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
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.
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
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.
and the light is dimming.
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