12,356. RUDIMENTS, pt. 891

RUDIMENTS, pt. 891

(we better be right too)

Sometime around 1958  -  and I'm

not sure of the date because my

time-frame around that period is

all screwed up from the train 

wreck; coma-time, and all that.

When I came back to life it was

like Year One all over again, and

my sense of timing and pacing all

had to be re-learned, plus the most

simple factors of where I was and

what year it was. None of that

really mattered for me any more. 

Yes, I'm serious, and if you don't

believe me, try it some year.

So, sometime around 1958, my

aunt and uncle bought a house

in Colonia, a neighboring town

6 miles or so over. There was

some old farmland along old

Colonia's Inman Avenue, just

before Wood Ave, and the usual

developers and real estate fat

cats sacrificed it all for about 

10,500 (that's joke  -  but if

they could have they would

have; land-crooks always being

what they are) new 1958

version 'Split-levels.' The

entire idea of a split-level home

already anguished me and if you

see them now, 60 years later,

you can see why  -  they're ugly,

most people transform them

completely, the insides are

ridiculous, and that housing

format is the most atrocious

'look' when there are 10,500

of them all in a row. There's

another later development

near there too, same style 

houses, but different'choices' 

of finish. They're funny because

they're all the same, as built,

but buyers could choose, in

those rows, which of the 3 

'sequenced' designs they wished.

Which was stupid and bogus

because all it amounted to is a

choice of front-doorway and

entry facing to the left, or the

right, or at center. A real joke,

but it represented the way those

scabrous real-estate interests

viewed their customers : As

'morons' who buy houses.

-

Anyway, one of the most 

startling things that I can 

recall took place there. They,
meaning my aunt and uncle,

had like a back-room den

place, with bench seating 

along the walls, and cool 

swords and guns and rifles :

Stuff hanging on the walls  -

all Japanese military and 
wartime items from WWII

that my uncle had saved or

salvaged and somehow had

it all brought back here as he

mustered out. War Booty, I 

guess. (War booty, actually,

sounds more like one of those

'Comfort Ladies' they used

to have for soldiers). Can you

believe that, and the world

and the people we came out 

of? They do all that wartime

crap, and then they come home

victorious and start wrecking

their own homeland in their

ignorance.....with rows of

split levels and calling it

'saved!' Sure beats me.

-

But, anyway, in this den one

day, we're sitting around, as

kids,(maybe 4 or 5 of us), and

my uncle brings out this thing

I'd never seen before. Evidently

some of the adults had not either,

because everyone crowded around 

it. Totally strange, about the size

maybe of a big Christmas present

box or something. It was the first

time I'd ever seen anything like

it  -  a reel-to-reel tape recorder,

and my uncle had the microphone

thing we all talked into and then

all got to hear the playback. I

tell you now, when I heard the

feedback of my own  voice, I

was flabbergasted. I was outside

of myself, in ways heretofore

unknown to me. The weird

thing, which was a sensation

I couldn't place or fathom,

was that the 'voice' I knew

WAS mine, yet the only proof 

I had was that I knew what I'd

just said. Other than that, the

sensation was 'how did I know

that was me?' I had never been

outside of myself like that; this

whole thing was too odd for me

to maintain; I understood, or

thought I did, about presence and

self and all but, for a young kid,

threw a whole existential wrench

into my mix. 'I think therefore

I am,' that was one thing, but

even Descartes was bested with

this almost creepy outside being.

'I hear myself, therefore I am?'

Could that possibly stand as

proof of Selfhood? Being?

Real Life?

-

Such a sensation only happens

once to a person. Once it's 

experienced, it's never again 

experienced as new. I almost

felt kinship with those primitives

who once disliked photography

because it took their soul. We

laugh, yes, but damn we better

be right too. Hearing my own
voice like that for the first time
was a defining moment. Just
listening to the voice, as 'me',
the speaker of it, but not then
speaking it, I was somehow able 
to conjure up an image of the
speaker, who was, of course, the
very 'me' of me. The one who I
knew what I was  -  was able to 
stay with  a characterization of who
that voice was; namely me. It was
all very circular and self-serving,
and I got confused. I want to say
that I also got alarmed, but I
didn't really. I was able to remain
calm, and intent on getting to
the bottom of what I'd heard.
I knew (or thought I did) how
I sounded and what I spoke, but
I'd never before actually 'heard'
it. This was weird. My sense of
character had come to life? Ir maybe
been 'captured' into life? I sounded
grayer, and more gravelly, than
I'd have thought, The 'tone' too
was smoother, even with the
gravel, and more dulcet, almost
inviting or engaging. It was all
very strange, and certainly gave
me a moment's start, about myself.
The old 'crisis moment of self
identity' had come and hit me
broadside. Funny now, how we
all think nothing of it and kids are
brought up 'within the sound of'
their own voices, never even
thinking of it. It makes me think
of the way the old-time radio
pitchman of those 1950's days
used to say, as well, for their
product, 'If you are within the
sound of my voice, this special
offer can be yours today! But
only if you act now!'
-
What a lost philosophy that 
turned out to be. Act now?
Now people do nothing
about nothing. (Or is that
'nothing about everything?')....