RUDIMENTS, pt. 928
(wars and rumors of war)
F. Scott Fitzgerald, in a short
story entitled 'The Rich Boy,'
has this wonderful little image.
I went and looked it up, wanting
here to get it right. It's an
image, on the 11th page of the
story, of the 1920's glitter-world
of the new Florida, and this
in particular of Palm Beach.
In this case, a large number
of preposterous and wealthy
women doing their group
calisthenics at the Breakers
or the Everglades Club...
"Upon the trellised veranda
of the Breakers two hundred
women stepped right, stepped
left, wheeled, and slid in that
then celebrated calisthenic
known as the double-shuffle,
while in half-time to the music,
two thousand bracelets clicked
up and down on two hundred
arms." Boy, that's great stuff.
-
I'd known a drummer in a small
time rock band which used studio
time downtown to record demos,
and practice, etc. The guy I knew
was a hard-driver drummer for the
group. We'd often talk music, over
beers, and in general just would
go on, pushing each other back
and forth, over some particular bit
of music, its theory or lore. That's
how I first learned about shuffle,
and double-shuffle, and half-time
and the rest - drummer's terms,
and drummer's awarenesss. And
then finding it written of, much
much earlier, in a 1925 Fitzgerald
story, I surprised even myself.
I'd commandeered a piano one
afternoon in an old bar we'd found,
and he'd gotten a kick out the way,
he said, that I treated the piano as a
percussion (percussive) instrument,
which is what it is and was meant
for. To him it meant beating a hard
hit on the keys, a sort of wild
abandonment, of which he approved.
To me, I took it as a criticism, and
in my terms all it meant was that,
unlike a wind or reed instrument,
the piano made its music by literally
and by a 'hammer' (key head) striking
onto a stretched string. (Open a
piano sometime, and watch the
action). So, anyway, all those
bracelets jangling and the idea
of it all, sent me away. Another
cool thing Fitzgerald says, about
1925's girls, the 'loose' ones he'd
had pleasures with, is "...Dolly
Kroger. It wasn't his only affair in
those years, but it came nearest to
touching him deeply, and it had a
profound effect upon his attitude
toward life." This comes, of course,
right after he also says, "I found
that despite the trusting mothers,
his attitude toward girls was not
indiscriminately protective. It was
up to the girl - if she showed an
inclination toward looseness, she
must take care of herself, even
with him."
-
I'm not sure that would fly today;
he'd probably have gotten swarmed
like a Twain with his wanton
N-word about slaves. Or he'd end
up like a Harvey Weinstein.
-
Most of these things just always
remained images in my head. I
was never that sort of traveler.
Far be it from me to jump on a
plane to Palm Springs and check
things out. I much more liked to
take a thought and visit it. As I
read this short story, each time
I did, I could see it as a writing
dress-rehearsal by Fitzgerald,
for The Great Gatsby; and
sometimes that's how it happens.
A slow build-up, over a few
years, at attempts and stabs at
putting across an idea, having
it coalesce, until you sense that
it's just right. This was all Gatsby
thought, preliminary.
-
Each person I've ever met along
the way could have been a stand-in
for a type; something to be developed
in a literary manner. Everyone
represents something, even if they
aren't aware of that and if, of course,
their individual 'being' and the business
of their own lives takes precedence.
Masses of books could be written
(and have been) using characters
seen and experienced. It doesn't
all require coming up from out of
nowhere. Much of writing is right
there, already, for you, and 'fiction'
is really a misnomer. For character
anyway, if not plot. But most
people have more experience
picking through socks or heads
of supermarket lettuce than they
do with picking through the
wonderful experiences of
everyday life. The heartbeat
inside of us ought to be like
a cannon-shot, going off within,
constantly reminding us to act
and experience. Instead, most
people hide behind rules and
procedures and don't ever
even realize their heart beats.
Too bad.
-
New York City never presented
itself as anything to me but a full
face, a broad moon, that showed
everything. There was very little
hidden there, and I suppose that
which was hid I made stories for;
things that fit the bill as I was seeing
it. Like the Puerto Rican girls who,
along 11th Street and the area of
Avenues A and B, made for an
at first unsettling sight. I've always
been way partial to girls, had an
eye for their presence and sweetness
and clamor, and I'm not denying it.
They speak for me far better than
I ever could speak for myself. The
female voice has clarity, not fire.
The whole guy thing never worked
on me. But I'd never before been so
overwhelmed by the street presence
of the Summer'67 Spanish street
girls I saw. Hell, lived with. My
entire building, other then 2 or 3
newly established white-boy hippie
type implants, was filled with the
seemingly teeming hordes of these
girls from another world. Everything
was monstrously, clingingly, tight,
and not much was left to the
imagination - in the manner of
them all having, seemingly, been
well fed, fortified, and grown. It
was, in its way, a leering lewdness,
BUT, from them, not from me/us.
These girls were enticingly active
at it. All around us, myself and
the other guys, imports as we
were, had to contend, in addition,
to the strength-by-numbers
witness-protection plan of the
males of the area making sure
no boundaries were crossed. It
was sure difficult sometimes.
I never saw anything happen
because of it, but it did occur.
There was a one-off quality to
the strange dread mix of Summer
hot girls, not belonging to us,
and our own people (and girls)
not belonging to them. No one
really knew what was going on
at that moment, but the influx
was causing a stir. PLUS, all
those old Euro-survivors, still
almost in shock from their
war-years, (Warriors make
war-years?), with the number
tattoos still on their arms, and
the smoke and recall of themselves
as camp survivors and victims,
knew even less about whatever
transition was awaiting their deaths.
To move in on : 1967, that Summer,
amazingly, presented an entire
generation change right as it was
beginning. Wars and rumors of
war no longer, baby; it was
happening right there. The
ancient elders sat in Tompkins
Square Park, same benches
everyday, as this all just whizzed
by them for one last spin.
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