13,736. MANY COLLECTIONS OF THINGS

MANY COLLECTIONS OF THINGS

There are no rules for limitations,

and because of that everything is 

a go  -  endless, mottled yard sales;

garage sales,  and schemes that dot

the roadside: Huts and houses upside

down, garages doors leaning sideways.

-

Like lemmings I think we flow  -  

over the roadsides and down the

grass-banks. We go for broke; this

funny human edge always clawing

debris that others have left. Finding

no solid agreement, we bargain for

what we can find  -  which includes

all except time?

13,735. POVERTY

POVERTY

My drum set has no high-hats

so what do you expect me to play?

I sit here, quite idle, whittling new

sticks. The clouds come in like the

crowds that thin, when they find

there's no music to make. The entry

fee is cheap enough, but I'm not

even in on the take!

13,734. BANNERBED NURSERY

BANNERBED NURSERY, 

ALONG THE OLD STREET

I should think nothing of

taking candy from a baby?

People use to say 'is was as 

easy' as that. More words

that never made sense.

-

Matronly moments down by 

the bridge. She was was braiding

her hair where the boats arrive.

Some guy on a Norton whizzed

by. It was 1965.

13,733. WHAT IT USED TO BE LIKE TO BE ME

WHAT IT USED TO 

BE LIKE TO BE ME

The fortune-teller told me I was

a 'harbinger of change.' I was merely 

twenty and she was a gypsy tramp.

A Linden gypsy in some fruitless

Jersey swamp. Rose Hill, Rosedale,

one of the cemetery places. The

Route One traffic rolled by.

-

Those cemeteries right there, across

from each other, back then held all

the gypsy graves. They had metal

picnic tables, scrollwork, and crazy

gravestones too. We were sitting,

across from each other too  -  just

like the cemeteries  -  and she talked

on. Ugly, and fat! What a combo.

-

I was only there for the morning. 

Some NY friend of mine had died,

and I went along for the ride. Not to

death, no, but in one of the cars to

the burial site, which was near.

He must have had gypsy blood,

for he got buried right there.

-

She might have been someone's aunt,

maybe. Aunt Unlucky, I said to myself.

Her daughter  -  with her  -  was named

Alsatia; about 15. I could tell she'd be a

real looker soon. Predicting the future

is sometimes real easy, and I was a

harbinger of change, though maybe

a bit too soon.

13,732. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,196

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,196

(rational, scheming, enticer?) - elmira pt.2

It's been a long time now,

since I've been living, and

there are certain things I still

can't do. Properly undertake

'business,' for one thing. I can

make change in my head, flip

numbers and do all that quick

calculation stuff, as fast as I

can talk, but I still have trouble

making a dime off of others. It's 

always just been something past

my reach; and I've known any

number of others who would

be able to make a profit from

successfully selling horse manure

as automobile polish. They have

no qualms about misrepresenting,

or spinning tall-tales in the name

of profit (which they'd then defend

as a concept like some military

crooner on Iwo Jima grabbing a

flagpole). But, no matter, because

over time the way this world works

things is that the natural tendencies

inherent within each person do take

over, and come to the fore. The ship

gets steered, so to speak. The less

one fights all those tendencies, the

more harmonic the individual

in balance becomes, which leads

to satisfaction, well-being, and a

longer life, or at least one not

chewed up and tattered apart by

any of the usual psychologically

crippling side-shows we see in

politics or entertainment, mass

murderers, sex-change adulterers

or other societal monsters. (Of 

which, I admit, I hold myself 

part of). I'm not claiming any

innate superiority here; and if

I could it would be vacuous at

best. Creative types can make

the worst bedfellows. Or friends.

