12,517. RUDIMENTS, pt. 948

RUDIMENTS, pt. 948

(coming down easy, lord god almighty)

You know how someone

always wants you to level

with them? I quit caring at

about 7:15. There are always

too many variables, and no

way of ever knowing for

sure that you've got your

point across. It's just, after

that point, a deep, chancy,

hole. That was most often

the kind of gray area I

always lived in, even when

little (young). Some say

'Libra'  -  you're all like

that; others say, 'You're

too sensitive.' Who knows

what about any of that?

-

My eyesight has always

been different  -  I can see

all those burn marks and

nicks and things that others

miss. It's not always fun.

This morning I was standing

under a line of fir trees, which

were slightly blowing in the

wind. At one level, the usual

swooshy noise that fir trees

make was going on, and then,

at another level, with the wind,

there were groans and creaks

and almost song-line music

sounds also emanating.

And....I got to thinking. I

began wondering about this

entire Creator/Creation thing.

Doing ONE thing at a time,

I'd imagine, didn't exist in

this God's kingdom or things

by fiat. Perhaps it was all-at-

once? Or just outside of time

and any considerations of it?

BUT, how much of this did or

would this Creator have known?

Take the fir trees, as an example.

Would Creator X have known

of the wind, and the swoosh;

probably, yes? Or just the trees?

In addition, would Creator X

have also know that, in addition

to the swoosh and wind, there

was another entire level of

interactive 'music' that was to

be achieved? Would Creator

X have tried all these sounds

out; to know that, instead of

music some vile strings of

curse words would not

emanate instead? That the

rubbing branches would not

burst into flames? How much

of this was concept? How much

was conjecture, if 'God' even

does conjecture? Anyway,

the wind (that same wind?

Or does sequential time divide

things up so there are always

'different' winds?) was blowing.
It was nice moment and then

I hear some lady screaming.

I'm at the river-bend, Raritan,

and just off a ways there's a

dog park. She's screaming,

'You pushed me! You assaulted

me!' Way out of control, I

could tell, instantly. A guy

had come in with his 2 dogs,

the lady's dog got a bit aggressive

over the new entries, (they were

all 'small' dogs), the guy had

gotten pissed off, swept the

ladies little dog up and quite

nearly threw it at her, during

which time it did come off as

him pushing the dog into her

chest. He then 'ordered' her

and her dog to get out! It was

not developing very well, and,

in the interim, another lady in

the large dog park starts yelling,

'I called 911!!' The doom bells

began ringing. The guy's freaking

out; two cop cars swiftly arrive.

-

I knew nothing, and had seen

nothing; did not wish to be

questioned, implicated, or

pointed out as a witness. 'The

hairy guy saw it, the bum was

a witness.' The bum was not.

The big scene took ten minutes,

the people were separated, some

sort of a review was written,

and I kept on walking.

-

When each of us had arisen

that morning, was this already

in our cards? Or was this a

chance meet and a chance

happening? Was Creator X

here aware of this small plight?

How free is free, how wrong is

wrong, and how right is right?
Sometimes I think there are
too many songs playing at once 
for there to be any music at all.
Was that figured in too?

-

I guess I'd have to say I've always

been touchy about time. Like, as I

opened this chapter, I said it was

7:15 or something. Right now it's

1:04. That's already into the next

day. I kind of hate sleep, except

for the dream quotient parts of it,

which I always enjoy, read into

carefully, and try never to get out

of. Reverse-step backwards. I

like it there. It was always my goal

to stay up right through as many

nights as I could  -  I mean, cleanly.

No drugs or amphetamines. That's

just BS cheating. I liked it straight

and natural, and I got it done any

number of times. 2 days was about

my limit, then everything got hazy,

groggy, and I began losing interest.

Which is a bad sign for a writer-type.

Missing too much of what's around

you can be deadly. It's important to

be on full-alert. What starts happening,

to drunks and addicts, I've noticed,

is that everyone begins writing like

Hemingway. Ernest (that's a wordplay),

short sentences. Direct head-hits with

little flourish. And you know why?

That's because they tire. The mind

tires. Its discretion for detail is

lost. Bravado takes over. The fire

is dwindled. Long-views, like any

outside vantages, are gone.

-

Do you see what I just did there, 

in my maleficence of spite and 

ill-will? I mimicked a suicide. I 

acted a Hemingway. Not good,

mind you, but I did it. That's an

up-two-days binge and all on 

dry matter. I used to walk the 

docks, when there were docks, 

and there'd be all these sheds

and almost lean-to's, all jumbled

together at water's edge; trucks

and guys hanging around, boat

noises, and those really cool

nighttime harbor whistles and

bare lightbulbs glistening off

the swaying water. I was there

one day, I sense it was afternoon,

with my father  -  who'd come

in to the city in his 1960 Chevy

station wagon, sky-blue, looking

for me; making sure maybe I 

wasn't dead or something. How 

he ever thought he'd find that

out just by cruising around is

beyond me. But, this time he

knew where I was. So we're

sitting around, watching stuff

happen (this was the years when

the elevated West-Side Miller

Highway still ran overhead, along

the waterfront, and you could

freely pork or dump a car or truck

there, under the overpass roadway.

It was real east then, and, as

they would say now, real 

laid-back). All of a sudden he

springs up, all agitated and

excited, and rushes over to the

nearby hot dog guy at the cart.

Turns out, it's 'Tony Mantovani'

or some guy from Bayonne he

grew up with. They hadn't seen

each other in like 4,000 years

and it was great, old, homecoming

day from that point. I got called

over, introduced as Number One

son, all sorts of geographical

crap exchanged, life-tales, 'where

you been, what you do now Andy,'

stuff. It was OK, but after that

time this Tony guy always knew

who I was, which I didn't much

like. But it got me a free hot dog

here and there, which was good.
It was cool to know my father
knew a hot-dog vendor! And

my father was always funny

about stuff. Like friendships,

and names too. To him the

whole idea of being a friend

was a constant 'present.' Time

never existed; like with this

Tony guy, it was as if only

10 minutes had elapsed and

and they were still 14. And

names too  -  Tony was lucky

because he was already a Tony,

but anyone else, instantly, got

the shortcut name. Robert

was immediately 'Bobby.'

Joe was 'Joey.' Ed was 'Eddy.'

you might as well always have

been born with a first name

that ended in 'y'  -  as far as

he was concerned. Mostly it 

was OK, no one ever really 

seemed to mind, but, to me,

to be honest about it, I detested

my father for given away his

low-class status by doing that.

Like at the Studio School once,

I introduced him to this rich guy,

Bontacore du Montpassant,

from somewhere in France

or something. He starts to

immediately address him 

as 'Bonny.' Not really, just 

kidding, to produce a point.

-

So, anyway, I'm going to

go on here with lots more 

stuff, but these right now 

particular recollections are to

show how I became 'religious.'

I don't know what else it's

called; it's not about any of

that defined church-crap, or

doctrine, or any of that. That's

all secular junk you can heave

out the nearest window. That's

all the 'Devil coming in the

name of the Lord stuff.' I'd 

rather pace the stage at Carnegie

Hall naked than have to put up

with any of that. Real 'religion'

is different. It's spiritual, and the

sort of thing that fills the lungs

with fire, but doesn't burn

them a bit. Next chapter is

my theory of Creation, as 

revealed to me, perfectly, and

it all proves that nothing really

exists at all. You'll see.