13,528. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,162

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,162

(is that how it all went?)

There was one night  -  this

is true  -  I was going to jump

out of a moving car, on the

Pulaski Skyway: January, very

cold out, late. I was fairly drunk.

My friend was driving my van,

and the side door I had slid open

was about ready to let me roll

out to my own infinity, not much

caring at that point about anything.

Of course, it caused panic, the

driver, and my wife  -  in the

front seat  -  scrambled. The van

swerved a bit, some sort of

panic ensuing. Nothing horrid

happened; it was all almost as

an exercise, whether of stupidity

or madness. I suppose it was in

the late 1980's. The funny part

of it was, once we got to NYC,

the first thing we saw were two

cops milling outside of some

police precinct house, and the

driver pulled over the van in

order to get the cop's attentions.

We quickly decided that was not

so cool; their intent was, I guess

to report me as being mad, suicidal,

a problem, a bomb. Something.

But instead, and fortunately, we

quickly decided (they did) to just

pretend to be asking directions

instead  -  to some made-up

destination I now forget. That

all worked out (somehow), and

I can still see the scene in my head;

cops sauntering over, me worrying

more about the smell of alcohol

than of anything else, and only

later realizing I'd probably come

to a point of being five minutes

away from getting escorted to

Bellevue if the truth came out.

-

Later on, in reading some stuff

about Vladimir Nabokov, I ran 

across this mention, by someone,

that na 'writer's covetousness' is

akin to the fear of death; the telltale

symptoms being a constant state

of anxiety compelling one to fix

indelibly this or that evanescent

trifle.' Boy, if that all didn't fit me.

-

Memory's a funny fade. It comes

and it goes, passing by milestones 

and altering scenes. Often there's a

trend of, 'Is this the way it actually

occurred?' and the mind itself can't

quite agree one way or the other. Old

people seem to get better at remembering

old things, from the more distant past,

but losing, quickly, memories of what

happened ten minutes ago. 'Where did

I leave my keys? What was I going

to do here? Why did I enter this room?'

Stuff like that. I don't know if laws

get biased to the benefit of the aged,

but perhaps they should, as many of

the supposed 'omissions' and 'crimes'

of old people just more than anything

else stem from befuddlement. A sense

of disengagement from space and time.

-

Anyway, by the late-life end of a person's

individuality, confusion reigns; there's

no denying that, even as we slowly blur

the present and fixate more upon the focus

to another 'future' of time and being which

is completely different and unknown,

(unknowable too). That same fast blur 

of time then also brings back the past,

in unusual glows and in strange ways.

Which is why, sometimes, 'old' people

get to be so loveable, or are viewed

as daffy/cute. But, at the same time,

our modern world has ways of 

shunting them aside, and planting 

them in reservations for their 

last bloomings. 'Shady Hemlock

Home For the Aged,' anyone?

-

Well anyway, where does all this 

take me? Curiously, to memory  -  

as a young seminarian; a slightly 

fey, foolishly impressionable kid, 

and to 'Holy Week.' Holy Week is 

some oddball conglomeration

they've put together for the (gullible)

Catholic faithful to use as they walk

themselves through the gates of 'Easter,'

all the while  -  realizing their suspension

of disbelief'  -  they use 'Faith' and faith

alone as the reason for accepting the

tale. Falling back on 'taking things on

faith' is a sort of way of admitting to

the knowledge of it being illogical and

otherwise unreal.  (Except, I guess,

like in the case of an egg, where it

has been proven that, with the

correct conditions, a 'chicken

will ensue). All it did ever prove 

to me was that there was a reality 

indeed to the multi-layered presence 

of time and mentality. The real

world had its own clock, running 

through the week, regular time, 

classes, appointments, and all the 

usual things. Yet, at the same time,

running concurrently, almost as a 

movie-reel inside the meditative 

head, each strange moment, what

this 'Holy Week' thing did to the

young seminarian's brain was erect

a conflicting array of events, also

always 'running' to the reality of

what was going on around me. This

was especially true for Thursday and

Friday ('Holy Thursday,' and 'Good

Friday' respectively. [Also as 'Maundy

Thursday'  -  The word Maundy 

comes from the Latin, 'mandatum', 

or 'command' which refers to 

the instructions Jesus gave his 

disciples at the Last Supper. 

In many countries the day is 

known as Holy Thursday and 

is a public holiday. ... Maundy 

Thursday is part of Holy Week 

and is always the last Thursday 

before Easter]. This' second level

of time running had me figuratively

checking my watch  -  for the events.

There were Thursday and Friday

events, by the clock, when 'Jesus'

entered the town on the back of an

ass, when he was 'arrested,' the time

of the crowd, the trial, Barabbas and

all that, Pilate's utterances, the turning

of Jesus over to the Jewish Sanhedrin,

etc., for their own conclusions, the

verdict, the sentence of death, the 

flogging the crowning with thorns,

the labored march to Calgary, the

crucifixion, the death, the stormy

skies, John and Mary, Nicodemus,

the pleas for removal and burial,

the shroud, etc........and then the

sad skip over Saturday, to a famed

'Resurrection' on Sunday! All of this

was structured out, as clockwork,

and stupid seminarians somehow

kept checking the hours. To live

two realities at once? Is that how

it all went?