-

Once I was in Elmira, it all 

became, quickly enough, Mark

Twain centered for me. The town

played on him some, yes, but not 

overtly, as they do now. After the

Agnes flood era, the Army Corp.

of Engineers, of course, came in

and their own peculiar claims of

legitimacy, re-did pretty much the

entire 'downtown,' river-facing

flood-plain area. To no one's

betterment but their own self- 

aggrandizement. It took probably 

two full years. There were endless

and constant overnights of flood-lit

riversides with dredging machines 

and 6 or more pile-drivers, slamming

metal against metal and stone, at all

hours, so as to rebuilt and reposition

the three bridges that crossed over

the Chemung River; re-routing cars,

cutting off the already-poor southside

for well on a year. It got so I was

sick of the noise. It was pretty sad

and gruesome, and arguments could

have been made, I guess, for either

side, though I was already installed

as chief critic against the Army Corps

and all their 'urban' betterment bullshit.

No one could buck them, they got their

way, and whatever they 'stated' - as

erroneous or not as it may have been,

they claimed as truth. Backed by the

same bullshit government, of course,

that was 'winding down' with Nixon,

the untold carnage of the same sort

of 'engineering work' that had 'saved'

Vietnam? It seemed everywhere I

looked, all my lessons from the past

few years were to be seen gently 

falling into place; if I could only 

read them; as if a voice were saying

'Heed everything; let nothing pass

you by without notice.'

-

Eventually, all that re-sorting of

Elmira was completed. Walnut

Street got its new bridge; Jane

Roberts had moved out and to 

higher ground outside of town, 

and even my Elmira College

German Lit. teacher had moved

higher up. Woodland, or Upland

Street. On the other end of town,

my Geology teacher, who had been

in a nice, comfortable though small

house, just outside the gates of the

Woodlawn Cemetery where all the

Clemens and Langdon family people

were interred, left the old city entirely,

re-locating family, etc., to Austin,

Texas. Just then an up-and-coming

new city on the precipice of its own

Texas hipness. 

-

The two once-biggest families in

Elmira, and hundred years before,

perhaps, had been the Langdon

and the Arnot families. There were

any assortment of things named

Arnot or Langdon around. Pathetic

things  -  the once-amazing homesite

of the Langdon family, once right

in the center of town, next to Thomas

Beecher's huge church and lecture

hall (cousin or brother to Henry Ward

Beecher, and to Harriet Beecher Stowe

too). That old home was torn down and

had been replaced by a horrid strip

mall, set at an  angle to the very center

of town, and stupidly re-named as

Langdon Plaza, A small plaque denoted

what it all once had been; now home

to pizza, shoes, groceries, and a few 

other things like hairdresser or dress

shop. The great noise that mighty

things make, I saw, turned out to be

nothing but a whimper. And in a

simple year, people forget all about 

it. You could probably take every

lesson I learned in Elmira and pack

them up for moving, yes  -  but it

would take 5 moving vans, believe

you me.

-

If much of Elmira was about Mark

Twain to me, just as much probably

wasn't. Stupid to say, that, but it's

probably my Libran tendency to

balance and equalize things at work.

Fatuous, again, maybe. When I 

got there,  understand, I knew 

nothing about him except the 

usual crapola school and kid 

stuff by which they try to foist

some joyous Americana crap

onto the stories that otherwise

bear no real relation to any of 

that, In fact, probably the 

opposite. As perplexing and

sometimes downright dumb as

Clemens (Twain) gets, he is, at

heart, an undercurrent of the

subversive  -  an early-style

subversive  -  weaving his way

through the usual fabric of the

1883 version of where and how

America finally did go wrong.

Gilded Age riches, industrialism,

railroads, mining and chemistry,

organized education, kids taken

from homes, daily, and regimented

into indoctrination-schools; the

entire fabric of village and hamlet

America transformed. No one will

ever tell you about this, or 'learn'

it to you, because they can't. It's 

not at all a part of the American

doctrinaire, crazy-headed and

beef-broth'd version of itself.

The absolute schizoid personality

of America is living proof of the

grand gulf that is present. Even

the two-parts of Huck Finn on

either side of, say, Chapter 16,

shows the living cut between, what

I'll here call 'Huckism' and the

otherwise disgusting other version

of same presented by Tom Sawyer;

that fool, rational, scheming,

manipulative enticer of and

abuser of, others. You can say 

whatever you'd wish to about

any of this, and I wouldn't care.

