12,911. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,091

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,091

(living like a king)

Most people never finish

anything, because they never

start anything. It's that simple.

I always figured that if a person

stayed within all bounds, never

offending, never breaking out, 

it's the same as if never starting

anything. Like a wheel on a

big truck, no choice but to

go 'round and 'round. The idea

never kept me up at night, but

it was something I considered;

kind of about how people had

whittled themselves, everywhere,

down to nothing. I'd get to then

thinking  -  some odd scenarios.

-

The first settlers of this country,

at the immediate eastern coastline,

were, essentially, rejects. Fleeing

in some adventurous way some 

other situation in old Europe,

whether it was debt, religion, 

crime or poverty. They came,

they settled. It was weird though.

As they settled in and prospered,

with homes and families,

their attitudes and outlooks

probably hardened, as they then

became the more 'conservative'

element, and remained in place.
The crazies then jumped right
over them, and moved along.

The 'next' group, their generated

offspring, along with others, then

became the next layer of the

crazed and energized jumping

westward  -  always to the new

frontier, always one jump off,

and one jump crazier too, as 

the remainder staying behind 

hardened. Manifest Destiny, or
Restless Destiny?Until there was 

no more space! I used to wonder,

did that explain California? I

also used to wonder, since I'd

been accepted to the San Francisco

Art Institute, should I go there,

try that, become that? Earn my

theory, so to speak? I'd look

at maps, stare at locations and

streets, illustrated. I checked for

latitude; seeing that San Francisco,

if that even mattered, was more 

in line with Virginia than it was

with New Jersey and New York.

Would that matter? Virginia? I

disliked Virginia. I was obviously

crazy, reacting to chimeras and

making my own stupidities up.

None of that mattered at all. Who

the hell cared what San Francisco

was map-even with? Would

someone, anyone, please shut

this boy down?

-

I felt it would be cheating, for

me to contribute to that crazy

person hop-scotch westward.

I was a pretty boring guy, what

would they care about me? I'd

contribute nothing, be just

another stalwart reprobate

around. I could do that right

where I was, and I liked NY 

and the east better anyway  -  

all those dark stories and 

histories. It was a funny mix,

and one into which I just threaded

myself finely and easily. I'd

soon gotten mixed in with, as

I've written of, those black jazz

guys and their jazz loft, all that

cool activity; my rock n' roll

drummer bicycle ride uptown

to the Fallen Angels gig. That 

was cool as all get-out, and,

for me, it was all a sudden

something out of fantasyland.

I constantly surprised myself

over situation and connection.

To my mind I was living like

a king.

-

When you're a kid, just bopping

along, I'm not sure how steadily

self-awareness comes along,

Because of the seminary, I had

really strong study habits and

thought nothing of spending a late

late night staring at a book, reading

or ferreting out information. To

be truthful, if it had been today's

world, with Internet and Google

and all tht malarkey, I'm not sure

I'd have gotten sleep, at all. Sure,

there were plenty of distractions,

but I managed; plenty of beautiful

and like-minded femmes around too,

and I was probably a real idiot for

passing on that, but I wasn't

bopping anybody; no regularity

on the sexual front. The stupid

priests and monks of the previous

four years had screwed me up but

good on that count. I probably

needed therapy. I faced everything,

believe me: black gay blades with

9-inch schlongs, midget mental

cases strung out on drugs and 

blowing their jazz-horns until

blood came; babes in toyland

who reveled in nudity in the 

same way suburban Moms 

reveled in Macy's, Lord &

Taylor, and clothing. Mostly

I was always broke, and hungry.

I can vouch : That's how crime

and criminals happen.

-

Can I help it if the mapmaker was

blind? That was kind of how I

felt about things.  I went stumbling,

often enough, from place to place

without much knowing where I was

headed or even what I was about to

do. There wasn't a real part of my

mind yet that categoried 'Nature'

as anything to be observed. I never

really appreciated yet trees and the

parks, flowers and grasses. That

stuff is everywhere now, all

proper and cared for and pretty  - 

but in 1967 the entire place was

the opposite of that. There wasn't

a care given for greenery or foliage

or anything like that. The locale,

in that respect, was a hideous dump

and no one gave a damn. Tar, filth,

dirt, debris, glass, broken concrete, 

iron and steel. Some days you could

find a sandwich wrapper, other days,

if the rats hadn't gotten to it, you

could find a sandwich. Believe

me, there's no pride involved, or

left, when you get to the point of

picking through trash, or garbage, or

dumpsters, for food. In that certain

respect  -  although I did all that too  -  

I was really fortunate in having

that girl Theresa (Tre), and Jim

Tomberg, both of whom I've here

written about, separately, each of

them working in some form, in the

'food-industry,' using a far nobler
term than it deserves. In either case,

for me, it at least offered the chance

of steady handouts of food. Which

I often enough took , and happily,

too. It was so bad, sometimes, that
I figured a club-sandwich to be

something you got hit over

the head with. Like a knuckle
sandwich, but not as tasty.
I ate both.