12,854. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,073

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,073

(so sick and tired of everything)

A bit of a haggard dichotomy,

this country has become; a

bedraggled pandemic of

stupidity, actually, and in

ways I'd have never been 

given preparation for. All

those long years of being told

of our 'Superiority' and the

general sense of righteousness,

over and over, are now gone.

The sick bathos of the reality

of it all is now front and

center. 1967 men would have

no understanding of this fall;

their descent, as swift as any
of NASA's ever were. All

those old guys with their heads

down, working, or sulking over a

beer, or just brooding anywhere

they were, they've all now  -

besides being dead  -  achieved

a startling sort of afterlife here,

as all we've got from what they

left behind, is afire and crumbling.

My friend, Jeff Gordon, himself

dead now probably at least 15

years, or more, was probably

the last person with whom I

had any dealings that predated

any of this ethereal and computer

sort of world. On that basis, we

together were quite different 

already in the face of that world;

an apple remained an apple, and it

all stayed that way. By him I sort of
of mark the parting of one form
of living from another. When we 

spoke with each other, art-to-art

or whatever the subject matter, it

was plain and simple, usually

quite traditional, and old too.

Based on the legacies of an

older world. Names and 

persons, titles, authors and

all that. Eventually he'd moved

from w87th street out to Hancock

NY, by Binghamton, where his new
artist wife (name now forgotten,

and I'd never met her anyway)

had a studio in an old, converted

barn. Jeff had become diabetic,

then lost a leg to the disease, and

then one day called me up, at

Barnes & Noble, and we talked

the old days, together again. But

separately. That was modern

enough for us, that telephone

thing. Then I learned he was 

dead. It was a funny feeling,

having all that flush out of me,

as if an entire era of time was

now over. That was probably

maybe 2005. The ending of

that 'older' sensation never did

happen for me, and I still dwell

in that and constantly bring up

what's escaped.

-

No one ever wins. No one ever 

loses either. Everything's by

degrees, until the life runs out 

of each of us. I was always

facing problems, of the sort

never thought of when I got 

started with whatever the

issue was. That's painful; but

that's how things develop too.

A big bummer. I always tried

staying ahead of that curve, like a

surfer, before the wave breaks;

maybe to get out of the way. If

not - crack!  -  the surfboard

can get you, right in the head. 

The funnel that life ends 

up being just throws you 

out the thin end anyway, and

the wide end was your life, 

filling that funnel up with a

million of the moments you 

lived. It looks great enough,

all filled and everything, 

but at the end, really, only

a small, little bit comes 

dripping out. I've always 

been in mortal fear of just 

about everything  -  and then

it happens. It just happens, and 

that's that. Fear mixes with pain, 

and I go standing off afar just 

wanting to die. Like right now, 

my own dog is slowly fading. 

I know it, I can see it and only 

by talking about it, here, can I 

lessen the pain of what I'm

seeing. That old dog's gonna' die;

and she's been a good cracker to

me. Best thing in my world. But 

when I got started with all that, 

with her, I'd forgotten, I guess in

my enthusiasm, how dogs die. 

Earlier than you'd ever expect. It 

runs out, like now, and it's the

saddest thing in the God-almighty 

world. And it's where I'm at right now.

Why oh why hadn't I remembered?

-

I'm not used to hurt. I just plug along.

I don't feel much; to tell you the

truth, the current events of these

last few weeks, I couldn't have cared

less: Virus, deaths, sickness, controls,

mandates, masks, reviews, all those

things  -  people screaming in the

streets now, wrecking things, cops

shooting people or just otherwise

killing them, and the mindless dumb

ass people fighting it all right back  -

I'm totally unaffected and, for all 

I care they can all kill each other to

death, back and forth, both sides,

and be counted as Corona victims 

too. Maybe they'd like that big

inflated, combined, figure more.

It would certainly give the usual

shitheads something to talk about.

-

I can always find something to go

back to and recall; and pull something

from it. Family matters, work history,

things from books, oddball places

seen. There's one, for sure. People

spend ten thousand dollars, or used to,

to cruise or fly to some outer or inner

Mongopolavia for the beaches or

the food or the ruins or the music.

They come dragging their asses back

always complaining about something:

The wait-service, the stewards, the food,

the shows, the trek, the rude people,

how they didn't understand a thing, etc.

They have two bagfuls of trinkets, a

bunch of stupid phone photos (photos

on their phone, not photos of phones),

and ten minutes after they return they're

right back into their old grunt and

process. I can, by contrast, take 20

dollars and find, within 50 miles

of right here, any number of the 

most interesting and mystifying

places, past events, histories,

remnants and investigatory gold

mines, and stay fairly happy over

it all. If I don't so much like that

idea, it (used to be) was possible to

jump on a train (in the train, not on

it) and get to NYC in about 6 stops,

and walk away for an entire day and

find 50 things to hold my attention.

For the time being, and they're a real

gripe, that's all on hold, mainly

because of the horse-manure weavers

who demand all that distancing and

face-masks, and open-streets crap.

How to change a world in ten easy

lessons.

-

I don't understand a lot of things

anymore, and that's good. Because

it's not my intent to stay here and

try to figure it out. My ante-rooms

are already filled with plenty to

keep me busy before entering the

big room. Which of course reminds

me of 'The Enormous Room,' by

John Dos Passos  - a writer now

so out of date and neglected that

the shame of his being ignored 

and unread in these days is quite

indefensible. I guess people just

don't do things like reading the

past any loner. Virtual, ephemeral

waste now fills so many toilets.

I'm the one now grown so sick

of everything.