RUDIMENTS, pt. 946
(it's done differently now)
Well, I suppose the nicest
thing that can be said about
me, or these works here
anyway, would be for me
to be told they read as
'accomplished.' That's
really all I'd ask. A means
of equating that with some
sense of accomplishment
resulting from all the years
of crap and bedevilment
I had to put up with. For
me, the situational abyss
was always pretty wide,
and most of the time it was
fairly obvious Take, as an
example, Princeton. For
some nine years I went there
every day, by any passing
assemblage of means by
which I chose to arrive. There
were times when I'd drive each
day for four or five months,
and then go back to the train;
a daily double-take that was,
mostly fun only because it was
interesting. But it was social.
I don't care what anyone says,
I'll take the solitude of one's
own vehicle any day. I met a
lot of people through train
travel. They each eventually
wore me out. Shared concerns,
talk, impositions, social customs.
None to my liking. I was living
in Metuchen in those years, and,
to beat the masses of idiots, I'd
take a 5am train, to get to
Princeton around six. But
no one to deal with, none
bothering me. It was a much
nicer trip in solitary. I did, in
fact, get to know the two female
conductors on those last few
cars, daily, where I sat. We
quickly became friendly, and
after about two weeks neither
of them ever wanted to see my
ticket again; so I rode for free.
Every so often I'd bring them
something selected from
Entenmann's Discount Store
as a thank you. They always
loved it. Donuts, chocolate
this or that, crumpets, etc. It
was fun, until one day some
black worker-guy who commuted
in daily too, plasterer or construction
guy, and he said, in their presence,
'Why you do that, make them so
fat!' (They were b-i-g girls, and
he rode for free too). They giggled
upon hearing it, but I felt stupid,
even though I did keep doing
it. A free ride is a free ride.
-
Depending upon the season, I'd
arrive in Princeton just as it was
getting light, or just before, and
I'd walk around, campus, getting
to learn all the seasonal spots for
the changing views of sunrise, etc.
I had places where I'd go, sit,
after getting a coffee, or staying
there, once they opened at 6:30,
sitting outside somewhere, Prospect
House was a good Spring spot,
Summer too. Mostly in the cold
and Winter I'd just get into the
coffee shop and sit there. It
was a grand little spot morning
regulars rolled in, but it all could
be ignored, or not. The staff
was great, and changeable too
with new folk. And I almost fell
in new love a hundred times. Well,
three or four anyway - there
were so many new and fresh faces.
My saddest moment was when
a very charming girl left. She'd
taken another job, (unknown to me,
totally) at a coffee place in NYC,
named 'Joe' right in Grand Central
Station, at the Vanderbilt Avenue
entry side, When I, quite by chance,
saw her there one day, probably a
year later, I was flabbergasted.
After that, a few more times, she'd
be there as I passed around. Always
great and happy. And then.
-
She killed herself. The void
was vast. Hurt lingers. When
I saw that In Memoriam sign
for her, at the walkway, I
could have died myself.
-
Anyway, the subject was Princeton.
I used to often sit, at Prospect House,
warm weather sun-ups. It had once
been the residence of Woodrow
Wilson, President first of the
University, and then later of the
country. His wife had set up the
garden I sat overlooking. I'd
imagine myself, often enough,
as a Lenape warrior, gazing
out over the long, distant,
dawn fields - once countryside
and farms, and before that, the
raw woods of what became Jersey.
Indians long gone. It was a thrilling
feeling, each time I did that, and
successfully. It became a means,
for me, to transcend the place
and time I was in - all without
any meaning whatsoever in these
contexts. Facing east, watching
a sun-rise, seeing the far, barren
lands. I could hear, and I could
see too, as a Native would. The
crispy-crack of the mornings
only added to it. Beyond speech
and words. I seldom wished to
move, as behind me, slowly, the
normal acclamations of Nassau
Street slowly arose and set about
their tasks.
-
What was I to do? I asked myself
a hundred times, a thousand times,
in those 9 or 10 years. I found no
meaning anywhere. Nothing was
really transcendent except for what
I gave to it as transcendence. The
world was brick and solid, faux
university-Gothic style rants, filled
with weird brats on the loose. Soon
enough, back then, to be wired
brats on the (same) loose.
-
What was all that stuff, I wondered.
Buildings, dedicate to a higher purpose?
Put in place, with their false style,
to 'signify' some higher purpose of
learning? It sure seemed a failure
to me; like going through the
motions of something, just to get
the idea across. 'We are monastics.'
In actuality, it all came off as sham,
to me, once I began seeing the
kids in action - 'no learning, just
the idea of learning.' These
buildings were just for effect,
as if some Disney-castle was
kicking back. The were not for
shelter or trade. Not utility.
Outside of this context, in fact,
they would only have theme-park
status. University-World!
Gothic is fake. It leads nowhere.
Fake Gothic is far worse. The
'buildings were a bow to the
contemplative life by a nation
addicted more than any other
to the active life. The nation's
impulse is toward the future,
and tradition seems more of a
shackle to it than an inspiration.'
-
Princeton didn't really wake up
except very slowly. The really
early-morning hours were
reserved for the serving class -
mostly Hondurans and Mexicans,
kitchen staff, cleaners, servers,
housemaids, etc. They'd pile off
the immigrant buses (I called them)
that rolled in from Trenton and New
Brunswick starting about 6am. Some
had bicycles too, on the front of
the bus. Delivery bikes, etc. They
probably had four hours work
ahead of then before the usual
10am openings of these ridiculous
Princeton-level eateries, lunchspots,
dinner-places, and hatcheries. Food
delivery trucks unloading everything.
Little Hispanic heads in basement-
opening holes, throwing down their
bags of flower, and sacks of rice.
Pallets of soft-drinks, carts of
vegetables, trays of baked goods.
A crafty vagrant with some small
talent could grow fat just on stealing
morning-delivery foods. America
still has slaves : It's just done
differently now, by the rich.
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