RUDIMENTS, pt. 924
(worrying over things like that)
Reinforced concrete is made
when steel bars are set inside
concrete. Concrete is a mix
of sand and gravel with
cement. Manual, low-tech,
hearing aids, big horns, work
better than electronic ones.
Ursala Le Guin's version
of the ideal living space
is : "yin utopia - dark,
wet, obscure, weak, yielding,
passive, participatory, circular,
cyclical, peaceful, nurturant,
retreating, contracting, and
cold." Tactics of this nature
)all these little detailed
digressions) are a means to
broaden an individual's
attention outward, to know
more of the world around her
or him. Otherwise we may
as well be brutes, blind, dumb
and stupid. Two out of three
ain't bad, even if, in reality,
they are all the same?
-
The problem I've always had
with the communality stuff
that one hears all the time : all
the brotherhood and sisterhood,
living together, living for the
good of all, etc., is that from
all that - which is basically
primitive throw-backism, comes
the worst aspects of the common
weal : loss of personal freedoms;
family repression; grudge killings;
feuds. Hearing all about forced
needs for personal limits and
sacrifices, it's like a regression
to the hard, dirty past. I've
thought lots about it too - and
it's not like I'm some prude. I'm
not a deodorant, perfumy,
male-aroma-scented soap
freak guy, not a cleanliness nut,
none of that. I'm rotten and raw,
to the core. All I've ever asked
is to be left alone, and kept
that way. So, idealism and the
top-notch format of communal
living and prudery and obeisance
to me just means the endorsement
of control by someone else, or
some system other than me
and my own. Won't much be
happening in this county.
-
The whole system is twisted,
and it only changes over time,
and with the not very ice efforts
of ruling cabals who then claim
to be giving 'the people' what
they want. When I first went to
Elmira, there was a restaurant
chain there called Sambo's. It
was probably everywhere else
too, but I'd never seen it. it was
an atrocious, throwback,
mentality of excusing racism
for the purpose of making profit
off of cheap, crappy, frozen
breakfast and lunch junk, and
dinners too, on the cheap, while
trading on a humoresque version
of slavery and black people.
Their iconic logo figure was of
some poor black sap who resembled
a cross between the Buckwheat
black kid on the Little Rascals,
and some plantation-hack go-fer
happily doing a master's bidding.
It made no sense at all, and was,
in fact, pretty disgusting. I went
there exactly once, with the visiting
in-laws, for a local lunch, and
swore never again. It wasn't
even just that, once I got to
start thinking about it : what
was 'Uncle Ben's Converted
Rice?' What was 'Aunt Jemima'
syrup, or flour or whatever it
was. Those were iconic uses
of slave characters to be plugged
into 1950's mainstream American
BS, to once more inure anyone
from really thinking about
anything. I got my card punched
and got out of that scene, quick,
early, and directly.
-
During the time I lived in NYC,
and then Elmira too, it was a big
deal for the usual sorts of fussy
people to be sure to make a point,
or even a scene, in Chinese
restaurants, no proudly announce,
or request 'No MSG' for your
order. Monosodium glutamate
was a flavor enhancer, whatever
that means. It was a sort of
white-silvery, crystalline thing
that got sprinkled on food. It was
sold, as well, in supermarkets
and such, marketed under the
name 'Accent.' Whoever came
up with that, I also want to know.
'Flavor Enhancer' for your own
private poison? What's going on
here, America? Don't you see
that it's the little things that
count?
-
Mostly, if people had to walk
around with signs on their heads,
they'd be 'Vacancy' signs. And
while I'm here, I picked up a
hooker once, asked for the
minimum 'favor' and she said
for a few dollars more she'd
give me an accent job. I asked
what that was, and she said,
'Favor enhancer.' Har har.
-
But, getting back on track, (Oh
no! Never say that around me!)
[train-wreck humor reference].
I long ago realized that we split
our lives in two, in a way. And
some do it to much more of an
extent than do others. It seems
pretty clear, and explains the
factors of creativity at one end
and slavish attention to order and
detail on the other : Our waking
hours are spent with all the
ordered details of life strapped
tightly into a box - that box being
our working a conceptions of
things, duties, work and procedure.
Some folks are extremely rigid
about it all, and others are far less
so. At night, in sleep, those straps
come undone, all the contents
fall out, and we are left with the
awesome spectacle of our own
personal anarchy taking over :
the river that talks, the car that
flies, the arrow to the heart
made of glue and rubber, the
fierce Padre who turns into the
three-headed tennis dinosaur.
The turtle you pick up, that turns
into burning flame in the palm
of your hand. Black rain. And
the falling down, which turns
out to have been up. The person
you see, whom you think you
know who it is, but turns out
to be, and not to be, also. It's all
somehow put back together for
us by wake-time, and we stand
amazed, sometimes awed, other
times confused or fearful. There's
really little we can do about it
but take whatever 'guidance' it
may be sending our way - the
interpretative ballet of all out
daily moments. Which, when
you come right down to it, is
the only thing that counts for
anything.
-
'Horses are so uniquely and so
unexpectedly proportioned
that drawing them is difficult
at first, at least more difficult
than it is to draw other animals.
You can't copy what you've
learned from other quadrupeds :
sheep, dogs, and cats. Every
part of a horse works differently
than they do - the heads looks
differently from every angle,
and then there's the complicated
butt. The legs are thinner and
longer than you'd expect them
to be, and the torso seems
enormous compared to those
legs, and it's those thin legs,
which bend in three places,
that make them such great
runners' - this is all from
memory, a paraphrase, of
something I read. I used to get
worked up with that guy who
did the photos of horses and
animals running, to prove or
not that horses, I think it was,
have any moment when all
four feet are of the ground
together. [Eadweard Mybridge
was the guy's name].
-
That must have been such a
funny world to live in, then -
with photography suddenly
partaking of credibility in order
to prove this or that phenomenon
of the very natural world. A same,
tired, regular, old world, where
people had toiled and sank, and
died, for centuries, now all of
a sudden worrying over things
like that.
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