Thursday, January 28, 2021

13,381. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,133

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,133
(Tigers, lions, wenches, and pimps)
Life's about thinking, not doing. 
Sit down. I've been reading a lot 
of science lately and am constantly 
astounded how utterly and without 
equivocation it discounts spirituality. 
When the professional types and 
the political people expound 'Follow 
the Science' (as they have been 
doing of late, much, for Covid 
cures and preventions, etc.), I 
almost already know is a bag of 
malarkey being heaved up. These 
people aren't men or women, 
they're vermin. It all sounds like 
bullshit to me. I sit around here, 
right now, thinking of how many 
Hollywood boardrooms and TV 
studios, etc., are filled with men 
and women planning how they 
can exploit the current Covid 
scene, for profit. Filling the air 
with dramatic falsities, with the 
usual Tom-Cruise-Vehicle type 
scenes and episodes of the brave 
and the faultless fighting rampant 
disease and crises, mixed with 
the usual polemics and diatribes. 
I'd wonder about those boardrooms 
too, whether the troglodytes in 
session wear masks. I doubt it. 
Why aren't they called criminals? 
Exploiters? Savagers of the social 
climate? They'll take their instructions
and promote the 'Science' the panic, 
the terror, setting everyone more on 
edge, diluting any fabric of goodness 
for the banal use of sentiment and 
drivel. There's no sense, nor any 
reason, to lies. I'd have rather 
stayed  in place, on west 17th 
street, in 1967,  with the horses 
and charcoal carts, and died right 
there. Nothing else  since that 
time has been worth much.
-
The rapid core of 'Science' 
that I see is secular and 
without redeeming social 
value. You can follow all 
the science you want and 
it will lead you only to its 
own juncture, its own dead 
end. Life  -  and disease  -  
is consciousness; first and 
foremost. Ruin that, and 
you're done. What Science 
and secular society (and 
Government) are driving 
at is to get you to that point 
where you give it all back 
to them   - leave your 
consciousness, stop your 
creative growth, and receive, 
and take, only from what 
they give you and allow 
you. Follow their Science. 
(The blind lead the blind, 
and they both fall in the hole).
-
Old New York (I use that now 
as my term) as I saw it in 1967 
was unscientific in all respects. 
Of course, I know that it wasn't 
actually that, but the perspective 
I brought to it made it so, and 
that is, at root, the cause of 
'Reality' as I've been portraying 
it anyway  -  it becomes that 
which you 'creatively' make 
of it. My friend, a guy named 
Steve Sloman, way back then 
stood at 8th Street and University 
Place one day, with myself and 
others present, and his large 
dog too, name forgotten, what 
was what he and his girlfriend 
called a 'Poolie'  -  meaning, as 
I recall, a Poodle and a Collie 
mix. No matter. Traffic was all 
tied up, it was dusky 5pm maybe, 
traffic jams, frustrated people, 
horns honking. Someone made 
comment about it, and Steve said, 
to the effect, 'Well, look at them. 
Late afternoon on  a Wednesday, 
all sick of themselves and their 
cooped-up jobs, all just wanting 
to get home. Frustrated and angry. 
Wouldn't you be honking and 
growling too?' We laughed, 
ha ha, that's right. That was the 
'other' world, the one that Science 
and poor consciousness was making.
It certainly wasn't ours, nor was it 
to be the one we'd be making. (That 
all turned out wrong for me, but 
I'm not sure how the others ever 
ended up).
-
Point being, yeah, you are what 
you dream to be. I guess  -  or 
at least you 'become' along the 
tendencies of the path you've 
selected. Those horse guys and 
all those gnarly old men I used 
to know, they had all, long before, 
hunkered themselves down into 
some silent profession of themselves 
and that alone. Saying little; doing 
less. Work kept to a minimum; the 
most simple of chores, not 'profession.' 
Pats for the horses, refilling carts, 
loading the charcoal, re-stocking 
the crap food and pretzels. Mostly 
in cigarette-silence and morose 
dangling. Life as overage, and 
nothing more. Science? Anywhere? 
I doubt it. To follow that Science 
you'd have need an anchor and a
rope. To the bottom of the harbor 
maybe. Sometime 'life' ain't all 
is cracked up to be, but then it 
again it NEVER matters whether 
it is or not. Soon enough, we're 
dead and gone and remembered 
for that moment. We're harlots, 
and stupefied slaves, and we
somehow welcome it. That's
the real Science.
-
Mark Twain lived on 10th Street. 
Washington Irving lived at (now) 
Irving Place. Walt Whitman hung 
out at Pfaff's, an underground 
beer-cellar below Broadway at 
Bleecker. Kenneth Patchen, 
oddly enough, lived at Patchin Place  
- as had Theodore Dreiser, John Reed, 
and E. E. Cummings too. They were 
all gone; the urge to live had left 
them (scientifically) and churned 
up a memory factor and a legacy 
for each. They were, however, 
still present  -  not just them 
either, but many more writers,
 male and female, whose presences 
I fed off (Or on, is it? I wonder). 
They, having imagined their own
times, influenced them, and then 
they - quite unscientifically, by 
the by, as I can l ready tell from 
your reactions - just walked away 
from all that and left us. Gaping : 
as in Agape, that proto-religious 
term now hijacked. If the world
has no wonder left for you, it's
a surely-gone world. In addition 
to them, up and 8th Street I was 
able to mingle with old those 
ridiculous old plebes  - drugged 
and drunked rockers, the lost and 
the foundering, listless and without 
shape. Every homunculos extant 
probably went past me at least 
once. Cars honked, and women
screamed. tear-stained faces, and 
those scratched and bloodied. The 
scabby and the wise. The dictatorial 
and the passive fools. Tigers, lions, 
wenches, and pimps. An unscientific 
sampling of a quite scientific mess. 
So, let Science be your guide?  -  
as the new tyrants rise and drag 
you along?  I'll stumble and stay, 
in my memories. Where I really 
rather belong. If I had to life
without the Spiritual and the
Creative within, I'd rather die.

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