12,589. RUDIMENTS, pt. 975

RUDIMENTS, pt. 975

(where only the locals know)

Over time I'd probably walked

five thousand streets, alleys, and

lanes, Easily. They each were

different, and they, strangely,

were the same as well. Some had

the little storefronts, and others

had the little theaters and cafes

that define neighborhood. They

don't really use that word in a

city (neighborhood); it somehow

doesn't fit, and is more in line

with houses in a row, lawns and

driveways. Most all had that

same row of fronts, apartments,

walk-ups and brownstones, with

the entry buzzers, double doors,

lines of mailboxes, and cornered,

quaint, shrubbery out front. Some

had a playground or schoolyard

close by, resonating with noises;

here and there, reflecting older

days, was a 'community' baths, or

a community pool, a YMCA  -

nothing like now, with gyms and

workout places twice a'corner.

It wasn't like that at all in 1967;

now they build these things right

into the new buildings, and sell

the units with them as amenities.

Demanded amenities. It's funny

how necessities grow, from things

that didn't even exist a hundred

years back. I didn't always know

all of this  -  it just more became

a gradual thing, to be accumulated,

this walking knowledge. Sometimes,

threading out, by subway or whatever,

even over to Brooklyn on any of

Jim Tomberg's (mentioned long

back) jaunts to secure metal

pieces for his sculpture work,

I'd get to see all that too! And

 it was wondrous stuff, even if

much of 'Brooklyn' was held

to be a joke (sometimes even a

cruel one): "People in Brooklyn?

A curious quality in the eyes

and at the corners of the mouths,

relative to what is seen on

Manhattan Island : a kind of

drugged softness or narcotic

relaxation; much the same

look see in monasteries and

in the lawns of sanitariums  -

they seem an exorbitant, pulsing

mass of scarcely discriminable

cellular jellies and tissues; a

place where people merely

'live'" That was the writer

James Agee, going on. I felt

I knew exactly of what he

spoke, from an Avenel frame

of reference. Truman Capote

called Brooklyn a "benighted

realm filled with sad, sweet,

violent children, a homeland of

mediocrity, and of men who

guard averageness with morbid

intensity." A place were even

the names were tawdry : Flatbush,

Flushing, Bushwick, Brownsville,

Red Hook, Gravesend. I got a

kick, after thinking about it,

in Brooklyn talk, how the word

'earl' meant 'oil'  -  and the actual

word 'earl' (as in royalty) was

pronounce 'oil.' Huh? Dawg.

Pitchuh. Cawfee. You do

enough of this, boy you

really can go crazy!

-

Getting by was never just getting

by. It always involved pushing

things along. One never wanted

to 'stay still.' Somehow that

was considered wrong, as if

all that lousy striving was meant

to be a superlative way of living

-

The essential conflict to living,

which was fairly obvious, was the

difference between say 'Chinatown'

and the Financial District, or even

Madison Avenue. Those latter two

locations embodied NYCity life

and business perfectly  -  the giant

steps and the constant activity of

sly trading, convincing others of

things, corralling profits and

advantages, etc., etc.  -  mostly

so as to show the encumbrances

of success as sold along that street

(Nassau)  -  shoes, fine leather,

jewels, furs, rare collectibles,

and the sorts of things those guys,

apparently, cared about  -  like

six-thousand dollar pens. Honestly,

there was a pen place down there

by Trinity Church somewhere and

it had a wide window full of

just those pens. OK; so that was

one aspect, one extreme. And

then you could turn a blink,

downtown, into Chinatown, and,

if you so chose, run into the

deep, funky lethargy of the

Buddhist places, those oddball

little temples and shrines, lofts

and walk-ups of the meditative

dreamers, gazing (as it used to 

be called, cavalierly) 'navel-gazing,'

in deep zen'd out reverie, opium

den induced stupor, if so chosen,

or just plain lazy-time-passing.

The Chinese, of all sorts, were 

good for that. Americans didn't

have a clue  -  you could tell

just by the foolishness of that

'navel-gazing' crap, and the way 
they called it that. A stupid

response to something never

understood and not American

at all. It was as if (old comic

characters) Dagwood and

Blondie had suddenly been

transported to some twisty

here and now they couldn't

fathom. One time a friend of 

mine, Mary Tse, from Taiwan,

was visiting from Elmira. She
was an exchange student there 
of some sort, for 2 years. She

had uncles or family or such

that lived in Chinatown. So,

while in NYC, she decided to

take me to one of the Buddhist

Temple places she knew of.

These weren't church-like or

sacred and anything like that.

Buddhists didn't do that stuff  -

this was a second-floor loft 

space, at Chatham Square,

right above the start of the

Bowery, and the Manhattan

Bridge ramps and all it was

pretty cool, with large, I mean

real large, swivel out great

panes of glass-windows,

allowing the street air  -  and

noise and tumult  -  in. There

were maybe 20 folding chairs

set around, randomly ordered,

and about maybe 12 feet up,

along all the walls, were sections

of shelves, each with a bowl

upon it and each bowl filled

with, mostly, oranges, incense

sticks, some floral stuff, and I

can't remember what else. There
were also lots and lots of little
slips of paper, with Chinese
characters written upon them -
I found out, later, representing
wishes, hopes, and requests. The

sticks of incense were everywhere,

little wisps of sandalwood and

jasmine, scents and aromas.

At the front of the room was a

larger-sized Buddha, the smiling,

fat, kind, and around it, on its

pedestal, were arrayed more 

fruit, oranges, baskets, flowers,

more and greater incense, and

some candles, lit. There were

money offerings, dollar bills

somehow stuck all over that 

area. A few people sat around.

Silence. Mary went into another,

sectioned-off area, behind a

curtain. A little Chinese lady

came out, with a tray of small

things to eat, offering them. I

was unsure of the whole scene,

and, alone at that moment,

declined. And, while she was

still there, the food lady, Mary

came out from behind the

curtain, looking forlorn. I was

more confused. She said, 'We

must leave. My uncle said 

no one here knows you and

therefore do not want you 

around. I'm so sorry, it's

just their way.' She was

really sad over this, and we

did leave. I'd left 2 dollars

at the statue, and made sure

I said basic goodbyes to those

around me. I told Mary not to

worry, it mattered little to me

and I'd rather no one was

upset. And then we were 

gone. Mary told me there

are many of these places,

all around Chinatown, and

they were quite tight-knit

 and even clannish. I said

I understood, and not to

worry  -  and we went along

our way, as I recall, to some

Chinese food-feast in one

of those sidebar restaurants

that only the locals know. That
was all pretty strange to me, 
inasmuch as it sort of betrayed
a nervous paranoia more than
any Buddhist detachment. But,
no matter, and the entire
experience has always stayed
with me. Or, as Anton Chekhov
had it, in 'The Student' - from
1894: "The great cable that links 
is to the past, that unbroken chain 
of events flowing one out of
 another....With both ends of the
chain, touching one end, the
other quivered.'