13,002. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,125

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,125

(it felt like nothing at all)

Whenever I watched a crafts

guy at work, it always seemed

the eyes were intent on the work

being done. None of that noise

or extraneous excitement of

conversation or small talk.

They stayed with their work,

it always appeared as with an

unbroken intention. That was

probably good, because

distractions make detractions :

crummy work, missed steps,

half measures. It's always a

good thing to take note of that

when looking at a shop-guy

working. Surgeons too, I'd guess.
Plenty of quiet in the O.R. 

-

Lots of places now, in my own

recent past anyway, are set-up

with noise. Sound-systems, radios

blaring, or some other form of

audio-attack. It unsettles everything.

The mind can't really be fully in

two places at once, and 100%

remains just that, 100%. It can't

be cut. I remember lots of the

silences in those small shops and

stables and things, along the

west side. Where work and where

quality were yet revered. Just a

few blocks off, continuing west,

you could get over to some

waterfront, boat-dock pier

outfit, by contrast, and hear the

racket  -  music, noise, the most

simple voices of DJ's and

announcers, etc. Back in those

old radio days anyway. It was the

sort of thing everyone was conscious

of, even if they didn't want it,

because it was foisted off on them,

and each person was aware of it

but no one really knew what to

say or to acknowledge or not

what they were hearing. All

sorts of work environments go

trough this; I can well remember

my bookstore days, Barnes & Noble,

and Princeton, being fraught with

a tension over the 'music' that was

pelting the ear(s). It was oftentimes

a difficult environment to be in.

-

To me, all of that was a part of

the world around me that didn't

make sense. Regular, rational,

people, I guessed, they liked all

that and thought nothing of it. It

was a simplified picture, for them,

of the technology in the world

around them, and it bought them

pleasure, apparently, to be so

accompanied by noise and turmoil.

As if the 'emptier' life became, the

more they sought to cover that

void, with something. I remember

thinking about Art like that; how

certain people would get all bent

over 'abstract' art, how to them it

made no sense and infuriated them

to see smudges, squiggles and

colors just 'thrown about,' as

they'd put it. To me that was

about the same situation as my

having to hear all that wanton

'noise' blasting everywhere. There's

always an end to 'rationality' when

the picture begins being just too

distorted. To some the line is drawn

at 'art,' and to others at 'noise.'

-

Those distinctions are severely

drawn; two distinct views of a life

and a vision: rational and illusory.

Logical versus creative. Strict

versus pliable. Defined versus

undefined. I don't know what terms

are in use right now, but either one

has the adherents who embody it and

you can define it as you choose. Mere

words. One extreme portion of life,

it seems, is dedicated to finding out

those distinctions and then applying

the one or the other to one's own

application of what to live.

-

One time I went to a guy's home/office,

up in the east 70's. It's an area where

the old wealth, back around 1910 or so,

had established its phalanx of mansions

and urban homes and fortresses which,

if they are still in place, are now used

for things like international societies of

this or that, or diplomatic missions to

the UN or whatever; weird Societies of

Federated Associations....things of that

Nature. The hazy; the indistinct. Also

in use as Institutes, Art Galleries, and

all those capital letter things that lend

importance to Theosophical Societies

and Ethical Culture movements. Big

money, that you never hear of. This 

guy was a record producer, music 

mogul, whatever. Some name behind 

the sleeves, back then, of record albums 

and stuff. A regular  P. T. Barnum of 

the sound world (which wasn't so

sound, and I actually mean 'audio').

I was with another person who

had peripheral connections to all that

too, small change by comparison. They

sat around and talked of the things

and the people they knew; mostly

just names to me, as I pretty-much

knew nothing of their world. But, the

darkside here, going on at the same

time, was some sort of commercial

trade in drugs, of which I also knew

little. I was told later that, in those

circles, it was all as natural and as

prevalent as air and water to the

less 'fortunate'? This was an elevated

world, to be sure, but one I neither

wanted nor understood. What did

catch me, however, was how elevated

the assumptions and practices had

gotten, and I wondered how that 

happens and how these worlds co-exist.

Are the assumptions made the same?

I had just come from a lesser-level of

existence, to be sure, and there was

no denying that; one wherein the

things and situations I had had to

struggle with and over were completely

foreign and non-existent to these folk.

There was no one I could explain this to.

I had never seen (well, OK, except for

the seminary) a letter opener. Can you

imagine, a letter opener! The sort of

letter opener that is not a mere blade,

or a blade with a handle, or any of that.

this was a letter opener etched and

marked, with even a stone or a jewel of

some sort embedded in the handle end.

With complete nonchalance it was used

as ordinarily as one would use a teaspoon

in coffee (to show a simple reference).

It immediately brought to mind other

NY things that perplexed me  -  like

cigarette holders, which always seemed

perverse and bizarre to my eyes, and

humidors, desktop or otherwise. These

were all as natural to Manhattan people

at this level as 'Water For Gotham' was

un-natural in the doing. Glass-faced

cabinets, a finely-appointed young

girl attendant on the entryway,  one who

would direct you, or lead you to the

correct location and/or 'elevator (in a

three story building?), in a place that was
was once a mansion, as well as a home,

with rounded stairways and lobby

alcoves and, down below street level,

entrances (separate) for staff and for

servants (of the old days). How weird,

and how weird too that the thickly

rippled window glass was probably a

half-inch thick and slightly distorted

everything  -  with ripples in the image,

and tiny bubbles here and  there embedded. 

I was, truly, in another space and time, 

which, although it was distinctively new

and different for me, the observer of it

all, it actually felt like nothing at all.