Saturday, January 23, 2021

13,368. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,130

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,130
(peace and happiness / din and quiet)
There's a word, 'stasis,' to
which I've always been
attracted; even to the point
of saying that, now, at this
point in my life, that I've
achieved my form of 'stasis'  
-  to catch up on things, 
read lots, write, etc., and
do follow-up. Any simple
look-up, however, of the
word will show that only
written as the FIRST of
two definitions. Which
is fine, I suppose, but the
difference between definition
#1, and definition #2, is too
divergent to make any sense.
The first one is 'a period of
inactivity or equilibrium,' 
but the scone one reads as 
'a period of civil strife.'
Oddly enough, I'm there too.
It's very weird, isn't it, to have
reached both, quite differing,
points at the same time? I
can't figure.
-
Some there are who thrive
on the paradoxical.  Maybe
I did once, as well  -  or came
close. But now I more feel like
a jaded, tired, old camel, just
lazily blinking out ahead and
knowing, already, that what
I see is just another, dumb,
caravan oasis. Why move a
hump over something like
that?
-
I've told the story before here,
of a Princeton friend I had. He
was from Italy  -  Venice area  -  
and we hit it off really well; he
was a great guy, smart and at
it. Accented as he was, one day
he concluded a telephone call
with someone by saying 'Piss
on a log.' Or so I thought. I
said to him, Salvatore, why
did you close that call with 'Piss
on a log'? He laughed, and so
did I, when he said, 'No, no,
I said 'peace and love.' Now
THAT'S funny, and I guess,
or I hope anyway, that the
other party realized the words.
(You have to think the accent).
-
I like things like that  -  the
mistaken context or the 
wrongly heard phrase. It 
keeps me from getting mired 
in stasis; keeps the waters 
roiled, keeps things rolling.
Within that context, most of
what I hear is the usual drivel.
Misnomers and misallocations. 
When I was out to San Francisco,
1976, era, thereabouts, the usual
and everyday content of conversation
was often concerned with things
I'd had no clue of before. One girl
I knew was always getting 'Rolfed.'
She and her friends were into some
'Actualization' group. To hear
them go on about this stuff was,
to them as they spoke it, as then
easily done as buttering toast.
To me? Another world entire.
I used to try and think of the
New York people I'd left behind,
figuring any one of them, the
men anyway (I'd say 'males' but
even then I realized not all 'males'
were necessarily men. Now that's
all spread like disease anyway),
would probably have decked,
knifed or slain anyone so inclined
to be Rolfing on them. It was that
starkly different; all of California
was, from the wineries to the
faux reverence for old missionary
things (though not 'position'),
which in all other aspects were 
scoffed at  -  religion and old
beliefs having been discarded
into Balcutha Bay.
-
I was pretty much speechless, and
just watched, without whimpering.
I'd listen to the old-line California
families, One friend was a 'Hilton,'
of the Conrad Hilton line. Hoteliers
or something, and she also claimed
lineage all the way back to George
Washington. Whose 'portrait' hung
on their grand 'family room' wall.
Had George Washington walked
in on a Rolfing session, I always
wondered what would have occurred.
This same bunch, when along the
Russian River, were big-deal into
some secret-society with a local
headquarters and retreat center
there. Heard a lot about that too.
Bohemian Grove, that was called.
I never got to the bottom of that.
It involved the wealthy and the
influential, from Nixon to Getty,
as I recall. To someone like me,
hearing all this stuff, it was like
fantasy-world; a damp and moist
Russian River hideout with secrets
with secret codes and societies within,
and particular memberships only
extended to some.  The distance
from there to 'here' was so
immense that I never even 
thought of vaulting it. Girls
by number, I'd heard.
-
Fenced. Gated. Locked. Entry
by sentry and permit. Whew,
what kind of fine-living was that?
The only evidences I had were 
those that I'd see. Hiltons and
Miltons. Practice by example, 
but count me out. I wanted peace
and quiet; this was din and riot.
-
She took me to a writing group
with her once. (In the vein of
weird California sex and habits,
I immediately hoped I hadn't
misunderstood her. Perhaps she
said 'writhing group?').  It was
a deadman's hoot, a basket of
lilies and nothing else at all.
The main gist? The best advice
for writing? 'If you can find a
way to have little to say, but write
really well about all that absence,
you'll have it made.' Then there was
wine, chatter, talk, and the usual
clambering of girls and men.
Big California style.






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