RUDIMENTS, pt. 950
(....rescued from a car cemetery...)
When I was 12, I thought
I could be something. When
I was 16, I thought I was
something. When I'd gotten
near 20, I knew I was
nothing at all. The only
thing that had happened
to me was that my memory
boat had gotten filled up. I
kind of always liked the
road; just driving around
not doing a God-damned
thing except seeing. Looking
out as if the world was nothing
but some ocean-floor land out
my submarine window. The
only thing ever making it
worthwhile, besides my own
writing and re-telling of it
all back to myself, was the
here-and-there crazy characters
I'd come across. Usually they
always had big mouths and
always wanted to tell; anything,
everything, whatever - using
the names of places around as
if I too lived there and knew
them all. I never wanted people
to start confessing to me but
someone inevitably did. Not
ever knowing what to say or
do about getting privileged
information like that, I just
acted as if it was nothing and
it had just slid right off my
back. I little cared to know
about remorse by others for
their past miss-deeds. Robberies,
cheatings, beatings, yes death
too. Business-people do these
sorts of things often enough,
and it's just counted as everyday
business. I've been told now,
a few times, that I have
something that just makes
people start talking around me.
I knew I should have been
a cop.
-
Sometimes it just gets mainly
claustrophobic, the feeling, at
times Like that - resembling
any situation, say a small store
or a coffee or ice cream shop in
any dumb small town, that you
don't wish to enter, if you you
want something they sell, because
you know they're going to engage
you, that someone in there, on
staff, will do the 'friendly' on
you. There ought to be a sign
or a doorway, for entry, which
states 'We promise, we won't
bug or bother you.'
-
The anonymity of the 'big'city,
on the other hand, usually covers
all that - unless you enter some
place stupid, like a 'Staples' -
which is really a crap-suburban,
parking lot kind of store and has
no business being in NYC, looking
for whatever, and instantly one of
their bloated, marginally employable,
'security' guys swoops in on you
and, glued to the end of you aisle,
watches every move. I guess I
look like the big-three unluckies
as far as retail is concerned : a
bum, a thief, and a terrorist to boot.
-
I was reading something the other
day where the guy was musing
over what America had 'lost' by
shutting down slavery. It was a
pretty weird concept, but, based
on me experiences with 'security'
guards as the end result of 'Freedom'
for slaves, he's maybe onto something:
"There are so many elegant and
mysterious ruins throughout the
South, so much death and desolation,
[1945, this was], that I am inevitably
induced to reflect on what might
have been had this promising land
been spared the ravages of war,
for in our Southern states that
culture known as the 'slave culture'
had exhibited only its first blossom.
We know what the slave cultures of
India, Egypt, Rome and Greece
bequeathed the world. We are
grateful for the legacy; we do not
spurn the gift because it was born
of injustice. Rare is the man who,
looking upon the treasure of antiquity,
thinks at what an iniquitous price
they were fashioned...' Imagine
going through that routine with
your next over bar-stool chap!
-
One time, I was sitting with a
guy who was telling me the story
of the last time he'd been there,
at that very spot, and apparently
grievously offended a female.
Which caused a scene and led
to his temporary ejection. He
had since returned, but she'd
never been back - he was told.
So I guessed it did, in effect, lead
to her ejection too. Anyway, the
offense was, in sitting there and
throwing a few insipid stupid-drunk
type lines at her, perhaps pick-up
lines, perhaps not, he said, 'The
left one's always better. Fish it
out, won't you please?' The story
kept making the rounds. I heard
it two or three more times.
Veracity? Who knows....
-
This guy was pretty cool in
any case. One time he'd going
on about 'Meteor Crater,' in
California I think, somewhere.
I guess he was right. 'Meteor
Crater? Where the devil is that?'
He couldn't remember, but his
point was that - as a New Yorker -
he had the god-darnedest right NOT
to know, because NYC is NOT the
natural world and New Yorkers
never need to know that stuff.
I guess that was OK, no one
ever looks Heavenward there
because you can't see anything
anyway, with all the lights and
tall buildings. BUT, then he comes
out with the coolest thing, about
when he was in Barstow or some
hot place. He said, in telling how
hot it was, the 'the street was
just a fried banana, flaming with
rum and creosote.' The guy was
gifted. And he says, 'When I got
to a place called Amboy once,
I was in a hurry, and sort of lost.
a guy said to me, 'Don't fret,
you'll get there in good time, and
whether it's today, or tomorrow,
it won't ever matter.'
-
You see, what's disconcerting
about all this is that America
no longer has place or time for
any of this sort of stuff. All the
imaginings are gone. Every
moment has to be for the count,
for the money, for the push.
For the lie - because that's all
it is. If a kid or an artist or an
anyone today had any sot of
talent, it's mostly going to be
squashed. The American was
is to seduce a man by bribery
and make a prostitute of him.
That goes for women to, but it's
hard to use the 'wordiology' to
get it across for them. Lots
of times, they're even worse.
I've seen many an ax-cleaver
female executive in my day,
worse than the dedicated male.
For an artist, or creative sort,
what they do is ignore you,
starve you, or just make you
completely irrelevant. Unless
you allow them to make a
complete hack of you, you
get nothing. 'It isn't only the
oceans that cu us off from
then world. It's the American
way of looking at things. You
can ride for thousands of
miles and be utterly unaware
of the existence of the world
of art. You will learn all about
beer, condensed milk, rubber
goods, canned foods, inflatable
mattresses, etc., but you will
never see or hear anything
concerning the masterpieces
of art...By the time one makes
contact with great art, one
is already half-crazed. Most
of the young men of talent I
have met in this country give
one the impression of being
somewhat demented. They
are living amongst spiritual
gorillas, food and drink maniacs,
success-mongers, gadget
innovators, and publicity
hounds. They used to say,
'Go West, young man!' Today
we have to say: 'Shoot yourself,
young man. There is no hope
for you.' Do you want to spend
the rest of your life in a
strait-jacket?'
-
It seemed I absorbed all this,
and lots more; filling my head
with a book still being born.
(Not being stillborn). Mine. The
book opens with a nightmare.
'I have another vehicle,' the
man said, 'an abandoned auto
rescued from a car cemetery.'
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