RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,102
(the screech and the screch)
I got tired of things being out
of kilter, and I knew the world
wasn't really the one I'd imagined.
(That bizarre statement will get
a person sent away). In that first
peculiar Winter of 1967 turning
over to 1968, the streets of NYC
were usually wet and icy and cold
and dark. It always reminded
me of Thomas Hobbes' words
about the life of Man being,
'solitary, poor, nasty, brutish,
and short.' Of course - and I
knew - he didn't really mean
that in the same context I did -
but I made it fit nonetheless,
since it pretty much did fit my
own conditions of living then.
-
Hobbes' point was the opposite
of mine anyway. I hated organization.
Society and its rigors were distasteful
to me. In Hobbes' view - the opposite
of mine - 'solitary, poor, nasty, brutish
and short' are the words for 'Life' if
man were to go back to Nature and
live outside of Society and all its
means and systems and programs
and assumptions. I had a problem
with that, and anyway I could never
really get in line with any of those
Euro-Romantics who somehow
always ended up heralding the
orders and systems of 'Society' and
ignoring the innate qualities of the
'Natural' man and woman, and
belittling their raw state. In fact,
Hobbes was a booster of all that
systemizing and organizing. For
some reason all that crap now has
gotten to be called 'The Age of
Reason? The Enlightenment?' In
Art, it always reminded me of those
same societal nitwits who draped
private parts, who covered and
averted eyes from paintings and
depictions of the human form, but
who would stand for hours before
huge paintings of perfectly depicted
battle-scenes, portraits of death and
warfare, and the like. No sense at all.
-
I'd be walking along the streets - one
porno-palace, peep-show, sex-shop, or
nudie bar after the other - and have to
think of the very-weird dichotomy that
seemed to come to bear in Humankind's
head, between propriety and filth. The
bizarre dividing line, I guess, had to do
with closing the door, and with privacy?
Isn't that just as perverse? I tried to fit
in religion, philosophy, good sense, and
morals, but all I could ever figure were
that the dweebs making money off this
were perfectly happy over-flowing any
of these boundaries so they could make
their filthy dollar and go home. On most
any street except the most exclusive,
none of this could be avoided. (On the
exclusive streets, of course, instead of
having to out, a simple phone call
would bring those same 'services' right
to the door, closed or not. Just make
sure you pay the doorman well). The
Age of Reason, I surmised, meant 'I
reason I can get away with this if I
pay properly and keep shut the door.'
Pure foolish twaddle.
-
Not only the operations, but the people
too, were shady. Furtive-looking guys
peering out at the neon-lit, shabby,
front doors, to watch the street, see
the clientele, etc. The 'better' quality
places actually had some beefy
idiot out front as a bouncer or a
guard, whether for inside of outside
I never really knew. I guess if someone
got too frisky inside with his Little
Willy, he'd be called in to 'whack' him.
I hoped not off; out would have to do.
(That's a kind of joke, for the shy).
None of it was quite 'noir' - a term
now trendily used for films and movies
about the shady underside of life on
the streets, in crime-infested holes,
and under the sheets. Tacky men,
with tacky top-hats, fedoras, and
suits, pretending to be what they're
not, and involved up to their neck
in dishonesty, sexual or not.
-
Seeing the girls enter or leave, that
was sort of the worst of it - most
often there'd be some sort of back
or side entry or exit, but many times,
within the same shameless expose,
those ladies would have to walk
right in - through the front door,
as it were, with a nod to whomever
was at the door. Poor girls; they'd
be all doo-dadded up, trying to
look successful about something,
but at heart they always looked
like a wilted flower on a ship-wrecked
atoll. This was hard work, and their
shift was on.
-
Eventually I just threw up my hands;
I tried reconciling all these things,
but got nowhere. Past the perplexity
of all that I was viewing, I was still,
inside, the same me who had dragged,
and been dragged, through all the
seasoning and trifles that go into
personal makeups and attributes.
There were voices inside my head
talking at me. I knew very little,
yet I was determined to keep
feeding off those 'instructions'
which were being directed to me.
'Hearing voices' is a poor term to
use, as if I should first wear an
aluminum-foil headpiece; but that's
how it went. It was going to be a
strange and changing trek, but I
was in it for the long haul.
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