12,556. RUDIMENTS, pt. 963

RUDIMENTS, pt. 963

(three strikes, you're out!)

Some nights, when you're

performing, you know

immediately when it's

going to be 'off''  -  not

up to the usual; sub-par,

maybe even mediocre. It's

just not there, that quality of

whatever 'it' is. That quality

comes from within and it

walks around with you, goes

through the same warm-ups

and paces and rehearsals. It

knows you and you know it; and

you both know, immediately,

when it's not syncing. To be

right, mysteriously satisfying,

even perfect, it all has to meld

and gel, perfectly. You can

tell, or be told by yourself,

either way, right off when

it's not working, and when it

is too  -  by that other extreme,

a sort of glimmer of excitation

not to be contained. You look

out and see all the little heads,

lit in the darkness by the stage

lights overhead  -  not meant to

be lit, but lit nonetheless. The

chatter, the hum. Stage-time

has its own clock, running way

fast, sometimes, and other times

lagging badly behind the apparent

reality of what it is you're presenting.

It's the same in writing  -  I've

heard, one or two times, of

'writers,' in elation at a line or

an idea just finished, who have

stopped, gotten up, gone outside

and, in a pure joy, screamed or

exclaimed to the sky what they'd

done. A momentary craziness,

perhaps, but the 'on' was on.

-

Other times, by contrast, the

whole situation just brings me

down and I want to die. And a

silent, graceless death too  - 

no big pomp, no explosions.

I'm just so out-of-tune that

even my assonance is

dissonance; and I don't know

if that makes any sense, but I

don't care and the crowd is

restless to move on.

-

I always wanted to visit Finland,

where all the cars are '59 Caddies.

(That's a joke).

-

I told that to a guy once in some

little Village bar down by Christopher

Street. He thought it was funny, and

I had a guy and a girl with me and

the girl kept going around asking

people if they thought I was virile.

I was about 50 then, and she'd

asked people if they thought it 

would be OK if I had a 26-year

old girlfriend. (This is all true,

I'm not making this up). The

general consensus, probably by

the power of suggestion (?) was

that it would be OK as long as

I was virile enough to keep

this 26-year old happy. If not,

they mostly all thought, it would

be a senseless waste of time. I

was just sitting there trying to

make up, quickly, some more

one-liner kinds of hopefully not

too lame jokes to keep people

amused  -  I found that if you 

kept people amused that sort

of kept them away from you at

the usual level, and you didn't

need then to bother with them

or do any of that crummy small

talk stuff about the weather and

baseball and all that. As I sit

here typing this I think now

what I'd do in that situation 

today  -  not the 26-year old girl

part of it no, I mean the jokes

and the performance. I figure

I'd stand up, amidst everyone,

being just a little tipsy so as

to lose some of the reticence,

and I'd cough a little too, and 

in my hand, and say,   'Can I 

have everyone 's attention 

please, (cough, cough), I just 

want to say a few words, and 

buy everyone a round too. I've

just returned from Wuhan, in

China, and my good fortune was

in contracting for a live-animal

food franchise for America,

here. It was a very remunerative

trip for me. And to show my

appreciation, (cough, cough),

I'd like to let everyone know

what a wonderful place Wuhan 

is. Drink up, and thank you.'

As Delmore Schwartz put it,

'In dreams begin responsibilities!'
Probably everyone would clear
out of their, screaming!

-

Just about then, (back to reality)

a motorcycle pulled up outside,

to the light at the corner, and 

waited. This bar had an 'open'

front, which allowed viewing 

and access to the outside street,

which was right there. A really

lame bartender guy puffs up,

nearly screeching. 'Oh my God,

an Indian motorcycle! What a

beautiful motorcycle!' It was

actually ugly as sin, with

tan, fringed saddlebags, and

most every extra doo-dad you

could think of. It looked 

downright girly, truth be told.

I switched immediately and

turned on this bartender guy.

'Hey, that's not a real Indian,

don't mess your pants. That's

the new, lookalike, modern

version. They bought the name

and throw it on their lookalike

throwback bikes. You're way

over-reacting. The real Indians

were made in Springfield, Mass.,

and there are very many spectral

differences here. That bike, my

friend, is a fake! Just like the

rest of the modern world.' I was

getting myself all worked up,

for nothing. Just as he was for

the faux-nostalgia of some

half-assed knowledge-memory

of old America as personified

by an Indian  motorcycle. How

do you even begin with such

people? Everything was surface;

no depth, no previous knowledge

or understanding. And speaking

of 'virile,' who in the world would

palpitate like a young girl over

a 'pretty' motorcycle? This guy

fully needed a crowbar

to the head.

-
I wouldn't know where to begin
in trying to explain these sorts of
situations to anyone else. If I
had to 'speak' this, it would surely
fail  -  but the pleasure and the
promise of the written word is
how it can be used to set the scene
and have you, as the reader, conjure
the needed extra pieces  -  in fact
actually 'make' the place that I've
suggested  -  giving the precise
details of that different-for-everyone
location for yourselves, each. It's
funny how, in what we select from
as 'reality,' only one of these places
can exist  -  the one I was in and
where this occurred. The quite actual
place, the 'I can take you there now'
reality of it all; yet there are as many
versions of the pictograph of it too
as there are people reading this.
-

Before I close this one, here are

three thoughts. 1. Apparently, in

today's world, warfare has been

replaced by sanctions? Maybe that's

so. Maybe it's good, or not, but it

holds out the opportunity of finally

getting hold of the military budget

and slashing it to bits? 2. Politics

is the organizing of hatreds? And,

3. Cyberspace is a consensual

hallucination experienced daily

by billions of legitimate operators

 in every nation?