RUDIMENTS, pt. 966
(ancient oaks, pennsylvania)
Until he wrote 'Treemonisha,'
Scott Joplin was just, well
Scott Joplin. Black, ragtime
guy, writer of odd, Negro,
music. Just a bit out of
time, working with the
then new 'syncopation,' he
was off-tempo and made
his own way. Then, after
Treemonisha, the white-noses
got wind of him and jumped
on. He'd 'written up', apparently.
to their loftier tastes, and the
hi-ho crowd suddenly bit. He
wrote at that point more to their
snobbery and parlor taste, and
with a then half-operatic
higher-pitch to 'their' music.
Everything was extended. Years
later, his sound was even picked
up for a late 1960's movie, and
the rest is Scott Joplin history -
but all on the terms of others.
Nothing to do with him. But
that's how it goes. Before the
tools of contractual mass-media
and mass-exposure, there wasn't
much else to do except to find
a way, perhaps to play to your
own kind. Roadhouse. Barnyard.
Whatever. Funny; I was always
biased against Treemonisha,
because of all that.
-
Maybe some people can find
justice in that, but I never liked
elites. They're full of themselves.
Cliques are always clingy.
-
It sometimes seems that things
come and go, and nothing really
lasts. As far as ideas and opinions,
that is. They're fairly worthless
because of that. A person is trying
to stop things in place - things
that are otherwise always moving
and changing and on the way to
somewhere else. It's a useless
endeavor, holding back the tide;
crossing the same stream twice?
What seems as one way today
is another way tomorrow. Very
often, on another point, old things
bug me. Once I was at a place
called 'Indian Lantern Hill' and
I ended up getting all annoyed.
I couldn't understand, first off,
the name. What was meant by
that name? I thought it was
bogus - it was, yes, a rise,
and one with a few old trees
left and a lot of rough-looking
stumps of what used to be
trees. Perhaps it was a real
settlement once, but when I
was there it just seemed like
some minor grassland leftover
and a bunch of newer homes
and maybe, perhaps, two or
three old and more original
farm houses from what was
once the area farmland. But
what bugged me about the
whole things was 'Indian
Lantern Hill' as the name.
What would that mean?
Maybe if it was 'Indian
Torch Hill,' or 'Indian Pike
Hill,' it would not have
bothered me so much.
But, lantern? What Indian
did you ever know who
had a 'lantern?' That was
white-man stuff.
-
I was reminded of a trek I
made, by car, once (it wasn't
really that far off at all) to
find this place in Eastern
Pennsylvania called 'Ancient
Oaks, Pa.' I'd seen it on a
map, and the idea was then
immediately conjured for
me, a must-see kind of a
place, of ancient trees, wild
hillsides, original, hewn
cabins, and real people.
Alas, once arriving there
my disappointment was as
complete as could be. They
ought to have changed the
name of the place or been
sued. Can you even imagine
having a place called 'Ancient
Oaks' and it looking like a
bared and barren crossroads
amidst the usual crud-rush of
roadside junk, bare land, with
groups of old and ostentatiously
recently-erected houses, mixed
in, only here and there, with some
crumbling and older stuff maybe
from the 1920's? It all was at
cross-purposes. The only
admissible and authentic
spot, after some walking,
I found was an old courthouse
or church-house or something,
with some markings on it,
facing downward to the river.
The rest of everything, of
course, as modern-day, ignored
and turned away from the river
or waterway, since all it need
and wanted was roadways
and eateries and stops. The
modern world treats the old
ways and places really badly.
Most things, wherever you go,
have been displaced, and here
there wasn't an ancient tree to
be found, let alone a string of
ancient oaks. A fantastic,
Druidic Displacement? An
ancient oak wish, for the
new world? Right up there
with Indian Lantern Hill.
The best thing about this
'Ancient Oaks' place was the
run-down pottery place and
the domicile(s) attached to it.
The pottery place advanced
you, for your money, the use
of the kiln, numerous pottery
'molds,' should you be so
inclined to wish not to turn
your own on the available
pottery wheels, AND all the
needed materials for the
finishing, painting and
glazing, of your work. I
guessed they made their
meager money on sign-ups
for pottery-club stuff and
materiel being sold; otherwise
I couldn't understand nor see
any reason for it being there,
or how it could continue.
For sure no one I saw that
day looked like an art or
pottery person. What was
even cooler was to see the
house and the people who lived
in that adjoining and connected
place - an old, rambling, low
and run-down half clapboard
and half stucco house; with
about 7 old and derelict cars
in various states of lean and
non-use scattered about; some
plastic-colored kids toys, of the
sort you see in cheap playgrounds;
a type of porch that was more
a catch-all for extra things, and
the general housing dishevelment
more normally seen in Appalachia.
Forget the ancient oaks. This was
ancient jokes.
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