13,090. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,057

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,057

('stay steady and just dig the chance')

So, once outside the studio 

doorway, on the third level 

of the building, was a sign that

read 'Matador Productions 

- Management and Booking:

fine art  and jazz ensembles.'

Believe me, it sounded and 

read bigger than it was, for in 

actuality it was merely a booking 

agent for 'talent' - which in this 

sense meant jazz quartets of 

whatever merit, which were 

often booked around town at 

any of the various nightclubs 

and cabaret/restaurants that 

wanted to 'trade' on the Jazz 

name. Not that it was, really,

anything that definite; nor was

it in any way an assurance of a

crowd, or even of 'quality' music.

Sometimes it worked. Others,

not. I'd stumbled into all of this

mostly because there was an 

all-night 25-cent slice pizza

window out to the sidewalk.

I'd often queer-folk waiting or

lined up there, or slumped over, 

even, eating their sustenance,

and fighting their alcohol wave.

The 'jazz' next door, at the venue,

was easy to hear, and some liked

it, and stayed. Like getting an 

unseen concert, and food, for 

25 cents. Not bad. I think, but

can't remember, if you went

inside, or tried to, there was a

cover-charge, and the booze 

was pricey too. 

-

This wasn't any big-deal crowd, 

sluggards who'd gotten left behind

in some ballooning culture-gulch

they couldn't figure out. 196o's

takeover tactics had pretty much

spread into everything  - even the

rotten jazz world had gotten a little

flowery. Frills and showmanship

somehow getting more importance

than the music. It never really

grabbed me, any of that. Crossover

crap that tried, it to was annoying;

from Blues Project to Janis Joplin

to Herbie Hancock and the rest.

It seemed it was all messed together

and the lack of purity had become

deadly. Well, hello, and welcome 

to the '70's.

-

Defiantly, the definitions had all

been changed. Much like today,

in its way, but flavored with reality

instead of the sick puffery of today.

Vietnam and death. Cool jazz lurked,

but I was gone by then.

-

As I started saying, these weren't

hardcore, knowledgeable jazz fans.

All that as accidental. They were more

than happy with second or third tier 

acts that no one really cared about,

and this is what I had been listening 

to - another set by another small 

group of guys heading out for their 

night's gig. It was all run, as usual, 

by some chubby guy in a cheap suit 

and plenty of sweat and humidity:

Booking agent, blowhard, and usually

'taker of 20% for the efforts.' And

mostly named Goldsmith, or Goldberg,

or Marshall or Merman. Same names;

do nothings, no talent, except for

rubbing bills and signing lousy deals.

For all I ever knew they were failed 

perfume salesmen, or sixth-grade 

history teachers, who'd chucked 

one career for another but got by 

in both cases by doing nothing 

and trading off the work of 

others, and they'd sit around 

and throw promises like darts 

and wait to see if anything stuck;

 so that there were always people 

around dumb enough to believe 

all that crap, and who figured 

they really were on the verge 

of stardom and discovery by 

playing maybe just two more 

weeks at Hanley's Chop House 

or Trolo's Bistro and Cabaret or 

the Big Fixx Club or whatever. 

It was all the same, and nothing 

ever mattered. They got their 50 

bucks a night and they stayed 

,late probably three or four nights 

in a row messing with the girls or 

getting laid easy and then just

walking off.  ('Never met my Daddy,

no. They say he was some kind of'

jazz-master'). And then they waited 

for the next one, to do it all again,

and Goldsmith or whomever it 

was always got the big take and 

always talked big and got the 

next schedule card to fill out 

all over again. And - yeah, yeah,

 it just went on. These were always 

cheap green offices, with poorly 

painted green or ivory colored 

walls, and extension cords and 

phone lines brought in on temporary 

hookups  -  all cheap and all tacky,

 just like Goldsmith or Goldfine 

or any of the rest. What I'd do 

was, for tenbucks a day, some,

was move things around or pull 

wires from here to there or hammer 

together another pedestal box for 

some jazz-cat to stand on and 

limelight his solo.Once in a 

while I'd get to plink away on 

a piano as some form of 

accompaniment to whatever 

I was hearing. Hardly even a

tune, and no one cared and no 

one stopped me, though I was 

never sent out with a job-crew 

or anything. II never cared. But 

there was one time I was let 

out to fill a drummer's roll in 

a tune or two while the 'drummer' 

was out doing whatever. No

grand jazz-solo stuff, just a wiry

beat, best I could, and twenty 

minutes later he was back and 

I was done. That was at some 

east-side club out by the UN,

in the e50's somewhere, and,

yeah it was fun but I had no

card nor license or nothing of 

that nature, so it was on the 

sly anyway. And, then, yes 

fame and stardom, like all the 

rest, it eluded me too but I 

was able to stay steady 

and just dig the chance.

