12,629. RUDIMENTS, pt. 990

RUDIMENTS, pt. 990

(and that was that, always)

Sometimes things got pretty

tedious; it's been like that my

entire life. To beat the tedium I

usually just go on my own 

strange way, mostly unconnected 

to anything real. Lying, for sure,

takes your mind off things, and

becomes a game after a bit too.

I had a friend once who could

weave crap like you wouldn't 

believe; carefully too, and with

the right pieces, and all the

connections. He did his, back

then, by a most careful, weekly

reading of New York Magazine

(NOT the New Yorker, which is

entirely different). New York

Magazine is hot-spots, events,

parties, the social scene, foods,

openings, and all the rest of NY's

'attractions.' So it only stood to

reason that anyone doing a careful

reading of this would be a blitzkrieg

of information. Problem was, first,

he was below-classed by a good

margin to the crowd he aspired

to have you think he was in. That

was obvious. There are just so

many hip and of-the-moment 

names and references one can throw

around. How he did it, and never

realized we were at White Castle

and not the Americana Ballroom,

was beyond me, BUT it wasn't

really, because I soon understood

how a perfectly woven, psychotic's

tale can be wholly believed by 

the teller of it. That's what can

make it so convincing, except

that they then 'demand' that you

accept all the tenets and points

they've woven to make their, and

theirs alone, picture. They are

really not concerned with yours

at all. It must be their tale.

-

By contrast to any of that, which

came a few years later anyway, the

guys at the seminary never posed

any of those problems. They were

mostly very even-keel, easy and 

placid about most things. I never

saw a bad side of anyone. The

worst stuff I ever saw was by

the priests and brothers lording

over us, actually. The disciplinarian

ones were sometimes crazy. Matters

of psychology later taught me the

telltale signs of madness, fury,

repression, anger, and all that,

and plenty of these guys had it.

They sometimes took glee in

swinging the whip, and you

could see the rising satisfaction

in their eyes as they 'rose' to the

occasion of their inflicting

punishment. I got it good a few 

times; you could ask others. It

was always over some chicken-shit

stuff too. Not like I killed someone

or broke a bunch of windows or
got caught whacking off. In the
seminary, all that stuff was always

going on. This was for breaches of
 'silence' or not handling a study 

hall right. They tried to keep

everyone busy so no weird

stuff happened, but at the tail

end of each weekday we had

like a 2-hour class study period,

to do homework and junk, like

8pm to 10. Of course, everyone's

all keyed up, food and energy

kicking in, and they expected 

teen boys to sit there and read

history, or conjugate Latin

verbs, and tenses. They were

nuts, of course, and they always

were patrolling the halls too, and

each room had a rear sight-window

so that the hall proctor could see

in as he made the rounds. Sneaky

crap, and they'd always get someone.

They'd come blasting in and just

start pounding, or swinging those

inglorious oversized beads that

hung from their belts. That shit

smarted.

-

The other thing about the seminary

was how, outside, you could be be

anything  -  like me, say, all involved

with another personality completely;

the me who did the stage stuff, the

drama guy, the plays and the roles.

Learning and reading scripts, or

hanging out in Mike's jazz-room.

Other guys would be out playing

softball or running, and that was

their 'other' personality and scene.

You were able to do all that, but

back inside that classroom stuff,

it all changed again. Most guys

played along and did it well; not

all, and not always me. The 

transitions were sometimes too 

swift. Classes and stuff all day,

early Mass, dining, three stupid 

meals daily, and then the study

hall stuff enforced at night. In

the course of a day there was only

maybe an hour and a half of

real free time to goof or be

yourself. Plus dorm details, and

making the bed, and showers and

all that hygiene crap. It was nuts.

I managed, but it was all more

like dangling a wormed hook

out in front of a hungry fish, but

never letting the fish get to it.

There was a certain quotient

of psychotic behavior pushed

by it; not to be helped. But, as

I said, whatever other people

were doing, at least it was real.

Hopefully they were able to shut

it down and compartmentalize

too and for study and learning,

whereat all the boasting and

BS has to stop in order for

anything really to get done.

One thing, in addition, I liked

about Mike's jazzy demeanor was

the factor of 'cool' that he had.

No regrets, just a smoothness

about gliding along and doing

what he felt to do; no pretense,

no put-on. Just an un-mannered

naturalness bespeaking a real

ease within one's own skin. It

was like (of course we couldn't 

do it but...), it was LIKE saying,

'I'll get UP when I choose to,

but first I'll go to sleep WHEN

I choose to as well!'

-

Unlike the crazy cat later on. 
NYC; some years later. One

day about 6 of us were on the

subway together, headed downtown

somewhere, from the 80's, and as

the subway got to the Christopher

Street or Sheridan Square station,

or one of those, in a complete and

sudden change of plans this guy

jumps up and starts trying to get

all of us out of the subway car at

the stop, because it was right

below and near to Balducci's, which

was the only place he bought his

olive oil, some special virgin-blend,

steel-pressed or some crap, for the

recipes he made following the

instructions of some famous 

(to him) Euro-chef we were all

supposed to know. I'm sure this

was all New York magazine stuff,

and a perfect chance to control

the created moment by dragging 

us ALL in. My friend, I'll call

her Rhonda here, swiftly pushes

back: (hard-assed NY type), she

says "No way I'm getting off this

train. I've dealt with enough

psychotics in my day and

I'm not falling for your shit 

again!" There was more but

needless to say her brave and

quick resistance saved the

moment. No one moved, and

no one left. Including Mr. Olive

Oil. I don't know if he was

chastened, because you can't

really insult these people, but

the night went on, our way. BUT,

then we all did exit, and went

to street, because I remember

seeing the action and Balducci's

and all, and I can't actually say we

didn't go. Maybe we stayed put.

I can't remember the outcome.

Maybe I'm lying? Is fiction

ever stranger than truth? I'll

need to ask the wife, next I

see here (she was there too)

what she recalls transpiring as

the outcome of this. Study Hall

at ten, and I'll report back what

I find out. Forty years is 

a long time.
-
[I asked her, this morning. Her vivid
recollection of the scene is that Rhonda
and her boyfriend stayed put, on the
train, while the others of us went
up with him as he bought his crazy
olive oil. That little detour  -  perfectly
choreographed psychotic behavior  -
separated us, as group, for the rest
of the night, as they went their
own way, separately.]