12,429. RUDIMENTS, pt. 919

RUDIMENTS. pt. 919

(a real fan of yours)

Blackwood, NJ is 15 miles from

Philadelphia, and it's where I

spent a good portion of my teen

years, in 'seminary.' It' also about

10 miles from Camden. Both of

these places, for someone like

me, represented new and strange

foreign lands with their own

and different each orbital spheres

of influence. It was 80 miles or

so along the Turnpike the few

times my father drove me there.

Usually, if I was on the move, the

bus to and from New Brunswick

was fine enough, and I liked it better.

It felt more worldly. And meandering

too  -  all those little stops and spots

in between. I got to know a lot of

the weird little towns down there

from bus travel. With my father

driving, it was just slam-bang; a

fast and direct trip from highway

to exit, and I had to think of things

to say too, so it wasn't just all

quiet. My father hated my idea

of seminary and priesthood. He

thought it was worthy of a real

fruitcake and not a son of his.

We never argued over it, but he

expressed his displeasure more

than once.  I think if I had said

I'd changed my mind and wished

instead to take up ballet he'd have

rolled me out at Exit 4 while

doing 70 mph.

-

Anyway, there were so many

different worlds mixed up in all

this - think of it from my oddball

perspective as a 12-year old kid:

cloistered living, among all boys,

a private-school, rigorous setting

of study, learning and meditation

and religion too. I never cared much

about that  -  it was a cover. The way

gay guys get a girl, often gay as

well  -  to act as their mate or

companion. A beard, it was called.

That's how religion there was for

me  -  I had an interest, studied

and all, but I never really fell for that

intense, multi-church appearances

and daily mass stuff. The whole

religion part of it, for me, was a

cover, a false reason for being there.

I learned a lot from that 'other' side

of the altars and it was tedious

and bland and, yes, choppy and not

very manly. Agreed, Dad. Those

are all modern definitions and

considerations. None of that

applied back then  -  whatever

was going on, it all went unsaid.

Suffice it to say, 'maturing' with

some 300 other boys, four different

age groups, in a group setting

was not my idea of pleasure. Not

depravity exactly, but more than I

ever cared to know about. It was,

in its way, strangely destructive

to a normal boy's maturation and

upbringing. It was just all too

much  -  different age groups,

a million guys showering at once,

a line-up of kids brushing their

teeth at once, pajamas, different

ages  - we had mature hairy-balls

guys mixed in still with lamb-skin

baby kids. On the whole, I guess

not good. It sure made me wince.

-

There's a characteristic core within

each person that has to be come to

terms with. I came to terms with

mine early on. Train wreck, seminary,

misplaces hopes and expectations.

Quizzical outlooks, inquisitive mind.

I was a walking timebomb and really

didn't wish for anyone to be talking

to me or trying to figure me out. But,

to hell, those seminary types were

always the ones  -  with their 'spiritual

advisor' crap and all the rest, who'd

want to be getting into my head.

The place was so borderline

perverted in its own ways that I

could never figure from where

these lurkers came from. Behind

every rock and bush, it seemed,

there was an enforcer of some sort.

Tedium. (We used to sing the Te Deum,

which was its own tedium). Blind

faith, tortuous logic, miracles, chant,

prayer and humming. All together.

And never a word about Thomas

Merton.

-

He, by the way, was electrocuted

by a cooling fan. Cosmic freaking

justice! Merton was about the only

religious figure, I'll admit, who ever

really appealed to me. I got caught

up. He was the entire flipside of

all that Padre Pio and Mother Theresa

malarkey that set in later. This guy

was tough, gumption was amassed

within him. It was the sort of power

from within that organized religion

had long ago abandoned, forgetting

itself in the process; but it was where

I wanted to be. To have someone 

like that be killed by his electric

room-cooling fan, in Thailand no

less, really hurt.

-

One time, at Barnes & Noble, when

I used to run a sort of poetry session,

of sorts, on Friday nights, I was reading

aloud one night to the 16 or 20 people

who'd came, and this guy, from the 

sidelines is standing there, watching.

It was a bit weird. When I was done,

he came over, and speaking to both

myself and the group, stated that he'd

been listening from the side and just

wanted to say that he'd heard was some

good, 'muscular' poetry. I'd never had

my work described as 'muscular'

before, but I sensed immediately

that that was the same attitude I'd

had about Thomas Merton, and his

'muscular' religion. It was pretty cool

as far as moments go. Turned out, the

guy was like a half-famous poet in

that crowd, Joe Weil, once from 

Woodbridge but now Binghamton,

NY, where he taught at the university.

He said he'd heard my name from 

folks at the Barron Arts Center and

they always spoke very highly of me.

It wasn't Thailand, thought I but I

had my own fan! Just hoped it

wouldn't kill me. I had no idea why
he needed to be lurking on the
sidelines just so as to later say
the work was 'muscular.' And
I wasn't sure really what the meant
in the poetry scheme of things. But
it sounded right.  Joe was cool, a
little fireplug of a red-headed
type; seemed ready to square off
at any time. Muscular!