12,804. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,051

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,051

(a million things to ask...)

Well, today dawned dark and

crummy again. I'm not much

featuring any longer an extended

May of crummy weather. No

longer knowing what to do. Old,

like 'old as the hills' kind of stuff,

now. I can't really 'react', since  -

except internally  -  I'm not missing

anything. It all goes on, fretfully,

without me. But, nonetheless, I

feel good. Even early in a 'good'

day, a person can sense benevolent

and satisfactory feelings. It has

something to do with getting

things done. In fact, I notice now

that if a person just takes the

specific 'time' to observe and

undertake a task, to completion,

even if it's the simplest of things,

the sense of completion accounts

for a lot of goodness. A feeling

of accomplishment without

cross-examination or begrudging.

'Sure am glad I cleaned off those

shelves this morning, and made

order out of chaos.' As simple as

any of that sounds, it's really

important.

-

I'm pretty sure that's how early

Humankind settled across this

Earth  -  with the simplest of

means and the simplest of

motives : 'I'll just keep chipping

at this piece of rock with this

shaft (wonder what's this made

of?), until it gets into the shape

I want it.' They stayed on task,

unless maybe a vicious something

came after them (the invention

(or is that 'discovery?') of hunting,

when it initially was actually

self-defense). [Here, Marian, have
a piece of this saber-toothed tiger 
I killed. it was coming after me, with 
those big, flashy teeth!].That's where

the best and the most self-satisfaction

comes from. Another thing I notice:

When I was young I used to feel

the need to have an opinion about

every little thing. Now I don't.

I have lots of opinions, yes, (and

you as reader would, I'm sure, be

the first to affirm that), but there

are now more things about which I

have no opinion at all, than things

I do. Mainly because, at this late

stage of my own Titanic nearing

the iceberg, I find most things

downright distasteful, unsound,

without any knowledge or learning,

based on nothing, lies, twisted in

meaning, and a travesty of the

best of what once was. What

passes today for knowledge and

thought would not have entered

a keyhole back when.

-

One of the things I always

noticed about the old guys I

mentioned in a previous chapter,

always steady at work along the

west side, doing their mechanics

or repairs or maintenance, was that

they little cared for anything else.

While they were doing the day-work

that kept their lives together, they

cared little else about other things.

Certainly they weren't anything

like today's blowhard mouthpieces;

people who go spouting off about

the Middle East or Politics or the

Economy or the diverging manners

of the social world.  They did their

one thing, mostly, and did it right.

Little-caring were they for anything

else. A cigarette maybe, a half-jigger

of smooth bourbon. None of that

stuff like today wherein half-brains

are all over the place; selling finance

and securities, going to gyms and

dance halls, 'painting' as if they

were Sunday artists, taking up

boating, traveling the waves to

the posh shoreline places they all

go, bumping in as rock stars or

eminences where they go. You

pile all that crap on the the back

of ONE horse, and even the

best horse isn't going to take

it, won't carry the load, will

buckle. You cannot do ten things

well; must pick one or maybe

two, and find the satisfactions

that come from that. Jacks of

all trades are usually jack-offs.

-

So, when I feel good about

something it's usually simply

because I've gotten it done.

The list of unfinished deeds

grows longer as I grow, as it

were, shorter, and there's no 

beating that rap. It's a sad and

slow disaster just waiting to

unfold. Lots of things will be

left undone and unsorted; and 

there's nothing I can do about

that. My friend, Freddie Fox,

along with his Dad, used to have

a really cool, small garage and

repair shop  -  this one in Rahway,

like 50 feet off busy Route One.

He, they both, were those sorts

I'm speaking of  -  Freddie had

some totally weird dedication

to his work. His father, in his

70's then, just sat around and

didn't do that much anymore. His
contribution was his presence.

Car wisdom. A font of tap-able

memories and experience. I

used to go there, in fact my

Jaguar came from there. I

used to be driving around in 

a Renault 4CV that I'd gotten

for free from 90 or 92 Avenel

Street, I can't remember. It was 

out at the curb with a sign

for the junkyard guy on it. He

was supposed to be coming to

pick it up. I went to the door and

asked, instead, if I could have it.

The nice guy said 'Sure, go ahead,

here it's yours. Title and all.' I

got it home to the yard at 116

Inman. All it needed was a timing

wheel, the center one. It was a

fiber wheel that had gotten

worn down. I went to Chandler

Motors, in Linden, and made the

order and purchase and changed

the gear wheel and got probably

8,000 miles on the car. Freddie

one day says to me, 'What are

you driving a little piss-pot like

that for? Let me show you a real

car.' He had a divorce-case Jaguar

in the rear, and said the lady was

heaving out everything her husband 
had ever owned. She wanted but 300

bucks for this Jag! Freddie promised,

to fix it up, AND make me a tuned

dual exhaust for it, for 500, total. I bit,

and in two weeks I had the coolest

car around, and I don't think Freddie

has stopped for a moment, except to

eat and sleep, until it was done. He

thought it was the coolest thing in

the world that I took that car; he

promised to maintain it and make

sure nothing was foul. 

-

Point I'm making? Freddie's most

cool dedication to task at hand.

Like all the NY guys too. It taught

me a gusher-full of things. How

to stay happy even when things

are miserable. How to stay on task,

How to do good work. How NOT 

to blow off stupid opinions about

things unknown. It was good,

all-around. The only thing Freddie,

as it turned out, was unable to do

was stop the State DOT from

changing the highway, building

new ramps and roads there, putting

up a municipal incinerator and

roadway, and destroy his land

and building. He was gone in a 

weekend. I never really knew

what happened, or to his Dad

either, but I heard later they were

down in Jackson somewhere, and

old Dad had passed on to the great,

dedicated mechanic shed in the sky.

Too bad. There were a million

thing's I'd have loved to ask him.