RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,008
(couldn't have cared a nickel for it)
I always felt as if I was in an
echo chamber, hearing things
two or three times to be sure
I got them. I never knew where
any of that sound and re-sound
originated, but it was always
there. In fact, I never knew where
much of anything originated, yet
I was always reacting. That was
troublesome to me. The imposition
of the draft board stuff was part
of that; I mean, who did they think
they were to be able to drape their
values over mine, and demand
'fealty' to their mechanizations,
and at my expense? They were
all into that stuff and up to their
necks in belief systems and
aberrations that were their jobs
and livelihoods. Sending guys
off to get killed, basically, and
then making up justifications
and excuses for it all later.
Upton Sinclair, the writer, was
quoted once as saying, "It is
difficult to get man to understand
something, when his salary depends
on his not understanding it."
-
My best hope was in just
continuing. Certainly the more
regular options of returning home,
going regularly to some local Rutgers
or other school. Mason Gross School
of the Arts, whatever its worth, was
only just then starting, if it was there;
the local County College was not
yet in place - it was still then a
leftover section of Raritan Arsenel.
Whatever options existed, they were
not worth, for me, the leaving of what
I'd tried to undertake. I was glad
I never bailed. I kept telling myself
I was a free, nuclear being, finding
my own way and founding my own
school and manner. I'd occasionally
take a train or bus home, and it got
more and more startling to see the
transition. Returning to Avenel and
Woodbridge just got more and
more bizarre - in ways I cannot
relay now. I was suspect from
the minute I stepped foot onto
their ground, and I could never
understand what was up. There
was a certain feeling to this of
just being in an internment camp,
though one with lawns and cars.
Useless, but whatever. Invariably,
there'd be some cop scooting me
over to ask questions. I guess
they weren't used to vagrants or
apparent itinerants with imagined
proclivities to being King of
the Gypsies. I always answered
the questions OK, and was let
alone, and I'd continue my walk.
Distasteful but a walk.
-
I viewed Avenel, for instance, as
a non-place. A location, yes, but
one without meaning or a historical
basis for being. Certainly no premise
of legacy or historicity. There
were no old, mysterious trails with
unfounded rumors at the end.
Everything was straight and
mercantile in nature. The currency
was cheap money. The people were,
for the most part, mute. Just going
about their odd chores. A mile or
so off, if one really tried, there
was a smidgeon of 1680 presence
and history in Woodbridge, but
it was being gobbled up as I
looked at it. The brickworks,
carriage trades, rail lines, granaries
and feed mills, coal and oil yards
of the past, all just falling away.
They'd put up these goofy 1967
style buildings, everything
looking like Star of Sapphire
gilt. Hess Buildings of a faulty
mind. Pedestrian plazas of a
pathetic pattern. A populace
populated by piranhas. I did,
eventually, just give up on all
that 'return' stuff. I didn't need
it. The patterns and diagrams
of this suburban panel of
living just didn't score with
me. I'd take the train back and
just aimlessly walk my way
back downtown. It's hard to
take credit for being a jerk,
but I was one, at that point.
Sure wish I had it to do again;
and with a camera too.
-
There are portions of a person's
life that live on, as if in freeze
frame; and there are other portions
that race by so fast and instantly
that you can't even be sure they
happened. I've got a good share
of both. I used to hear train
whistles and think nothing of
them; my mind was blank and
it seemingly retained no memory
of the instant of getting hit by
a train. Now, all of a sudden,
in late life and some 65 years
on, past that time, as I cross
those very same tracks, and
even that same spot, if I hear
a train whistle - which I do
a lot - my body instantly
tenses and freezes, and the
new vividness of what I'd
forgotten is all brought back
to me by the whistle sound.
Holy cow! I remember that.
It's a very strange sensation.
There's no one to talk with
about it now - all those who
were witness, or bystander or
first responders (as they call
the local first-aid squad people
now) are dead and gone. Even in
'another now,' I live, alone, and
in a different world. Indelibly
marked, but moving along.
-
How does anyone, I wonder,
do all that? What is the mix of
life and circumstance that we
each have, and how can we even
speak to one another with any
form of understanding each
other's memories. Which must
be totally different, for each
of us. Believe me, my world is
not your world, and only very few
things are shared, as assumptions.
I usually go out of my way to
shatter any sharing. I demand
singularity; it's how I get things
done.
-
Let me talk. I've talked of Tre,
a chapter or two back, the waitress
counter girl at The Villager; she
was one person; some connection,
yes, but nothing 'real.' Over at
Jonathan Swift's Hibernian Lodge,
or as it's referred to, 'Swift's,' there
was Bernadette. A different character
altogether. A bundled mass of joy
and talk, bubbling over. She was
from Ireland, and unique. She
too was a special number, and
one I never worked on. I took
her for a motorcycle ride a few
times, between shifts, on breaks.
She loved soaring through the
canyoned streets, and she loved
the way I'd ride with abandon.
Which was probably due to an
alcohol content of about .08,
I'd guess. But she'd served it
all, so tough on her. That wasn't
abandon, Bernie, that was drunk.
Bernadette was cool. She used to
get me to dreaming about Ireland.
And what did I know? Last I
knew, going there and asking
about her one day, in the expectation
she'd still be there, I was told she
had some guy, and they went off
to Hawaii together and haven't
been heard from since.
-
These were all things, together,
that resonated, clanging like a
train whistle, in my brain. When
I heard them, I sat up straight and
got intense. Those old tracks on
Rahway Ave? Nothing at all. I
could have died there, when I
was 8, and wouldn't have a
cared a nickel about it.
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