13,089. THE THINGS I SEE

THE THINGS I SEE

No, The things I USED to see,

from the Rahway Five & Dime.

It's all gone now. But stop! Let

me go on. This once was a world.

-

Can notice the left side, how it

shows, before any delineation,

how pure consciousness perceives?

That unformed jumble, passing

rightward, which only then takes

a form and a definite shape.

-

Matters finds its own, and we,

nodding and by words, then

acquiesce. We see all things.

Everything is present. At

present. Which is then, No.

Longer. Present. At. All.

13,088. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,056

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,056

BIG TIME JAZZ-BOOKING STORY - 

'(you can stay with uncertainty a really long time' )

Sometimes I just used to think

I thought about things way too

much. The sensation I'd gotten

was of spinning my wheels. The

same old feeling came through,

of achieving little. Sometimes I

did feel as if I knew more than 

others about what they were 

saying and doing, but even then

I kept to myself. Really, how can

you get that across to others, that

you 'knew' better then they did,

about the very thing they were

speaking of or being involved with?

Of all interpersonal endeavors,

outside of a pure, cold, silence,

that's probably the next to most

difficult thing to do. Let's just say,

Dale Carnegie would have never

taught anything like that ('How To

Win Friends and Influence People').

Only a stupid man would want to

walk around boasting.

-

I'd ride the bus, and watch the driver;

thinking to myself, what a dumb job.

In fact, what a paradoxical job, when

you think of it  -  sitting in one place,

for a full shift, doing nothing, but yet

going all over the place. Streets and

turns; highways and ramps; dealing

with audacious people, and having

to, at all times, manage it. Running

in place, on a treadmill, with wheels.

As if life itself was a personal, moving,

picture. How does one get paid for that?

And how long does it go on? Twenty 

years? Thirty? And then a well-deserved

retirement, with a million miles of going

nowhere, while gong everywhere, under

one's belt. Get that gold watch out, Charley.

I tried, believe me, I tried. A million things.

-

Terpsichords and violins, together, made 

the sound of an unusual jazz ensemble.

Tapping sounds on tipcloths and bottlecaps;

it was almost as if, right then, at that time,

there was 'time' being made - cool guys on 

platforms, wearing tophats and blowing 

tight horns, while their feet kept time and 

the bodies swayed and in the background

a wild drummer interspersed their time 

and rhythm with his own time and rhythm,

amidst a wild staccato beat broken only 

by moments piled upon moments. And 

no words could suffice ever to break in 

through the haze of sound and the 

cacophonous ride of scale with music : 

Out front and lounging along. On the 

few tables and chairs nearby were 

half-wasted people with twisted faces 

looking up just to watch what was 

happening and maybe getting it, maybe 

not, but in either case present for the 

execution, so to speak, and even though 

this was but a final rehearsal, they 

listened. And the real playdate was that 

night - a few late sets rolling way into 

the wee hours, but everyone was already 

set, and it all just rolled on. That sort

of music, when really good, and done

really right, was satisfaction alone, all

by itself, and it was unstoppable. Past

a certain point, everyone in the ensemble

knew they'd found it, reached that totally

sweet-spot. Function and form taken

over my meter and line. No one talked

about it, when it happened. To talk

about it would have killed it, like

self-inflation kills a memoir. A Memory.

'Everything still remains the same.'

-

One time, I was on the street while the 

trucks lumbered by - delivery guys and 

freight-loads coming and going - and 

it was a lame mid-afternoon day in a 

cold grey late winter climate, and 

everyone seemed tired of the cold;

tired of coats, and tired of just being.

But it was that time of year too, 

when a person knows things are 

about to change; and the body can 

sense the new light and absorb 

somehow the new temperature 

and movement of the very air, so 

that any unsettled feelings of cold 

or weariness can be withstood 

merely by expectation and hope 

alone. I sure knew that feeling

myself, and I wasn't part of anything.

