12,916. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,093

RUDIMENTS, pt 1,093

(the most meager among us)

The simplest and most plain

identifier now, of personal

order and sanity, of space

and clear-headed thinking,

(yes, all of this becomes more

and more important as one

ages) is to notice, or be sure

anyway, of maintaining a

grip on things as simple as

keys and pens. If I can

keep order among my keys

and pens, I'm sure to be

doing pretty well. It becomes

a very satisfying thing. Running

towards the bedraggled edges

of older age those are among

the first things to fade. Where

did I put my keys last? Where

are my pens, assorted? What 

was that last and runaway

thought now gone which I've

forgotten to write down, (with

one of the pens in that locked

case I now can't find the key

for. HA!).

-

The rest of life, the tail-ends and

all, just ends up being a bunch of

crap. If a person likes kids, I guess

there can be joy in Grandkids. If

a person likes travel and pissing 

money away, I guess there's that.

If one even has the money. All you

end up with, really, from that, is a

bunch of heavily-wired, blue-pants

retirees, walking over others' lands

and pretending to be the historian 

who knows or the retired earl or

admiral who senses great things.

Sniffs great wines. Poops great

poops on foreign toilet seats. No

wonder traveling Americans have

the reputations of maggots.

-

I used to visit churches. It was a

hobby or a habit (no, that's not

a nun-pun (double negative, and

double parentheses too)). New

York City, curiously Godless city

of sin (the Hell's Angels have a

chapter in Lynn, Massachusetts,

a rough one, and the slogan on

their identifying shirts says, 'Lynn,

Lynn, City of Sin'), paradoxically

has about 5,000 churches (guessing).

I suppose it's from those old, distant

days of immigration, immigrants,

immigrant communities, hovels,

ghettos and slums. A lot of those 
churches in NYC, by 1967, had ended 
up merely as grand places of repose;
great, dark hallowed, and hollowed, 
places.  I sat some therein. for the
rest, and the peace. You can always

tell when a neighborhood's gone to

hell  -  (even here, in Rahway, NJ)  -

when, in the midst of economic

loss and vacancy, storefront churches

begin showing up, with weird names:

Church of Christ Jericho; or The

Temple of the Living Water; among

endless others  -  Newark, Elizabeth,

Rahway, Linden, and Harlem.  The

new vacuity of the names somehow

then suggest the vacuity of their aims

and purposes. Neighborhood uplift,

social service and meeting, food banks

and collectives. You may define your

own terms, I suppose, for your own

temples of the Lord, as long as you

continue to support The Reverend

Leonard Davis and his good wife

Beulah. Better, I guess, than having

some creepy Father Mike with his

hand down your kid's pants. (Please

don't challenge me on that; I can

rip you to shreds).

-

I used to think about weird stuff,

Creator stuff. [Advisory: If you're 

squeamish or something, please bail 

now]. In thinking about the creation

of Humankind, from the usual

perspective of one God doing the

creating  -  even if it was a committee  -

let's consider farts. At one point, and

how and when, did this God need to

consider, 'Hmmm? Should I have these

creatures passing digestive gases out

their anuses invisibly? Or, perhaps,

should leave a thin, brown cloud of

fouled air in each case as evidence?

How many of these creatures will

there be? And how tightly packed?

If invisible, this fouled air shall then

remain mysterious to others? Would 

the settling air of brownish fart then

prove too embarrassing, or too telling?

How will they think about this? And

those eyes, and nostrils, I am creating,

will they tolerate this? Or wince and 

tear up? How far will any of this go?'

-

Do you think a prescience of foreknowledge

led this G-d on? Have you lately seen any

wandering, brownish clouds? By our
terms of 'Godness,' all of these options
would have been before 'Him' at one
time. All the chancey possibles and
solutions, at once, before any stream
of, in our terms, sequence or number.
-

There's no way around conundrums 

except by love of our fellow man, or 

woman. The essence of this 'Humankind' 

is a sort of helpless acceptance of 

nothingness. Is that cruel? Was it cruel, 

cruel, or was it not (yes/no?), to 
have that be put into the original 

plans of creation and re-do and

abandonment again? What's going 

on, and how long will any of this last?

There is nothing at all we can do but

to help, and try to respect, our meager

fellows. Even those most meager

among us. So I used to sit, sometimes,

in all sorts of weekday, open, churches

(a lot of that is gone now; they stay 

locked up), and just watch. Not one

church; not five. Just up and down

Fifth Avenue there were probably 15).

Tourists, cameras, bums looking for

the food handouts at noon or 5pm;

people earnestly praying; old ladies

and widows in love with God. Curious

older men with stealthy ways. A here

and there frazzled businessman

on fire with nerves and seeking a

forgiveness. It was always,

always, amazing,: The Church of

St. Francis Xavier, around the corner

from the sign denoting the location of

the old New York Foundling Hospital,

from the old days, harboring abandoned,

sick, and wounded infants and kids.

A quiet wreck of a world, with an

old, brownish cloud of its own.

For sure.