RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,156
(one part? It's all wartime and death)
So, as I said, that brought me
to the across-the-street location
which presented Charles Folds
to me. There's also a bookstore,
of sorts, antiquarian, collectible,
etc., within that plaza, on the
same concourse, which - as
I mentioned - was selling
Folds' CDs, for 12 dollars -
which Charles had already
mentioned to me. At his
piano top, on a small table,
was a small display of his bio,
photo, and a memoriam to
someone (name I didn't catch)
from the recent past, a jazzman,
who'd recently died and to
whom Charles was dedicating
his work and effort. I didn't
really get into that, but plan
to. The bookstore, this day, was
featuring Winston Churchill -
in their little window they had
autographs, autographed
manuscript pages, hand-written
pages, all sorts of things by
Winston Churchill. It was
one of those places which, in
addition to being a 'bookstore'
of the old-school sort - (not
the ridiculous prancing and
mass-marketing dancing of
such as Barnes & Noble -
which, though once fine,
has long, long ago diluted
a worthwhile name and
endeavor. This is Chartwell
Books, 55 e52nd) - sold
autographs, collectible
memorabilia, signed objects,
etc. - all very nice and
high-up and stuffy, yet
pleasant. I mosied around
a bit this day, and the focus
was, for whatever reason,
on Winston Churchill. I
remember when he died -
I was in the seminary, it
was about 1964, perhaps,
and it was the very first
instance I had of getting
one of those 'instant' books.
The New York Times had
very quickly come up - after
his funeral and all those
orations - with an
of-the-moment, 'instant'
biographical volume of
his life and work and of
'Him' himself. A small
volume, about a half-inch
thick, black and white
printed on a marginal
quality paper - it got the
job done : all those
momentous occasions
when he acted as 'cheerleader'
to the world for his beleaguered
nation, all that wartime 'we
must stay with it' stuff, the
bleakness of the endeavor,
the dourness of the times,
his forbearance, his cigars,
his Lady Churchill. But, no
matter; for a 13-year old doing
all that stuff was basically
play-acting anyway. What
did I know of that bleak
glumness of air raids and
wartime? Why pretend?
All that hoo-hah which was
important and held meaning
back then but which, in today's
world, is seen as idle rubbish
and with no more meaning
than the spittle with which
envelopes and stamps were
once sealed, closed and sent
off. Myself, I was never a
big Churchill fan, but people
revered him - lots of respect
for a supposed doggedness
and strength, maintaining
all that John Bull stuff during
the dark days of the war -
aerial bombardments, air
raids, shelters, discipline,
sirens, air-raid alert, the
famed Underground, and
all the rest, with Churchill's
voice always prattling on
about staying with it. Until
that is his own people threw
him out. And then took him
back. And then threw him
out again. The whole story
is the whole story; I don't
know the ins and outs and
am not about to try and retell.
Go look it up for yourself.
But be aware that back in
the days of which I'm speaking,
it did once mean something,
and a lot .'Mean' in the use
of the words that is never
in use today; when nothing
means anything at all, when
everything has been diluted and
worked away to meaninglessness,
to a virtual facade covering a
virtual reality so a virtual Czar
can't see the virtual Potemkin
Village his virtual ass is passing
by. Yes, it's that bad.
-
Neither am I big on indoor
plazas or atria, etc. A real
urban street, a real city life,
would have none of it. They
are for people who want to
'be' within a city but not
partake of it - who can
somehow deny the existing
of the rubric within urbanity
which encompasses, darkness,
crime, grim, filth, decay,
and the rest. These are the
people who must always
have things their own way,
and right by that : well-lit,
clean, pointed towards
well-being, wealth, and
with all the right goods
on sale, and on sale at a
premium so as to make it
all the more believable,
even as it is not believable,
really at all. Who would
turn away from a
street-crime or a murder
scene, but would, as well,
only so gladly and willingly
watch it televised as a drama
or a re-telling by drama -
imparting to them the
encoded messages and
subliminal hints planted
therein by those who
put it together and who,
just as well, buy, sell,
and arrange the 'airtime'
wherein this is shown.
For myself, I'd rather
the grit and the blood
and mayhem the real
city transfers across the
scrim. At least it's real
and there's no pain-in-
the-butt person trying
to shill you for something
otherwise disguised.
-
When I first got to NYC, it
was pretty much just like
that, at my level - all the
danger and all the lethal
combined. Little did I know
what I had stepped into,
and just as little did I know
about what to expect. I think
in some ways the body, or
the psyche or whatever, numbs
itself, inures itself, against
bad outcomes by achieving
some sort of distance from
the awareness of what one
is living through - it is only
later that it is all recollected.
At the moment, what takes
over is an unawareness, a
climb of numbness, going
through the motions of the
experience. Or maybe anyway.
I know that, for myself, as
I look back through things
that I experienced or
undertook, I realize,
sincerely and in earnest
to myself, that I was numb;
that so very much passed
me by. Which is really too
bad, but towards which
nothing can be done now.
On the other hand, had
I been totally involved,
within the moment and caught
up in the forefront-frenzy,
I'd be dead. There's no other
way of looking at it. The
dilemma, as it presented
itself to me, was in how to
get by without becoming
part of. It's an odd status.
It's probably been unwittingly
done by hundreds of thousands
who have gone on to other scenes,
or better lives and situations,
and who probably only very
little today think back on
what went on as they
experienced. Like - where
are all those hippy kids?
Where are all those Long
Island girls now who were,
back then, so intent on
freeing up their personal
space and time so as to
free up, as well, the universe?
How did they wither, and
where did they end? What
are those naked Digger
babes digging now? Three
kids later, now, seventy
years old, married three
times and tired and weary?
And the guys? All those
strongly boisterous young
men from the boroughs
and New Jersey and
Connecticut, the forceful,
the bold and the brave and
the strong-mouthed -
graduated long ago from
someplace worthy and
gone on to be the bankers
and brokers and financiers
who've ruined the world
in the last thirty or forty
years while perfectly
accommodating themselves
and their mates and families
and friends and cronies?
All that business acumen
and the cronies it brings,
all dying off, slowly and
together, en masse on a
march to diminishment?
Do they regret regretting?
Or do they - in the deep,
dark nights of their souls,
regret for regretting nothing?
How does it go, wayfaring
stranger? We were all
children once, those
children - doing what
we were taught, learning
the lessons given to us,
and finding ways to
appease the hurt and
the anger we, in turn,
had to stuff deep inside
ourselves and carry on
without thinking or
becoming possessed of.
No comments:
Post a Comment