12,418. RUDIMENTS, pt. 914

RUDIMENTS, pt. 914

(my catcher in the rye moment)

I was never too certain of

anything, or I was certain of

uncertainty, if you like it put

better that way. Most of my

chances were missed slow-lobs,

that probably should have been

caught easily, or with the least

bit of stretch. But they weren't,

and I let them all go by me. End

result is me. There are, however,

one or two great things about me,

and that's how I feel; sorry.

-

The first being all this writing;

which I feel is a real steady and

professional-like, nicely done,

pile of work. The whole thing

together, which I consider as one

- prose, poetry, artwork, photos,

and drawings.  I stand accountable

for all of it, and proudly too. The

other thing -  and this takes a

little going into  -  is as follows:

I had a friend, dead now (I say

that way too much) with whom

my literary discussions often

circled about his premise (a

vacuous one? Meaningless?

Unimportant?), that, in writing,

no one had ever come up with

the equivalent of abstract art;

abstract-expressionist NY

school kind of Art is what

he meant. We used to discuss

this, often enough  -  I fronted

for Dos Passos, as sort of

having approached that, and

Celine too. And then, funny

enough, we'd realized that each

of those guys, whom I was

using to make a case, pre-dated

the case I was making! Which

was a riot, no?

-

Anyway, truth be told  -  as I

said, he's dead, long gone now,

just another self-inflicted one  -

and I stand alone. Alone here

saying, 'I've done it.' Not caring

who agrees with me either. I

have, in these pages, done exactly

that  -  come up with a manner of

an abstract-painting but with

words, as incontrovertibly weird

as that all may sound. Any section

here can be examined, and with

care, for its own lead and theme,

it own direction, tine, color, and

swirl. Heading here. Heading

there, with its own little huntings

of what's perhaps, meant and

where it's, perhaps, to lead you.

If you're looking for a vase, or

a landscape, or a pile of fruit,

or even an ace and a rose, you'll

not find it. It stands. Thank you.

-

So, it's late '67, deep and Wintry.

The Hungarian girl starts talking.

I did not know her, we hit it off,

mainly probably because I listened.

Most people don't. She was, maybe

28, maybe 30; I don't know, and

was not good with ages. (Actually,

now I'm very good, and can almost

with precision guess a person's age,

maybe within a year either way.

Fear not; I'm not leading you by

the nose on another discursive

ambulade. This is true  -  I think

it has to do with being 'old' now

myself. People younger than me

suddenly seem so simple to read.

Everything about them is quite

obvious. It used to be that people

kept themselves hid; now most

things are so shallow that it's all

open and all over the place too.

Along with the face, you can just

tell from what people have come

out of, to get their ages pretty

close. I ought to be one of those

circus midway (is that correct?)

guys, guessing people's ages).

-

In any case (I wonder how that

means, and how it got started?),

she says she left Hungary as a

kid  -  rushed out with her parents

as the Hungarian Revolution started

breaking around them. She stared

dropping a lot of names : Bela Szasz,

Ervo Giro, Andra Hegedus. People

with those cool Hungarian names

I'd never even heard of (but wrote

down). She was a Rajik, herself.

Part of the larger Rajik family  -

her uncle had been killed, early

on. And they fled. It was difficult

mostly, to follow or fathom. The

Hungarian Revolution, what of it

there was, was never very clear to

me and seemed mostly to be about

betrayal. by the United States too.

A kind of do-nothing betrayal

anyway. It was one of those sticking

points about why I disliked America  -

which is weird because she liked it

very much, and claimed it for her

and her family's salvation. Also,

I would have thought, in ten years,

she'd have had a better English, but

I guess not. 'We got here on a late

night. To a place then called Kilmer. In
the farm-woods of New Jersey. It was,

to say, a campment? Encampment

of refugees, flooding in we were,

one after the other too. For weeks,

and we stayed. With the food brought,

each time, in wagons and carts. They

set us well, cared. We followed the

newses, and the fathers sometimes

would go  -  mostly to New York,

to see what work there could be.

And to where. My own father, he

worked metals there, in Hungary.

And in New York we moved  - he

got work in a foundry in Queens.

We lived on 24th street and then

later moved to Bensonhurst, and

then again later, back to e19th.

Where I did like best. It was good,

America, as I grew. Friendly.

Like promised lands, always.

The Kilmer stayed yet open,

and many people transferred

from there to where I was,

growing. I liked it. And

now too. You?'

-

She was quite direct, and it was

stirring. I'd never been in such

company quite before, and was

not sure what I was feeling,

Maybe the arousal of a young

man, whatever. I'd felt that

before, and it seemed here

familiar, though I couldn't tell

her that. Something about her

was driving me, that much I

knew, and  -  right away  -

because of my upbringing, I

wanted to apologize. Probably

any other, regular, American

guy would have already been

thinking how to bed her, and

made some moves. but I wasn't

like that. I was scared shitless,

which has always been my

manner anyway. So I wanted

to keep it quite ordinary, and

simple. I said, with a shrug,

'Aw, nothing, I'm just a student

over there at the Studio School,

biding time mostly, art and stuff.'

She almost scoffed. 'Art. What

is Art? Why you even bother.

All you Americans, you should

be making things more. Not

'art'. The world has too much

already. Look at wars. Death.

What has art ever done for

that? Except make picture

of it? I am so disgusted of that.

You think the world needs more

paintings? How will that solve

problems, or feed people?

Art? You know?' I didn't

really want to go past this

point, but just said, 'Well,

it's not my point to be your

catcher in the rye, if you follow. 

I gave up worrying about the

rest of the world, in fact, just

last week.' I hadn't really, but

found I just blurted that out,

probably with the idea of getting

her ire up. I always hated  -  and

still do  -  people seeking defined

reasons for doing creative things,

as if it something doesn't put

food in the mouths of needy

babies or something it's just

no good. I really didn't know

what else to say, and she got

up and left, with, at least,

a good-bye.