-engine parts and
pumps, fixtures for pipes and hoses,
etc. There was yet a tinge of lively
industry hanging on in one corner
of the south side of town. Hilliard
Company; American LaFrance;
Kennedy Valve, and others. We did
their printing, so I knew all that crap.
-
Mark Twain's world, of course, into
which I'd much more willingly snuggle,
knew or had nothing of that in it.
There hadn't been a horse in Elmira,
probably for 45 years. Who knows
how that goes - the powdery mist of
time drops down and settles on
things, like snow, covering and
concealing what we all don't know.
But for me, all I heard was the old,
the soft crescent-cry of time's old
passing through these beseeching
lanes of shadow and shade and
deep, mysterious, memory.
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