12,535. RUDIMENTS, pt. 954

RUDIMENTS, pt. 954

(no place for dark)

Like I said to the judge at

my miserable trial, 'You can't

trespass where you've never

been.' It was the 1970's and

I was already sick of the old

decade passing. I don't think

there was ever a more miserable

passage than the one from the

70s to the 80's, at least of course

in my own experience. It was

at just about that period when

anything that had been falling

apart was done falling apart,

and the nasty contagion had

been so bad that it had spread

to everything else : Panama

Canal, President Carter, all

that 'religion into everyday

life' overly pious crap he'd

spout : just beginning to fall

apart in response. I don't know

where it all got started, but in

1976 I'd found myself in sunny

California. Carmel-By-the-Sea,

where Clint Eastwood was

Mayor, and Joan Baez lived

too.  That was an over-eager

bunch; leastways she was. I'd

seen her once on some jerk

talk show going on about how,

in California, if and when the

Chinese hordes invaded from

the west, she'd be at the shoreline

welcoming them in. Yeah, I bet

she would too. My only hope was

that Clint Eastwood would take

her down with a thirty-ought-six.

That's a rifle, kiddies, and it's

not a trifle. Trifles are to be

trifled with; this wasn't.

-

When you read, now, any of those

miserable coming-of-age memoirs

about those years, they're really

crappy. Even the Iowa Workshop

ones, like, for instance, 'Body

Leaping Backward' by someone

named Maureen Stanton, who

teaches this stuff and does all

that Iowa Workshop kind of

proper material. Beside the

misery of reading the crap, in

a brief 150 pages, I've run across

three substantial errors,  in my

opinion. Now, when some schlub

(like me) makes errors in a

piece of personal writing, it's

okay because I have none of those

impeccable 'my-shit-doesn't-stink'

credentials about writing and

approach and besides I don't

give a lick. But, one of these

teacher-type blowhards, with

them, they ought to burn. She

mentions things, in a few spots,

that just don't exactly jibe. Her

father's watchband : she means

Twistoflex. She says Spandex.

In the era she's writing of, the

Speidel Company, or someone,

out with a Twist-O-Flex watchband.

(I have one right here). Metal,

expandable, and you could  -

unlike other watchbands of the

day, flip it over, turn it inside-

out. The metal band flex'd, and

that was the gimmick. It wouldn't

catch or break from a snag. But

it sure ain't Spandex. Then she

spends a lot of time talking of

1970's drugs, PCB, pot, etc. Even

if true and authentic, but written

poorly, it's freaking boring. Do

you want to read about 1970's

drug usage by 16-year olds?

I don't. Shoplifting, burglaries,

cops, angry parents. Oh, c'mon,

give me something to bite at.

Life is not presented that way,

memoir or not; it just becomes

a dreary dead-end to have to

read  -  if it's presented flatly

and in a less-than-interesting,

and matter-of-fact manner.

There's no special color to any

of this, no spiky digressions

that will get you somewhere

interesting, no new shafts of

language newly used. It's just

the same old toast  -  kid's stuff.

It might be perfect, and cover

all the right bases and inclusions,

with all the correct manners and

approaches, but it's dead like

yesterday's cadaver.

-

The best thing to be said, by the

way, about everyday life is that

it IS separated from religion, for

with religion along it would be a

daring, nasty, sheltered bore. We

should be glad most dead people

don't know Jesus until they're

dying. At least it granted them

interesting moments in life. When I

hit California, I saw that difference.

I didn't see much religion there.

Junipero Serra and all that mission

trail stuff, Spanish and not, all

those maniacs traipsing north up

the coast to yet another land and

place they could decimate in the

name of some cross-angled God.

Those tales, each of them, and

their lighting and color and all the

re-tellings, they bore no relation

to the California, San Francisco,

Santa Rosa, Cannery Row, Napa,

Monterey, Pacific Grove, Ross,

I saw then. The world of 'religion'

on the ground had nothing to do

with the idea of 'religion' in the air,

as preached, and as followed by

the millions. No imagination at all

forthcoming.

-

The biggest brag-spot church thing

when I was there was Grace Cathedral,

which dated from like 1965. It was big.

And boring. And it still looked new.

Right at Nob Hill, full of pride and

attitude. It reeked. A place like San

Francisco can take pride in lots of

things, but Episcopal Cathedrals would

not be one of them. Whatever it tried

to represent was gobbled up in the

Gorgon-Monster of consumption.

I sat around instead just watching the

locals and Mexican guys in their hot

rodded little cars, whizzing around.

There's a sort of car-culture, or was 

then, in that city that takes noisy,

small, cars to the maximal limit of

tolerance. They were all running,

traffic light to traffic light. All

things were off-key, even the

drunks flailing around at the bars

and grog halls. There was too much

light. I noticed that right off, and

it flavored everything and threw it

all off, at least to my eyes, the

dark, horrid eyes of a grungy NYC

east-coast outcast. The light there,

by contrast, is steadier, brighter, and

golden, somehow. If they ever really

needed a church in San Francisco,

for jeeper's sake, instead of bragging

about bricks and mortar all they

need really do is walk into Golden

Gate Park and get lost and stay lost.

That's your religion for you. 

-

Thinking back now, I can't remember

it getting dark in San Francisco, or

night coming on. I hardly understand

how that occurs, based on my memory

of the light and the air. Silver. Gold.

Bright white. No place, it seems

now, for dark.