RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,153
(of gutturals and grunts, pt.3)
For me, the conclusions came
slowly - even though I wanted
them quickly and was usually
impatient. Tinkering around
the edges of things I knew
little about sometimes caused
problems of their own. I've
written already of that small
'Village Den' Restaurant place
across from the movie house.
It was maybe 12th street near
Seventh Ave. Yes, there's
something till there and using
the name too, but that ain't it!
I have it in mind from 1967
and 1968 and those cold
Winters of those years, and
that's how it stays. It was a
slow and cranky and touchy
place. The movie-plex across
the way usually managed to
dump out people, coming or
going, to endless flicks - NYU
students, locals, people on
weird dates, etc. It was, frankly,
a great place to pillage people.
Nothing really 'bad' happened,
though I guess for some of
those to whom it happened,
it was bad.
-
In those years, I was stalking;
but all the while I stalked and
lurked, my mind was churning.
I'd hang out there. Tre, the girl,
was usually there; a friendly
enough face behind the counter,
but fraught too with anxieties and
those sorts of emotive problems
that only Italian femmes suffer
from. Something genetic or built
in - guilt; grief; anger-repression;
anxiety. I'd seen enough of it, and she
had a brother and family problems
of her own enough that they were
always visible, the scars not even
yet having formed. Just raw. Asked
about her name (actually Theresa),
she'd say her father couldn't count,
had three kids, and she was the
third. Thus 'Tre,' in her father's
lingo. Her gangster brother was
always in some sort of trouble.
-
One thing I should mention, since
I am here talking about the past, is
that it was all very different then
today. These were white people,
and besides the then-called Puerto
Ricans - who were prevalent in
NYC in much the same ways as
Mexicans and Central Americans
are now, in the back-scenes of
every eatery, hotel, and service
role, the only other group seen
'around' were blacks. There were
other ethnic enclaves, yes, but not
so much right there. It's difficult
for anyone in today's world to
understand that; things having
changed that greatly. In my
own present day, let me add,
being out here in the high-wilds
of this NE PA area, with NYS,
I've pretty much returned, oddly,
to that time. Whites. It very
odd, in its own way, if dwelt
upon - no Saris, no head-wraps,
no weird and foreign customs.
Now isn't that weird to have to
say - Christian and Jewish
rituals and holidays and rites,
still prevalent, are considered
somehow different from these
others. Haven't had a wrapped
head pumping my gas in well
near a year here. Now there's a
difference.
-
Anyway, Tre was an accomplished
listener, and an active talker too.
She'd give back with opinion and
anger, at most anything. It was fun
to watch. She was sort of as normal
as could be, reminiscent of my own
upbringing, before all this. But to
the Avenel variant of softball, all
these New York types played
hardball, and a steady game of
it. I always stepped aside. My
steady-state equilibium was as
yet on 'Art.' The world around
me answered only to that, though
I witnessed and absorbed lots of
other things. Here's what I came
up with:
-
The creative life rides the river.
The river is constant, and the river
is Art and creativity. It's running
at all times, and people are riding
that river, even if unknowingly,
because that 'creative' welt in
their make-up - even if ignored -
is what keeps things going. That
river is made up of the subconscious,
which constantly inputs new info
and ideas. That's what made the
vast difference in Art itself, over
time. That subconscious eventually
bubbled up and became the subject
matter. People had seen and done it
all, in other respects. Any real artist
rides the churn and the flow of that
inner, or hidden, river, and creates
from it. The 'Now' allows him or
her to do that, as most all other
aspects of the picture-art basis
of what before went as 'Art' has
been supplanted with the normal
junk of everyday images, now in
proliferation. Every other form of
entertainment and preoccupation
has taken over, and, except for
artists and creative types, the forms
are different, tough - for artists -
the old, 'picture-based' format of
things is long gone. Riding that
river, the waters are the subconscious,
the craft is the Self, and - along
the shores and riverbanks, each
rock and boulder is a 'Reality.'
Any of those realities is a
distraction, yet people constantly
go astray, after one or another
version. It all little matters, since,
at the end of the ride, as one is
about to walk the plank out, it
all has to be left behind, all that
reality and possessions and hard
ways of thought. Only the artists
and the creative types stay afloat
and keep riding. The others end
up - like Tre - stuck behind some
counter somewhere, swabbing up
and having to listen to others.
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