13,128. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,069

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1.069

(momentary dispensation)

No sooner had I written about

the 'oneness' necessary for a

precise and satisfying dedication

to task, that I ran into this quote

in complete opposition to my 

own conclusion ; "In proportion

as a body is more capable than

others of doing many things at

once or being acted on in many

ways at once, so its mind is

more capable than others of

perceiving many things at

once."

-

Well, there was a slap in

the face, or at least a kick

to the head, one unified and

well delivered. I began to

think about what it takes to

be stunned; or how one

is supposed to react to a 

'thought reversal.' I found

out there weren't too many

alternatives to any of it: 

Just absorb the hit, and

revise, or incorporate it

into, that theory which 

you are theorizing.

-

And, in fact, so little of it

mattered, in the end. There

were a lot of people I knew,

in NYC and later in PA.,

whose lives were in place:

some with more going on

than others yes, but all in

their way determined to 

be dedicated to some sort

of ongoing task; whether

it was the lowliest task -

say, 'Bernadette' at Swift's

Lounge, or some highly

positioned psychologist up

along Park Avenue, with all
that pomp and sobriety. Their

works and efforts rang true.

That being said, I realized,

as well, that they themselves

realized very little of it and

it was more of a philosophical

formulation than anything else.

And, really, what greater rot

could there be?

-

I never had anything against

'philosophy' per se  -  in fact

I always thought it was pretty 

cool  -  but at base it too was

personal, a universe of one.

I found what people insisted

on calling 'philosophy' in the

colloquial sense was not that

at all. It carried more the

burden of defining a social

situation  in the same way that

20th century religion had done.

It became nothing more than a

well-padded and specious vest

for the average person to wear.

I still held, and hold, by the

belief that 'One' is really all

that matters. The pinnacle
of Selfhood must come first.

-

I think that life becomes, by

its end, a constant running of

old memories  -  things caught

between personal disposal and

psychic echoing. I never have

found if it's done TO a person,

by some illogic of a neural

pathway within, or BY a

person; a person caught at

the end with the running-out of

a lifetime of strange experiences

which still linger, to talk in some

strange half-shadow until the old

light runs out. We call it: Dementia?

But isn't everything that anyway?

Why is it that we value, and

applaud a life only when it's

seen as 'good,' when really all

it is is applauding a life because

it knows where the spoons are

kept and in what order the

tools and implements of living

are done; the account-books

kept correctly, the dollars and

cents achieved and intact, while
in all other acts and aspects the
individual in question is but a
complete and roving idiot.To me

that's all inconsequential drivel.

Creativity and Art live somewhere

just on the other side of all that,

and it's a real struggle to keep

straight, especially in such an

unjustifiably haggard world as

this.

-

I have spoken to old men, and

women; those whose eyes seep,

who speak at me with a white

dribble coming forth  -  way past

any sense of age or responsibility.

Art-characters, whom I always

loved. At Chumley' a 92-year old

half-near-famous 1920's and '30's

poet, Ann Adams, would come

down to see me  - through the

intercession of my friend Bobbie

Beddia, who worked there. She

would sit, bedraggled, tired, and

somewhat forlorn, and go on  -

about a flickering past still in her 

inner eyes, rolling back into her

fading life. WWI, as a nurse, her

prized photographs, her books and

editions, stories of another half-life

so long before. Those were moments

of wonder to me, in the 1990's, and

then, soon enough, she was gone.

Like a draft of dust, out an open

window. Leaving me nothing but,

again, my own tragic memories

of all that had passed.

-

Each and all of those old folks

had returned themselves, aware

or not, to the walking memory

banks of their own days : In no

other way but truly, and solitary,

and lone, and within a wonderful

Oneness of selfhood, fleeing, and

fleeting too. I never knew where I

stood, but I was determined NOT

to get distracted as I moved along.

That still goes, but it's getting late,
and the light is dimming.