Someone once asked me a question,

and I was momentarily afraid. It had

thrown me way off, being approached'

directly like that while in some reverie,

elsewhere. Weird feeling. I guess I

snapped. The guys name was Horace;

he played some kind of horn, the one

with the little buttons on it. All these

guys were always emulating someone

else, be it black or white. Somehow, 

'Jazz', though black, was a white-man's

gig too. They never seemed to play as

well, or never had the same magic, the

white guys. The black guys had them

beat. But I never said nothing about

that either. These loft things, kind of

musical crazy-parties, were strange,

and anything was apt to break out.

I hung about, sometimes acting almost

as the servant to a bunch of maniacs.

Getting this, watching the elevator, 

dial  -  to be sure of what was coming

up or not; loft parties and such still

being illegal, as was, in fact, living

in the lofts, as well. There was always 

booze to fetch, and what else....Ladies

coming up from the stairs, or the

elevators, and, always, a lookout for

the cops. And sometimes a check on

the noise too. All sorts of factors 

could wreck these nights, and 

start some'big troubles for some

of these guys.

-

I learned a lot about subservience;

kind of my own reverse-slavery, by

blacks! But it was fun, and it involved

no chains. 'Things to come will be 

better than the present, always.'  

That's what Horace had said, and

then he asked me some question,

about something I sort of knew

it would be trouble to talk about.

So, in fear, as I've said, I turned

on him, sort of, and said 'Don't

go asking me questions, OK, unless

you're then gonna' be willing to

accept whatever it is I say, because

I didn't show up here to start a

fight or cause no trouble. So, think

twice before you ask me something.'

I meant it. And we never quite meshed

too well after that. Except he didn't 

know I was really protecting him from

either a hurt or a pounding, because 

it was about his woman, and I knew

what she was up to right then. I

don't know what he ever knew

about what I ever knew, but we

were never the same. Though I 

admit I'd never seen a black lady

in action before. But I left that

room real quickly.

-

Back to the white and black aspects

of the jazz being played, the funny

thing was how a guy named Paul

Whiteman was one of the early

jazz figures who's gotten all this

going. Something like the 1920's I

think. He was a miserable-looking,

blubbery white guy too; nothing

like you'd expect. And there was

this other guy, also pretty weird

(he died in his bed, in alcoholic

hallucinations; something about

natives with spears being under

the bed, trying to stab and poke

him up from underneath. Some

mysterious doctor pronounce

him dead. This second guy's

name, the jazz man, was Bix

Biederbeck. Check my spelling.

Biederbeck's claim to fame,

unique by my standards, had to

do not so much with the music,

but the format. Jazz and its early

recordings were troublesome. 

Guys used to wail and go on; 

horns and noise and all just]

slamming into each other. Live.

But, recording all that was a mess.

The 78 rpm only went for like 3 

minutes. How could a recording

smash ll that together? Bix B,

(Bixby?) solved the problem. He

was all about format : three minutes

sets, and he introduced the idea of 

solos within  -  to the praise and

benefit, I'm sure of a million

rick and guitar guys later. That's

a pretty cool thing to be known for;

the guy who set up popular music,

as it were. Instead of a mash of noise,

he segmented it and broke it down

some, for the modern day's 'recorded'

music and all its possibilities.

-

Then I looked at the poster on the 

entrance-wall and realized I'd 

mis-read the word, and that 

'Terpsichord' was the name of the 

ensemble playing and not really an 

instrument at all, but also (as Terpsicore),

I found out later,   the name of the Greek 

muse of choral song and dance, which 

didn't really fit. But so what, maybe 

it melded well and I'd just missed it all. 

Some people out front were busying 

themselves at the back end of a 

big station wagon which was filled 

with bolts of carpet or something 

which they were throwing onto

the pavement nearby. Some Spanish 

guy kept taking them into the next 

building. This went on for a while 

as I watched, and I wondered how 

and why all these people had come 

to be - just going about their tasks 

each day too, and in such a wide-open 

world with all these closed routines.

