13,192. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,083

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,083

(open fires burning)

The Winter of 1967-68, as I recall,

was a long and bitterly cold one,

Besides being mostly dank and

gray, what it meant to me were

first snowfalls in NYC, and a

sort of near-constant, mornings

of 12 degrees, carryover well

through January and into February

as well. As a child, one absorbs

all of that amidst the small joys

of local home-life. However,

as an 18 year old in the big city  -

fresh and untested to boot  -  what

it meant were dirty and slushy

streets, so soon after the urban

beauty of the snowfalls themselves,

as to be instantaneous transformers

of scene and situation. Trucks and

cars, screeching and blatting in

clogged, snowy traffic, enormous

lines of early morning snow plows

trying to, but never succeeding, to

beat the garbage trucks and delivery

trucks down and along the selfsame

streets. Chaotic tumult. Why all

this would attempt to all go one 

at once, always baffled me. I had

a friend who always used to go

on, contrasting the foulness of

NYC (though he was there), with

the Scandinavian countries he so

admired : How, in large snowstorms,

and in general Winter-climes, they

would  -  instead of fighting it  - 

simply shut down for 3 or 4 days as

the people absorbed and appreciated

the scene. In opposition to that, all

around us was a filthy, NYC fight

and struggle against the elements.

It was all probably untrue, most

probably just romantic drivel once

heard about another culture, yet, and

nonetheless, he fell for it and preached.

I listened, understanding the image

he painted, but little else.

-

This was  -  as an aside  -  the same

friend whose theory was for each

home to have an open-fire in its

basement, tended and always burning,

as central heat so that a constant

heat-rising updraft would provide a

sort of reverse-gravity warmth for

each home. He called it, as well,

the "Scandinavian Method,' which

I always thought referred to sex but

did not. (More cultural lies). His

heating theory seemed to have a

lot of holes in it, to me  -  all that

procuring of wood (open fires?), 

all that clearing of ashes, cinders

and the like  -  let alone the nervous

wailings of the usual fire-academy

types, for whom, of course, and of

this would be unacceptable  -  even

the warmth. But, some people dream,

others work their checklists.

-

Snow turns so quickly to slush, at

corners and curbs : Not just slush,

but also some weird color of death,

an easel-made concoction of white

and back, soot and grime, that the

resultant 'color' is not that at all but

rather a hastening, sick-looking

paste the pallor of 'funeral.' Autos,

as well, get coated, first with a

lovely, white, snow that disguises

all incidentals and decorations of

the car's design and leaves only a

strange sculptural approximation,

by form alone, of what the 'vehicle'

is, in shape and size, also approximated

and embellished by the wind-drift and

swirl of snow and ice. That too soon

turns brownish and speckled by

splash and muck, and often it stays

for a week or more, progressively

deteriorating. A strange parallelism

to Life itself, I always thought, as

we alter, cover, and change shapes

ourselves, whether by self-initiation

or by the outside influences around us.

For the former of these, of course,

cars have no choice. But, then again, 

we too  are like open fires, burning.

_

So, in any case, my fraught introduction

to NY Winter carried the weight of

new things; one after the other, pounding

me as observer. I learned soon, of the

cold, the real need for shelter (any

homeless situation, in those days, was

much different. No one rounded anyone

up, and the Bowery was always open

and not yet the stylish, hipster-drinking 

dive den). I guess what I'm attempting 

to say is the difference between worlds 

(of now and then) was stark and striking.

I needed shelter; and at least had that,

even though most else around me, in

those early months, was unsettled.

-

There was a NY song, from a year or

two previous, that I always recalled

then. It was by the Mamas and the

papas  -  as they were most stupidly

called; some California harmony

group of a base ineptitude. This 

song had been written by a 'Denny' 

somebody, I think, who wrote the

groups tunes. It was about one of

their visits to NYC, to sign a contract

or meet with the agents of their

record company, and it oddly addressed

the qualities of NYC as seen by Los

Angeles eyes. 'All the leaves are

brown, and the sky is gray. I've

been for a walk on a Winter's day.....'