RUDIMENTS, pt. 899
(hit hard, and be gone)
A lot of people are certain of
everything - or many things
anyway. All my life I've noticed
that; a strong and steady form of
attesting. Certainty. Something
I never have had; for me it's
all been a haze, a twisting gray
area of always-maybes. That's
always been enough for me, and
oddly enough that 'uncomfortable'
feeling in this world has been my
comfort zone. I've never fretted
too much over that; just accepted
it as my way, and moved on.
Business-people, I learned early,
are ultra-certain. In a way, they
never see how it ruins their lives,
and runs those lives too, but
the one-minded devotion to
making money and having a
successful business enterprise
must, by its own working
definition, take over. They
are stressfully and singularly
dedicated to their constant
task, at the forward expense
of everything else. I've seen
it lots and lots of times. I'd
guess that whatever set of
glasses they wear makes all
this clear to them, shows
that other world into which
they quickly assimilate
themselves and undertake
their lucrative drives. I've
always had different lenses,
or no glasses. I've walked
through the fuzz and the
haze steadily onward. My
factory was me, my product
was my own understandings,
and my lucre from it was
not measurable. Visiting any
business owner's house I've
always been struck by their
compartmentalization. The
houses are kept neat as a pin
inside, cozy, nicely set up,
homey. No trace of the stress
and madness of the business
push; as if an island of retreat.
Funny, because anyone stepping
in here, where I am, would soon
see this space AS my factory; the
all in one dispenser of what I
am. Books. Papers. Scribbles.
Art stuff and other half-finished
projects from some very wired
workshop of the mind. I have
a veritable working mill, on
and running at all hours.
-
The Studio School was like
that too. There were easels
and paintings being worked
on, everywhere - states of
incompletion vied with the
momentary seclusions of
thought and rumination on
ideas about art. Nothing was
hurried, just worked, and
that great oil-paint art smell
permeated everything. It was
some great stuff - those
paint-splattered rags and
overalls of another way of
life. Once inside those walls
was no consciousness of the
everyday world, and little
concern for its concerns.
-
I'd always wanted my own
Jackson Pollack, as a friend.
I found one, in Jim Tomberg.
Much of life these days, and
then, has been drained of its
physicality. Most people don't
any longer do much of anything,
hands on I mean, and if putting
something together from IKEA
is considered a physical task,
that's going pretty far. Jim, being
a metal sculptor as he was, was
all about physicality. Cigarettes,
booze, women, cussing, drinking,
falling down and getting up, and
then - after throwing things -
upon awakening, not remembering
what had gone on (nor who 'she'
was, still there sleeping), defined
his life. It was real and harsh and
direct. Jim, if imposed upon, could
probably rip the head off a horse,
re-attach it to a camel, and then
hold you down enough too until
you admitted that, 'Yes, yes, it's
a zebra. I see now!' That's an
important man. I only see now
that the reason I was attracted
to his presence was because
he still did things the old way.
All this, all of it, was a bunch
of choices. Most people make
their choices unwittingly, or
unconsciously. I was slow about
them all, and laboring over each.
Jim knew where the jugular was,
at every moment, for every thing.
-
Something there was about writing,
and art, together, combined, and
separated, for me, that always
attracted. I didn't even have to
think about it, and never much
wanted anything else from the
whole rest of the ramshackle
world. I'll be frank, and say it
thusly, as if a speech....'The rest
of the world? With its meanings
and categories and lists of things
to do, and when, and how? Ha!
What a gulf of dead time. The
people who do all that? There
are no prospects for them. No
one can ever teach them anything.
They live in a perpetual chaos,
in a great noise. They can't be
talked to, reasoned with, or
contacted over on any other
level except their own, base,
dead, lifeless, reality. It's time
someone said this - it should
no longer be taboo. They're
all dead. Zombies in a liquid
world dripping apart all around
them - and they are eyeless.
And in the middle of it all is a
great evasion, a dismal picture
outlined with a determination
to be dominated by a single
unwillingness to come to grips
with the most profound human
facts : we are but a glimmer, a
quick and passing moment. And
we are made to find stillness and
quiet, amidst creative thought.
Not to make noise and then hail
the racket. Old Age? Now? It's
the time to say things, definitely,
and firmly. Hit hard, and be gone.'
-
I'm pretty certain of that.
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