And it was as if I saw the very future 

stretched before me in that I was 

knowing that at some point I too 

would have to come to terms with 

life in that respect - what to do with 

all these days, and how to go about 

that vapid routine of living; and as 

the things of time came by me,

over and over in repeated manners,

I sometimes thought to myself that 

'anything' would have to be better 

than that : better than taking the 

place and the station amidst the 

haphazard rank-and-file I saw 

around me, repeating their daily 

chores. But I saw too that I had 

nothing. I had no more promise 

to go on than did the window-washer 

across the way, or the Spanish guy 

hauling carpet, and even though 

I was for now in the advantageous 

position of just 'being' without 

connection, it wasn't going to last 

forever. A part of me didn't want 

to engage; just didn't wish to 

come up to the cruising speed 

needed to mesh with what was 

around me, and I realized then 

that THAT was the calling of art 

or music or at least the finesse 

of sensitivity which made creative 

types always outsiders. Realizing 

and coming to grips with that brought 

me nothing either, but maybe comfort,

 and in my way I sensed that maybe 

a comfort level of such a personal 

dimension was - in reality - the entire 

purpose of life anyway. But NOT in 

the self-indulgent way of merely 

doing (or not) what one wanted,

 but instead in reaching the inner 

achievement or attainment of a 

personal creativity that you could

answer to, and speak form and

proudly so, about yourself. What

the heck? What is anything else

worth that's so better than that?

-

Jazz was always weird to me. The 

scene, and the people; always

jiving, always jamming. I'd 

remembered now having read

something that fit this, by a writer

guy named Anatole Broyard, and

I was real glad to be the one to

have remembered it : Made me

feel worthwhile for 'something'

anyway. It was about a tribal guy,

in Africa, who had a grievance, but

couldn't get his case heard by the

elders, etc. So each morning, before

daybreak, or at, he'd walk under all

the thatched huts, which were up 

on stilts. He'd march and walk,

drumming and walking in a strange

march pattern; drumming to wake

them disturb their rest, invade their 

dreams, as he rehearsed his plea,

chanting it over the drumming, in

a strange, staccato manner as he

marched. Thinking about jazz, I

remembered that man and that story -

and I thought that jazz musicians 

were something like that.

13,087. YOU AIN'T NO HUMVEE

YOU AIN'T NO HUMVEE

And all that went out with the war;

a fetish, guys who showed nothing

but beer muscles and dreams, They'd

be driving down Main Street with

their combat vehicles all done up 

to the stars while they smoked 

their cigars. Enchanted story-book

warriors, like lanterns of men with

their pants all a'fire. Calling it home;

a car-show, a boulevard, a long,

long, evening of Main Tavern beer.

Turn in at the gun shop, pick up

supplies. Saunter away with

some noise and a smile. Don't

look askance! This is your

big chance!

13,086. DO THE MACKERAL

DO THE MACKERAL

I jumped from the seams of space

into another attire : long coat of

gray matter, hovering over the

land. Haberdasher ravishing

greatcoat superette. That was

another me.

-

Forsooth. My tooth.

-

You, you are the guy; I remember.

Pahked that cah in Harvahd Yahd

and left at a full-tilt boogie. Can't

explain the magic of that one.

-

Once before, this town burned down.

A vacation community for NY cops.

Breezy Point. Some hurricane or other

took it away and the gas-lines started

fires. Gone Gone. Gone.

-

Just offshore, the ocean still smiled

at what it had done. Hurricane Caprice,

they should have named it.

13,085. LET IT COME

LET IT COME

No matter the horses or the size

of the barn. The whole world's

now crazy. Sound some alarm, if

you choose, but there's no one left

to listen, and the big charge is over

and the world has gone mute.

-

Devilish the trickery, and carnivorous

the inhumane soul; yet no one ever stops.

-

There's a road with a sidebar that leads 

right to sweet hell. Too good to overlook,

and too good to pass by. Most useful,

the youthful entrance. No exits are

marked, and they get 'em young.

Let it come.

13,084. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,055

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,055
IN PRETTY MUCH THE MOST AMAZING MONOLOGUE I EVER HEARD 

(a jazz story, Jimmy Goodenough, Aug. 1969):

"Well that's an improvement" the 

old timer said, while he was sitting 

on a concrete and stone half-wall 

separating the lawn from the shaded 

people. It wasn't just the tone of his 

voice that caught my ear but it was 

also the accent and his demeanor - 

both very interesting. So I decided 

to stop right there and spend a 

few moments with him, as I had 

the time. I'd been working the 

last 6 hours or so with Cheng 

Dao Lee, known as Charley, an 

artist who had a huge apartment 

w/studio on w86th where he did 

his work. 'Oblique paintings
of Chinese Hills,' we called
them. On this day some of his 

large pieces needed crating 

and readying for transportation 
(to Rosencrantz Gallery, e57th)

- which was simple enough work 

if one could be careful. It involved 

building protective transport-frames 

of 1x2's; a lumber-wood protective 

covering, and nails and all the 

simple stuff to construct around 

each 8 or 10 foot painting so it 

wouldn't get hurt during transport). I

used to do things like that occasionally.

