12,614. RUDIMENTS, pt. 984

RUDIMENTS, pt. 984

(if my heart's ever in it)

There was always something

lackluster about my performance,

what it was. My full attention

or heart was never into it, mainly

because I'd never reached a

point at which equilibrium set

in and made things manifest

their 'value.' I had a philosophy

session once, among friends,

with whom I talked about this,

and though it helped a little,

none of it still made any

grand conclusion pop up for

me. These little discussions

sometimes helped, and I often

took their spirited ideas and

from them, and erected my own

guided conclusions, etc. We'd be

sitting around, just kicking ideas
over, examining assumptions,

and talking of things. It was

all still struggling along, and

not much else, though many

times it made the 'struggle' of

life seem easier. I forget how

we framed it all or got to the

point of the 'value' of things,

but what I came away with,

and still remember well, was

a conclusion that hinged on

the 'intrinsic value' of a screw

driver. The tool, not the drink.

The point was, or turned around

on, the idea that if I considered,

say, a screwdriver, without value,

having none, and because of that

then based a complete loss of faith

in things around me, I should, in

order to prove to myself the 'value'

of a screwdriver  -  which I was

claiming to miss  -  by trying to

make one myself. Only then

would I see, or be able to see, the

intrinsic value of a screwdriver.

Meaning I could NOT possibly

make one myself. Which I guess

would be true, considering the

machining needed, the precision,

and the grinding and bonding. Yes,

but. One problem that cropped up

was that the approach in that

manner merely took the idea in

monetary or mercantile form,

which wasn't exactly what I had

in mind when first bringing it

up. That was always one of the

problems with these people, the

fact that in many respects they

were dunderheads, only thinking

in that fashion, while my initial

point would have been more

broadly 'conceptual' and spiritual.

Fact of the matter was, as I saw it,

and insisted, any fool with enough

gumption and money and the

requisite skill actually could go

about making screwdrivers, even

if in quantity  -  and probably, yes,

then sell them and profit of the

need of others for the product

provided. OK, that was fine. A

rich-boy Jerry could start a

'Jerry's Screwdriver Factory,'

and have a go. I'd bet his profit

and loss awarenesses would

take him far away from thinking

any about the 'intrinsic' value of

his product. Seven ninety-five

or seventy-nine ninety-nine, it

was still a quality screwdriver;

levels of quality varying.

-

It was, granted, pretty crazy to

go on about things like this, but

I often found myself musing over

the simplest, oddball matters. I

had no real knowledge, at this

time, of Nihilism, but I saw later

that a lot of this was grounded in

some strange form of that  -  like

the subject of digging holes. One

time a friend concluded that he

would ditch everything (actually

he did, by killing himself, but

that was later), never wanted

to read another book in his life,

and that all of it was crazy and

useless  -  and he decided the

only thing he wanted to do was

go live somewhere, far off, and

dig a hole. Just like I said  - 

dig a hole. (These were the

days of Earthworks, and Robert

Smithson, and conceptual art and

all, Michael Heiser and Vito

Acconci too. Much of that had

to do with moving vast quantities

of soil and rocks, into patterns,

etc., so, I guess you could say

it was all about Art, or at least

that was the category I processed

his thought through). He wanted,

somehow, to give everything

else up, in whatever fashion that

gets done, and start and continue

this hole. No matter how large

it got  -  to be done with shovel,

entered and exited too by and

with shovel. Obviously, making

little sense at all, and I called him

an idiot. The deeper one got, the

more it became just plum stupid,

for in order to dig such a hole the

removed dirt would need to be,

well, removed, taken away, right?

The deeper one got the more stupidly

insane and impossible that part of

the idea became. I never got mad

over it, other than calling him an

asshole once or twice over it. I

tried pointing out the pointlessness

of such a quest that required the

continued and more complicated

process of its own removal the

more it progressed, this complicating

and sort of negating its own completion.

What really pissed me off was his

stupid grin when he just said, 'Well,

yes, and that's the point, isn't it!'

I could have smashed his head

with a rock at that instant. Plus I

was, and still am, unable to

determine if he meant that last

crack as a question, or an

exclamation (as I've written it).

Sometimes, I concluded, verbal

philosophy is one freaky dead-end.

-

I guess having one's 'heart' into

it, as I said, gives a lot more

impetus to a task. That's where

society breaks up : At the bottom

it seems are all the misbegotten,

the fools like me, with the efforts

never quite there, doing the tasks

and the toil, mostly, for others;

what's called, in American

textbooks, or what used to be

called such anyway, the 'Service

Sector.' I remember I used to 

read that stuff, in Economics

and Civic kinds of courses, and

whenever they called it that

it used to crack me up. What

they were trying to say was 

about the Mexican chambermaids

cleaning up hotel rooms and

hospitality; the roofers and

painters and car mechanics and

all that. All it was, really, was

segregating by another means, 

the various 'hidden' tiers within

society, tiers and castes, of course,

of what Americans said didn't exist 

here. Was the butcher who cut and

prepared fine meats for the elites

to eat, one of those? Top or bottom?

Upper or lower caste? How did

one divide all that, and keep it?

The serfs who maintained the

rich jerks' yachts, were they

service, or privilege? Could one

ever live without the other? It

was all such a BS merge of

crap. Yet, people swore by

it, studied it  -  and got their

'hearts' into it too. Still though

not forgetting the heart surgeons 

and nurses and all who kept that

going. What were they? How

was it all judged? The 'bottom'

always seemed so much better

to me, farting around and losing

at all times, with unsettled ideas

and the moments of art and writing

that ended up bringing me nothing.

-

Only now, at the far end of the

chute, at the port of exit for this

one leaky, crappy, life, do I just

maybe see what I missed; how

mistaken most of my choices 

were; how it's all come to naught. 

I am left with little, and all those 

sluggos with the layers of double-dip

pensions, IRA's and retirement kitties,

end up getting it all, from the shining 

end of their deadly stick. Well, hell, 

at least I'm alive. Or I am as I'm 

writing this anyway. We'll see 

about tomorrow; if my heart's 

ever in it.