RUDIMENTS, pt. 972
(a rugged mayhem is still mayhem)
I've spent a lot of time,
over the years, with people -
in spite of how it is that I
don't really like such exposure
or people. It all used to really
tire me out, and still does;
all that head-scratching about
small-talk, idle BS, and just
passing the time. Base/root
#1 to all is language. Egads,
not again! To me, all of that's
a complete misuse of language.
I don't even know why it's
tolerated, and I feel there
should really be another tier
of language where only sensible
and creatively uplifting things
are said and processed. There
are so many vastly enticing
concepts, within each moment
of each day, that the drivel
that gets passed between
momentary mortals should
not have access to the more-real
words that can encompass
true thought; what 'thought'
is. I get pretty tired of the
stock-man reporting about his
profits and puts and losses and
percentages. I get pretty sorry
hearing the horsepower guys
go on about their rpms and
elapsed times. I get pretty
bored with the cook-guys
going on about their stinking
borrowed recipes from the
F. Stander O'Rourke cooking
show. In fact, I can't even go
anywhere any longer without
some god-damned TV blasting
off in my face more of the
very same drivel and mis-use
of concept and intellectual
purview. The world, and its
utility languages, have all been
turned into absolute piles of
dry scratchwood set to burn.
Somehow I get the idea
that the concepts we utilize as
our languages were not really
meant for that trite junk. I
really do believe in a Golden
Age that has passed us by -
perhaps that's what the garbled
message of the Fall is really
about : That there was a time
when Humankind, in its initial
stages, Edenic or 'pre-lapsarian'
as the words go, did have a
power of creating by naming.
'Man gave name to the animals,'
and all that Genesis stuff. There
was a time when conjuring from
thought brought forth perfect
life, produced wholesome and
wise results and situations, grew
all things in abundance and
wishes. Even today, some of
the odder mythologies still hint
at something of this sort - the
'genie' that comes forth from a
rubbing...'Your wish is my
command...' and the rest. We
were once, really, quite powerful,
made in God's image, it's been
said! (Alas, that was originally
said in the plural ('...made man
on OUR image....'), so watch
our for that one). We've given
all that power away, just thrown
it to the dogs, festooned with
the heavy baggage of everything
else we've latched onto it -
lies, deceit, advertising, politics,
ad-speak, lists, and false points
of reference and connections.
-
Words and language and all that
are one thing, and they always
kept me captivated too, but at
the same time, always with me
was this bedeviling notion of
the New York City streets : How
in the world had THIS happened
too? Everything old I'd ever see
of NYC was about geography,
great slabs of rocks, higher
abutments, rolling stone outcrops,
wetlands, waters, bogs and low
areas. A canal or two right
across the island, cutting east
to west, river to river. Certain
portion, yes, of the older downtown
were still crooked streets, lanes
and passages that tumbled into
each other, with vivid names,
after geography, people, and
physical features and uses.
Water-front and river-ways.
By the time of my being there,
1967, most every part of that
had already been subsumed
and forgotten. Ram-rod straight,
the putridly logical and linear
grid of streets had been put into
place - not to reflect any reality,
but to serve the real estate interests
that had taken over the city. All
was in place to facilitate location,
finding, and profitability. There
was, by that time, in 99% of the
locations, only the barest
suggestion of geography and
topography. The rest was myth.
A story had been manufactured, by
which all the travesties of the years
were re-themed and colored, in
only the ways of advancing that
mythology of progress and
prosperity. For whom, I never
was sure - for it didn't really
ever reach down to the pitiful
slabs of humanity I walked
amidst. After a while you just
learn to stay quiet about things.
The land was now flat and dry.
And so were the stories of it.
-
Indians? What's Indian about
any part of Manhattan except
those ratty tales of 'stealing' it
for 24 dollars worth of junk.
Shells and beads? A drug-deal
could have done them better.
Their own natural world
mythology, WITH its waters
and outcroppings, was a far
better way to face living. We
sure mucked that up for them
too. I tried staying on the fairer
side of anger, but wasn't always
able to. Whenever I saw wealth
and privilege I somehow got
almost enraged; all physical
manifestations of being and
existence seemed somehow
wrong. Breathing the constant
exhaust of trucks and buses
seemed intolerable. I was no
purist, believe you me, and
I loved all that stuff too, but
it angered me as well to see
the way the 'city' had enticed
so many to have to live in a
heads-down and subservient
mode. Back then, I was even
stupid enough to think I'd
have a hand in changing all
that, or at least getting it
changed. With every one of
those Dutch traders and Indian
sachems, dealing together and
buying each other off, the
Indians just, once again and
over and over, get used, and
mis-used, and trifled with to
create just more of that old
American mythland of place
called 'Nowhere At All.'
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