RUDIMENTS, pt. 995
(nothing ventured, nothing gained)
One big, pain in the neck, flaw
that I've had to deal with is
my distaste for saccharin
sentimentality and all that
sympathy stuff. Whenever
I was not near that, I was
fine. I, in thinking back,
and unbelievably so, trace
all of it back to the base-root
of seminary and religion.
The manner there in which
it was pushed was 50 parts
of both, to equal their 100
percent foppery. They made
Salvation out to be a merit
badge. Something one earned
by accumulating points, like
entry into Green Stamp Heaven
(that's an old reference to the
trading stamps people used to
get for buying things. The
stamps were glued into little
books, and people really
accumulated them and then
tuned their books in, say 24
books for a toaster, or a radio, or
whatever. For about 20 years
I can remember, it was a big
racket, with redemption-center
stores and all. I guess it's all
gone now - and they had a
competition too, another system,
just the same, called Plaid Stamps.
It was fairly remarkable to see).
-
In any case, this owed more to
the same anguished complaints
that had driven Martin Luther
to break away in 1514, or
whatever it was, over in Mainz,
Germany.There's no center to
that stuff - sentiment - it
has just got to do because it
excuses too much. ('But, you
say I can get to Heaven if I
follow your rules?').
-
A lot of all that old stuff, in
order to survive into the present,
had just turned, or been turned,
into sentimental mush anyway.
One thing I noticed right off the
bat was that in NYC there was
very little of that, within the
lower level of small-shop men
and the machinist-crafts types
I saw. Artists had thrown
sentimentality and mawkishness
out the window a long time ago
- replaced, often enough, with
another form of whiskey-powered
brawn that often was not any
better, just different. When
these guys said something, it
meant just what they said, like
in the movie phrase that became
commonplace twenty years later :
'Nothing personal, just business.'
They'd say that right before they
probably snapped your head off.
That's where sentimentality was,
for them. Even worse were the
motorcycle guys - I remember
hanging around some, along 6th
Street, with the likes of English
Don and Sledge, and Indian Larry
back then too. Between the street-
parked motorcycles outside the
Sidewalk Cafe at the corner, or
their other, punkier biker bar half
a block deeper east, there was a
sort of no-man's land of 'take
what you get, or take what's
coming,' and in either case none
of but was very charming. Why?
Because there was no sentimental
reverence of any sort. It was
hard-guy stuff, and it set better
with everything around it. New
York City was tough. In every
respect. It immediately grated
on me how, it seemed, in a
complete refutation of all the
varied churches you'd see, the
place could be so blunt and
harsh, BUT, at the same time,
all it did was reiterate for me
how unreal and out of touch
the entire church thing was. I
never saw the modern world
utilizing it, outside maybe of
the four walls of the churches
themselves. Churches there all
seemed so meaningless, and I,
frankly, saw only paltry numbers
of people ever attending - except
for the big, glory joints, like at
St. Patrick's and St. Bart's and
St. Thomas. Probably tourists
anyhow. I guess that says a lot
for the tax-exemption status of
all those wicked land-owning
city churches. When you delve
into that stuff, it's pretty striking.
Green Stamps, to Heaven, using
thievery too. Talk about
indulgences; I'll say!
-
Going backwards, a mere year
and a half, I was in one complete
environment (seminary) that so
quickly transformed for me into
pure, steady, mainstreamed city
life. It left me a bit speechless -
me! With the Oratorical medal,
the stage exposure, and my love
of language. I became a mute,
just sopping it all up. As I said
in the previous chapter, those
early periods of my life were
discernible as different, each,
and in fact each bore a certain
color, or hue, all their own.
The train accident period was
somber and funereal, for a time:
Browns and blacks would have
to suffice. Then the seminary,
which grouping of years I'd
probably label under some
sort of yellow. Not a brilliant
yellow, nor a pulsing, nor vivid
yellow either. Just more a
steady, strong, yellow. Then
that miserable, closing, period
of secular high school, when
I quickly learned, upon re-entry,
what a dog-kingdom it was,
and the people within it. Little
sense; little anything except
vain, young ego, coached by
manchild elders. Let's make
that black, and keep it so. The
New York years I'd have to go
with red. Just red, strong, pure,
and constant. Red's good, like
a fire engine, before they
switched to that pathetic
electric yellow-green they
use mostly now. That kind
of red was old and solid and
metallic. If you ever see it
on an old vehicle, red does
some strange things; it
sometimes, in fact, 'fades'
down to a deep, almost
blackish red - or, in the
other direction, after ten
or twelve years it breaks
away to only a suggestion
of the red it once was. Red
is never too colorfast, let's
say. And lastly, I'd guess
after all that, a good strong
green for the Pennsylvania
years. Green like the open
spaced farmlands, woods,
forests and trees. After that,
Elmira goes to gray, and then
it all fades to nothing, right
back to Avenel. Nothing
squared. Nothing ventured.
Nothing gained.
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