12,552. RUDIMENTS, pt. 961

RUDIMENTS, pt. 961
(trees always reveal the motives of others)
Here's an Eighth Street story

from maybe September, 1967.

I was sitting around at the

Studio School, nobody doing

much of anything  -  one of those

periods of time between things,

and the conversation turned to a

book someone there was touting.

Wilentz's book store was right

across the street, so I walked

off to get a copy of the book

in question. I walked in and

asked the guy for a copy of

'Trout Fishing In the United

States.' The guy took a fit

on me, threw the book onto

the counter and said, 'It's

America. Not United States.

It's America.' He was surely

pretty frustrated with me, and

enflamed too over probably the

tenth jerk kid who had come in

and gotten the title wrong. Hint:

It's NOT about fishing. I figured

the guy was maybe ten years

older than me already, so if he's

still alive he'd be in his 80's by

now, but maybe, in his fog of

dotage, he remembers that

jerk kid who came in and asked

for 'Trout....' It probably still

burns him up. In retrospect  -

and I followed the career of

the author, Richard Brautigan,

closely enough  -  the strange

whimsy here, within the book,

of this character named Trout

Fishing In America, makes a

little sense. It's a bit demeaning,

sometimes silly, often hard to

reasonable take, but  -  if you

put this up against, say 'Tarantula'

by Bob Dylan, it's very obvious

(to me) where the germ of that

book's premise came from. They

don't call Dylan a magpie for

nothing. A magpie 'steals' from

other nests. Now don't get me

at all wrong  -  in the great

growth of American culture

this apple doesn't fall far from

that tree. It's not stealing,

unless you're a lawyer, and

a copyright infringement

guy and all that non-creative

stuff that never knows its

ass from a hole in the wall

(I used to hear that phrase a

lot, but don't anymore. It's

funny how the actual usage

of language has changed

over forty years. I also used

to hear it as 'ass from his

elbow,' which kind of made

more sense, at least sticking

with body parts. But, hole

in the wall?).....

-

Now, also, let me add, the

person at the Studio School

who was touting this book

was one of those new sorts

of hippie-enlightenment

types of which there used to

be a lot, around, back then.

Their approach was a sort

of cool wisdom coached

in coyness, sort of like one

too many bong hits, back

then. Everything just smoky

and liquified and just stared

at. That was the sort of book

this was; totally random, a

free-flow of idleness by the

author, with seemingly few

antecedents or referentials to

literary items. Remember,

this was a long time ago.

Much has passed for 'literature'

since, so I'm not arguing the

point. This is a day and age

when the 'rock-couplet' gets

all its due. And believe me,

it's not due much. Ask Zimmy.

-

I see now too that most of

that already, in 1967, was a

California influence that was

about to be carving up the entire

rest of the country. There was

no evading it, and since that

time we all live with the results,

and not just in 'literature.' Or

whatever they call that stuff in

California. As an example,

let's consider parking lots: 

Here in New Jersey, back in 

these days, 1960's, 1970's, 

parking lots were just large 

expanses of macadam, with 

lines for the cars to park in,

spots and otherwise they were

just open expanses. Not there.

At about that time, the 'new' 

form of parking lot, like we

see now everywhere, here,

started flooding the market:

cut-outs of bricked and planted

rows, abutments, etc.  -  all

making it now impossible 

to just zoom off. One now 

has to follow the rows, make 

the turns, etc. That's California,

my friend. Influence, everywhere.

-

Humans tend to make a cult of

trees. Many ancient traditions

posit the existence of a primal 

tree that embodies or signifies

an eternal life : Reverence

surrounds the Bodhi Tree, in

Bodh Gaya, India; the Cypress

of Abarkuh, in Iran; the

Hibakujumoku trees, in

Hiroshima, which withstood

the atomic blast. There are trees

of life and trees of death. In a

Schubert song (lieder) there's

a tree that calls to a sorrowful

wandered - "Come to me, friend,

Here you will find rest.' I've

already written here, in past

chapters, of my own strange

affiliation, spiritually, with that

large, hollowed out, burned oak

tree at the rear of my yard at 

the tracks. I used to enter that

large (then) cavity, have it

engulf me, and want to live

there forever. A spiritual

presence of that nature, (of

that 'Nature' too), much like

he California Redwoods, can

take one away for life, have

one walk off swearing to have

been in the presence of God,

muttering about an oasis of

space between time and being,

one that you were sure to have

just been in, but there are no

evidences of it and no one

therefore believes you, you

dumb stupid kid. Redwoods.

Oaks. Manzanita. Bristlecones.

Sequoias. The mists of pre-history?

The presence of Now? Real time?

Or just false? Trees always

reveal the motives of their

observers.