13,149. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,074

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,074

(this road leads to the dump)

Writing and painting, and

phots and the rest  -  all of the

stuff that I do  -  have always

given me a sense of meaning

and being that I could never get

from anything else. It separated

me from people, kept me slightly

apart. Which was good for me. I

never 'mixed' well anyway, most

likely because of the constant

preoccupation that kept me aloof,

and apart. Writing and creating,

always underway. It's very hard

to fully reciprocate, or even show

or feign, a real interest in anything

else, when one's mind is churning

a mile or two afield from shoe

sizes, bowling scores, and any 

political ramifications of the

Winter wheat crop on the Chicago

Board of Trade. Such pecuniary

normalcy happens so easily, that

one can fall, quite unwittingly, 

into it  -   penny by penny then,

convincing yourself that there

is an eventual dollar due.

-

Maybe there is, but I never cared,

nor was I able, ever, to make the

sacrifices entailed to start, or

stay with, any involvement. All

of the things I ever did were outside

of 'money'  -  considered worthless,

or valueless. First questions first

were always, 'Are you selling any, 

of these things?' Validation was

secondary, and only after the right

answer. So many of the people

I dealt with, or worked amongst,

were, in that sense, purely monetary

in their outlooks. I survived, yes,

but for me it was most often like

playing a basketball game with

a broken arm.

-

So, how does one go about the

navigation of the self-ship through

such shoals? I never rode the crest

of any wave; never led anything

to its shiny finish or famous end.

Nor did I ever care about that. Any

currents running through cultural

corridors, as it's put, had to do

without me; the Studio School

was, I suppose, the closest I ever

came to any of that. And, neither,

did that work, or show me any

promise or expectation. In fact,

it too bored me. I guess I sought

retreat, even then; and timelessness.

I've always lived in an absurdity,

just hoping not to be bothered.

-

A funny thing occurred along the 

way: In much the same way I used

to be 'proud' of all my evasions, I

later realized, almost as an input

of psychological insight, that the

real problem was that I could never

say 'no' to anything, or anybody, and

so by evading and trying to stay

alone, and aloof, I was avoiding

that. Believe me, I still pretty

much haven't learned how to say

'no,' and all that does is lead to fear.

-

America itself has always, and only,

been a megaphone to me. Even a 

Matador with a megaphone AND 

a metaphor.  That's how crazy it's

ever been; how it was before, with

old those homily-messages and

moral falsities we were supposed

to absorb. Thanksgiving portrayals,
Indians and Pilgrims, and later the
Happy Slaves syndrome's, of every
Aunt Jemima or Uncle Ben conceivable  

-  or at least useful to sell something
other than what it was. All products
portrayed as theft and thievery; our
form of  the Grade-School pilfering

of our little brains. Now? Now it's

nothing at all; gone to seed, wrecked

on the shoals, beaten and bloodied

dead. I took off, escaped, moved

my mind by necessity, away. That

metaphor? Rights and obligations.

Freedom and restraints. Crime and

punishment? Love and death?

Humor and tragedy? Speech and

silence? The arena all that is in

is so wide that 10,000 separate 

bathtubs would not be enough to

bathe the inmates, if that bathhouse

was working always and forever.

A new Baptism, anyone?

-

Life Lesson # 212, and who wants 

to live like that? Like the sign says,

'This Road Leads To the Dump.'