A 30-dollar day, back in '68, wasn't

half bad for someone of my cheap

expense-level. When people back

then used to dance the 'Frug' (it

was some sort of dance craze about

1966) some thought it had been

named after me; short for 'frugal.'

-

Anyway, this guy on the wall looked 

over to me and said "Sit down - 

what are you doing around here?" 

and I proceeded to do so, as we 

started talking - this entire area 

by the 72nd street entrance to 

the park was always a favorite 

spot of mine - the geography 

right there is pretty active - 

little hills and vistas, the wide 

front of the Natural History 

Museum and the Historical 

Society across the street, and
nearby was some oddball place
called 'The Ethical Cuture Society,'

yeah, right....and all those walls and 

and benches and things which 
ran along  the walkway afforded

interesting views into the 

park or along the roadway - 

whichever one's preference - by 

which to wile away the time or 

just sit back on a nice day and 

take it all in. That was before

the really rich and the rock

star royalty types began buying

up the place too. Rosemary's Baby

had been filmed in the Dakota,

and the later John Lennon BS

hadn't yet hit. This old guy was 

just as interested in any detail 

I could tell him as I'd be in 

anything he told me - which 

meant like a half-interest just 

to help make a human-contact 

and pass some time. So I told 

him my current story  :  The 

art-school downtown, and  the 

various little jobs here or there,

anywhere, I'd undertake to get 

a  few dollars; and the varied 

ways and means of my wandering 

existence.  Of course, I'd leave 

out the usual jibs and jabs of 

what went wrong and who did 

what, but no matter. He'd said 

his name was Jimmy Goodenough 

pronounced 'Goo-den-ow,' which 

pronunciation he said was 'good 

enough for me' - which I thought 

maybe was a joke but never found 

out really. I figured, with a name

like that, it was all probably a

practiced routine that he must 

have done a thousand times already.

-

It turned out he was some old jazz 

dude, from the hep-cat days of 15 

or 20 years back  and he had for 

sure a certain attitude of his own 

to which I listened and was raptly 

startled and fascinated all together 

at once. Although I'd never heard 

of him I just let him talk - "...now 

you've got the opportunity, now 

you're young,  and you should 

be open to everything. You can, 

let's say, 'absorb,' you dig? Like 

right, so you got to always take 

a moment and look around. Take 

those moments too, boy, because 

they're precious, and by God then 

they just become scarcer and less

as you move along. I warn you that. 

And just as important it is to listen,

JUST listen ! No other thing, no 

other sound - just a note, like any 

person would hear if they would,

 if they COULD; you see, but they 

never do because the monstrous 

crossword puzzle of their dull 

mind won't LET them, wherein 

the wailing and the good sense 

of all that is, and remains, hidden 

by the four-letter word I am 

thinking of: 'MIND,' or maybe 

even 'JAZZ,' because they is 

BOTH you see the very same 

thing." I liked the way he talked,

the diction was off a bit, and

he shagged his words, almost 

like a drunk would. He talked

deep, and mysteriously, like

Miles Davis, in fact. It was old 

and intriguing, like when you

go to see a monument to

something old and forgotten,

one that no one ever visits

anymore. I thought it was

all that, and hip too. I figured 

probably - strong and enunciated 

and boisterous and exclamated; 

all at the same time, but sensitive 

and observantly wise too. Just

the weirdness of a voice with

a real past maybe. Super-real. 

I figured not to step in. What 

did I know, and so, instead,

I just let this old jazz guy go 

on (it did seem back then there 

were plenty enough of them about 

- in the waning days of old 60's 

jazz I'd somehow bump into 

them now and again, pretty 

often; and it was just like an 

inner 'urge' or something to 

come forth and be personified 

in one of these guys). I was

always looking for twisted

idols to pick up on. He was

one. I knew that, and he

continued:  "And I am thinking 

of JAZZ maybe again, or that 

be-bop hazing sound of evolution;

something like what went right 

past, say, Louis Armstrong from 

Fats Waller, without anyone really 

noticing (what am I saying - oh man, 

they noticed! Everybody noticed!),

until, POOF! right there was Louie, 

with Lucy Baba Louie, ruining the

 entire sell-out raggedy-muffin 

scene. Selling it all out for money 

and fame, CHEAP fame, mind you.

