13,014. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,029

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,029

(done by hand)

For a while then, after that

whole Bobby thing, I just

wanted to pack it in. I was

pretty disgusted with most

everything, and filled with the

sort of hurt you don't get rid

of easily. It's too hard to live

with the idea of having been

looking up at a fire-scene and

unwittingly witnessing a friend's

demise. Yes, I had nothing to do

with it, and no, he was nothing

to me; not family, not romance,

not even a solid connection.

Just a cool guy with whom I

identified any number of the

better things in life; outside of

the usual rathole of festering

crap we all deal with or assume.

My wife said he looked like

some dancer or movie guy, to

her. I hadn't a clue, and, frankly,

for a period of time at first,

thought he was gay. But he

had a girlfriend, an Alfa

Romeo spots car, kept at his

house over on Staten Island,

and he was good, strong, and

tough; no fake about him,

whatever he was. One time

he said to me, 'I was out your

neck of Jersey on Saturday.'

I asked what he meant, and

he said (still a little foggy

to me), that he had to drive

one of the fire-tank rigs over

to a station in Edison, filled

with water, which they had a

need of there. And then he

drove back empty. Like I said,

I don't know what he meant;

firemen stuff, I guess. They

transport water?

-

To realize him gone, and the

way it had happened, really

sucked. I'm not so sure I was

ever the same. You know

what life is  -  that plain

old boring portion anyway?

It's one slap to the side of

the head, and then another,

and another, and eventually

the accumulation of all that

gets to you, wears or breaks

you down. Like a blown tire,

and then a bad transmission,

and, finally, a blown engine,

and you too are dead. Bobby,

missed all that accumulation,

at at 56 or 57, whatever it was,

he got hit with one, solid,

unseen, airless brick he never

even saw coming.

-

When I lived in Pennsylvania,

there was an farmer nearby that

I used to help, now and then.

Everyone did, often. He was

like 80 or something, and he

hung himself in his barn. Just.

one day, had had enough; there

were some current problems

over 'modernization' of his

dairy-farm practice and

equipment, and they were

talking of dropping him, no

longer accepting his milk,

at the creamery, or by pick-up.

It just destroyed the old guy, and

his wife too; who, unfortunately,

he left behind in his bullheaded

reacting to events yet unseen.

Life's like that too. Sometimes

it just blows up in our face.

I've known about 4 or 5 suicides

in my life; close dudes. That seems 
like a lot to me; I don't know. Males.
And one female; sweetest young
person I ever met, and my feeble
heart was gone. She left Princeton
and was working at a coffee bar
in Grand Central Station, where
I'd see her occasionally. And then,
alas, not ever again. Just a sign
that said she was gone. And
her photo too. I guess it's not

so prevalent among women. I

wonder why that may be? The

guys walk around with a tub

full of life-giving semen all

the time, yet they never seem to

care about that; ladies, on the

other hand, being nurturing and

motherly, etc., they maybe can't

seem to take that step. Except for

a few weirder ones, hard-cases,

poets and writers and painters

maybe, who were female. I guess.

Ann Sexton. Sylvia Plath. That

ilk. Real intriguing to me. But

anyway, I never bought into

that gender stuff anyway; every

person's fluid enough, all along

the way, emotionally, bravery

and courage-wise, bold and

anarchic; any of that stuff is

all the same.

-

John Harkness, this old farmer

person, he was a guy, through

and through. Tough and rugged,

he was, with hands like two

vice-grips, coarse and solid. He

ran his entire operation, with

Mary, in the most basic, old

way possible. They were quite

nearly Amish in that respect,

except they did use lamps,

bulbs, and drove a car. Everything

else was frugal, and done the old

way  -  a real  paucity of machinery,

little small talk, and lots of rope

and twine, heaving and baling of

hay and straw and silage. His

totally classic barn was probably

new in about 1880. He was,

maybe, one of three or four 

people I'd ever met who could

date themselves from the 1890's,

not including my own forbears,

who I assume fit that bill too.

This was 1972 or '73, so if he

was 80 years old that would

comfortably tuck him into the

1890 period. His death too was

sad and tragic and memorable,

but, frankly, at least he did it to

himself. Bobby's death was gifted

to him, somehow  -  as if that

counts for anything.

-

I used to go up in John's barn :

You knew you were going to

sweat, and deadly too. Piles and

piles of hay bales, in 90 degree

heat; in the hayloft up top of a

barn makes it for some dead, still

air, intense heat, and dusty matter

everywhere. In addition, John's

included hemp-rope, blisters, 

muscle strains, aching backs, 

calloused and bloody hands, 

by the end of five or  six days 

haying-season, hard work.
I can't ever imagine what things
were running through his head as
that morbid rope tightened around
his throat. All the good he ever
had done, right down the drain
 of the modern world, that day.
Everything he ever did was done 
by hand, right to the end included,
and as I recall, it was the merry 
month of May too. Farmers had a 
saying : 'Cool, wet May, pile that 
hay!' Meaning that with good 
moisture  and some rain
days, there'd be a good, 
heavy crop of hay.
-
On the other hand, in the 
printing industry, my boss used 
to say, (it was a bit of a sex joke), 
'There's only one thing you do by 
hand in the printing industry.'
John kind of fell in between the two.