12,822. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,059

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,059

(going to the dogs)

I used to wonder about things

which I now realize weren't

really important to me at all.

I was over-reaching maybe;

like trying to show how

'smart' I could be. My mother

had this thing about being

social, like housewives back

then used to do. Women mostly

stayed at home, and I'm sure

it got boring. Over the years

of my youth, young years,

there'd be coffee meetings,

neighbor ladies would come

over, she'd go there, visits

were exchanged and all that.

It seemed super-boring, since

mostly all they did was talk;

chatter incessantly; about what,

I never knew. I was young,

Summer was on, and that was

all I needed to know. These

extra ladies being around

were just weird. Everyone

seemed to live in the same

sort of house  -  the only

difference was, like, where

'your' dormers were located, on

the upstairs level. The houses

had, meaninglessly, offered

three choices! Left, right, and

center. Now there's some real

Americana freedom! The sameness 
was funny, and people seemed to 
grab  onto whatever little factor of 
differentiation  they could, to claim
their 'own' space. To my own father, 
it was fences, and sheds. Dogwood
trees too, planted out back. I figured

inside each house these ladies

all dealt with the same deal.

Maybe the ladies talked about

their husbands, or their kids.

Who knew? I never heard any

exchange of recipes, or any sort

of utilitarian talk. I remember,

one time, just sitting in the front

room, I guess it was like a 1:30

afternoon game, watching the

baseball All Star game. Probably

like 1959 or 1960. Eddie Matthews,

Stan Musial, Ted Kluzewski,

probably Mantle and Maris too.

Warren Spahn; that whole era. The

ladies never stopped a beat. One

of them, I used to call 'Aunt Betty,'

stuck her head in to ask me how I

was and what I was watching; I

thought that was pretty neat. But

other than that, there wasn't anything

with these housewives. That was

about the same time people all

began getting backyard pools too,

and then it all went outside. Even

worse. I remember one time, there

were a group of girls, maybe 11

year olds, my sister's friends, in

the pool together and the ladies

began critiquing each of the girls -

'still has baby fat,' 'will develop

nicely' 'wide in the hips' 'cute.' I

was flabbergasted by the idea of

learning what to look for, based

on what I heard. Budding breasts

and all the rest. Cool enough for

me. I had, at this point yet, no

idea about what actually went on,

but it all got me thinking; and that

thinking stretched itself into fond

memories, later, when I was stuck

in my relatively sexually-pathetic,

by contrast, 'boy's school.' Man!

What I was missing!

-

I think what a lot of this was, to

me, was a great levelling  -  all

sorts of different people, different

nationalities (curiously enough,

by today's standards, no blacks

or Asians or any other notable

minorities), all doing, for some

crackerjack and bizarre reason, 

the same things. I guess a lot of

it was economic. But, at the

same time, the great paucity of

any higher culture was striking.

You all might laugh reading this,

and think its crazy for me, as a

youngster, to go on about being

aware of all this crap, but I was,

by those standards, a fairly sharp

cracker, even as a kid, and I did

take note of lots. I used to go

to the little dipshit 50x65 foot

library and take out plenty of

books and stuff above my grade; 

poetry, writing, and history and

bio stuff. This was about the time of
'Self-Portrait In a Convex Mirror,'

by John Ashbery. Stuff like that,

and Berryman and Ferlinghetti,

all used to wipe me out. Those

little New Directions paperworks

became my touchstone for 'real'

life and being. I left the baby stuff

behind when Sputnik was still

flying dogs. Who mostly returned

dead. Which also pissed me off.

-

All I ever did end up wanting to do

was to run off. Leave that crummy

tramp-dust place so far behind.

-

Sometimes I'd go on up to the

end of the street, at the trailer 

court, on my bicycle, just to

stare at the cars going northward,

18, 20 miles, whatever it was,

to NYC. In my mind that was

the only place they were all

going  -  and every one of them

was half-famous, brainy, hip,

smart, sexy, loving, wild, wise,

and unkempt. Every car held

a story within. As I said, this

was in my mind. I never even

gave a thought to those who were

maybe on the way to a laundromat

in Linden, or some slum-hovel

holding them hostage by means,

in Newark. Nope. I had a sunny

and a golden view of MY world

only. Goes to show.

-

I romanticized everything. My

equivalent of living on Tobacco

Road was living athwart the NYC 

railroad tracks and highway. The

trains held my head hostage too.

The more I got into them later,

back and forth to NYC, on  my

own whims and volition, I saw

what a power of freedom and 

travel a small dumb opportunity

like that afforded. For those

who did not live on railroad

tracks I only had pity. The train

station, at the end of my block,

was gold! And I had a pass to

that world. It was just like

running away, but easier. 85

cents, to the conductor, and

no questions asked. That was a

long time ago, as you can tell 

by the price. But that 85 got 

me in. I was often breathless,

and speechless too, coming up

out of that last, dark tunnel when

the train comes up from under

the Hudson and the great, open

train yards of Pennsylvania

Station were there! Up ahead

was open sky. It was all open

train-yards then; none of that

sick fancy-assed real estate

encroachment like now. New

Yorker real estate Jews are so

full of shit. They're always

touting everything, all their

false materialism and false

class-status crap. At heart, 

they're all desert-peasants,

from wherever they believe

their 'origination' to be. Mostly

Kiev-Rus, but they'll never

own up to that  -  they pretend

Semitic bloodlines and take 

over the Middle East, where

three other religions are always

trying to take over, with their

own claims. No wonder it's

always been such a fake, bloody,

mess. The newest things there

fools did was 'Hudson Yards,'

some big, awful shopping and

touristing mecca of crap (like

the way I snuck Muslim 'Mecca'

in there?)  -  the flashy, loud

anchor store is a million dollar

Nieman-Marcus. What's the

first thing it does,7 months

later? Go into Chapter 11!

-

I never liked bullshit or pretense

or fakery of false claims or the

bravado of business; but these

local claimants to God's favor

sure got NYC sewn up. No

wonder it's going to the dogs.

(Without my help).