So much so like Louis had turned

white, or been turned, or let his'self 

BE turned, white! And some, and, 

backstreet-curb-assed excuse for 

nigger or hipster of jive or cool

whatever, right there in black 

AND in white, playing that white

man's game. And the most 

destructive thing he ever did was,

the worse move he ever made, 

was to co-opt the voice of the 

white-man's toady, that nigger 

Armstrong; that vain ego-bleeding 

sycophant circus-tent juggler, and 

them ain't MY words neither - they 

are exact words the words of Mongo 

Park his'self, or someone very much 

like him. That's all a quote, boy. Here,

have some of this." (And he handed me

a bottle in a brown, paper, bag).

"And then we let that whole ship o'shit 

pass on until now the scene shifts, and

right under us, to the ultra-cool hip 

of cigarette smoke, cocaine-induced,

heroin-rambling, spook-faced, dead-man,

sit-up tunes in any smoky New York 

or Chicago blues parlor, jazz club, 

speakeasy, big-hit: Hip tunes and 

supposed black nigger-tunes, and 

white-man's stupid poetics, tripping 

with the downtown jazz-girls, 

soothing voices talking back, ever 

so lightly to the sex-tinged super-cool 

waiters working for change or tip 

or lovin' or lip, or smack, or whatever 

you'd want. And it was right then as 

if the whole entire major fag scene too

erupted on New York's darkest backwaters.

None of that was anything new. It had

always been there, but none of those

new-Whiteys to the scene ever

figured for that!"

-

"It was then that everyone finally 

smiled, like even me; and down 

at the Village and the old Cooper 

Union porch and the Five Spot 

Corner, with suddenly fifteen new 

kinds of hepcats kids a day selling 

everything and anything they 

could, and it was all laid out on 

the sidewalk each day -  just 

piles of stuff : boots, records,

clothes, tools, artifacts, paintings,

junk coats, and - you see don't you,

that the point was to turn one 

or two dollars a day at least in 

any way you could so to survive,

and all that 'angel-headed hipster' 

stuff made no sense anyway because 

the only people buying were either 

themselves back and forth to each 

other, or unwholesome freak-faces 

from Long Island and New Jersey

strolling through this trinket-touristy 

life like it all already OWED them 

something. There was guys even

who'd sell their instruments, just

to buy them back maybe the very

next day  -  it was all like a pawn-shop

of the open air and for the poor

and the really down and out and beat

ones. It used to make me sick to

have to live that way, just a survive,

not a life. But no one made a move, 

and no one knew a thing, except 

that all of a sudden the hinterlands 

had come home to roost, and the 

best we could do was stay in place 

and survive while it all wilted. The 

beats died, the Jazz died, the real 

color died, and the only thing left 

was the co-opted motion of small 

time merchants and beady-eyed 

Italian neighborhood wranglers 

trying to make a buck off the blood 

and the spirit of dead kids already 

dying and struggling too. They 

labeled it this or they re-labeled 

it that, and they tried to make it

work : hippie-carnival-fantasy-land.

But it couldn't, and it didn't, and,

at the same time these very kids 

were wasting themselves, others 

of them were dying and frying in 

nowhere's land of another white,'

fantasy- vision-power-HELL Vietnam."

-

And so it seemed, he wouldn't stop

 and didn't, and it was really weird -

as usually I did hate old people and 

all their pontificating and bullshit 

about life's lessons and all that crap

they never did and had failed to 

realize, and blah blah, they just go on.

But this guy was different. He had an 

edge. He had some freaked-out 

wildman point-of-view about everything;

and it really did seem he'd done everything 

and been all around - which got rid right 

away of the fakery and the doubt and 

made me want to listen, at least, just 

for the hell of listening. And if I only 

knew then what I know now, I'd have 

started listening a lot closer, right off 

the bat there and then and how.

Because I knew I wasn't getting it

all, nor going to be remembering it all;

and it really was the start of something 

big; if only I had known.