Because I've already said mine,

and I've lived in that Twain air.

13,731. FEED THE HUNGER

FEED THE HUNGER 

(a country life)

The elm tree bristled as it fell

to the ground. The high blue

above looked suddenly down.

Sadness was felt, and I walked

away. Starve a fever, feed a

cold : I think that's what gets

said. I mutter, instead, 'Feed

the hunger, bury the old.'

-

Someone had tipped the John

Deere tractor, over and onto its

side -  That's a nearly impossible

task, I knew, because their

track and center of gravity are

so wide  -  I knew it had to have

been tipped by a machine.

-

Two old guys were looking at the

ancient Buick which was settled 

in the yard  -  paths of  debris and 

a hundred things of old. Starve 

that fever, feed that cold?

13,730. BROKEN HAND

BROKEN HAND

'My doubtful ambiguity has 

things getting lost. The wind 

blows these paintings off the 

wall, or at least makes them 

crooked as the door gets 

slammed. At evening there's 

a bright light in this window, 

and then it passes. I only 

sometimes wonder about 

that, but by the dark, deep 

days of December, there's 

no longer any of that. 

I burrow. My catacomb 

is a broken hand.'

13,729. 'THIS AIN'T WANDERLUST, THIS IS BEING LOST'

'THIS AIN'T WANDERLUST, 

THIS IS BEING LOST'

Probably the last time I stepped in

dog shit was 1993. People just don't

let that stuff go on anymore. Like

Having a white-washed wooden

picket fence. no way, Jose!

-

Your collarless shirt, I noticed, doesn't

have a ring? How'd you manage that.

There used to be clotheslines, and some

people watched for what hung out. Now?

The dryers come in telephones and can

Shout it out? Boy, when I was gone I

guess I was surely gone!

13,728. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,195

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,195

(something with something for everyone?)

We compound error by attempting

to fix it, wouldn't you say? Just

as the early frost kills the late

living things, whatever fruits

are left hanging will die. I often

thought of this as I walked what

was left of Elmira. During the

years I lived there, it was moribund,

in the manner of a place that has

lived itself out of time. Sure, it all

went on still  -  the people had

houses, the streets were property

arrayed, there were 5 or 6 firehouse

stations, like cities do. But behind

all of that, the vitality that was

lacking gave the place a shady

look. It wasn't quite 'urban', even

though  -  as tired, old industrial

cities go  -  it had its share of the

same problems any NYState place

back then had. Poverty. Run-down

areas. Abandoned stuff and raggedy

old streets more country than not  -

as if things were slowly trying to

simply fall back into some previous

place or category of being. Over the

previous hundred years there had been

some famous people from there, the

usual dross of America's new celebrity

culture who claimed it as birthplace

though not 'home' : beginning with

Mark Twain and the Rev. Thomas

Ward Beecher, all those abolitionist 

crusades and runaway slaves, the

list ran right up to the then-present

days of the mid 1970's. Hal Roach,

Tommy Hilfiger. Bernadette Peters. 

Bend the categories and you could 

find others. I never cared about that

stuff, but I got a kick out of knowing.

When I first met Tommy Hilfiger, he

was just a midget-like, teen schlub.

Elmira had weird things too, workings

I only learned about there. There was

this operation called 'Toastmasters 

International, which I only learned

about because we did printing for

it; monthly newsletters and such.

It was a professional organization

for Emcees. 'Toastmasters,' as they

called themselves. I'd never heard,

nor realized, that there was such a

thing, nor that there was a subculture

like that of professionals who took

that line seriously  - guys who did

roasts and conventions, sort of

like the old 'tummlers' of the once

fruitful Catskills comedy circuit,

all those guys like Jackie Mason

and Danny Kaye, and many others,

who came out of that milieu  -

opening up, or softening up, crowds

for the music or variety acts that

followed. Nightly entertainments

on a fat, Jewish wedge, like a

'schmear' on a bagel. Anyway,

this was a 'professional' organization

for people in that field. Originally

just known as fools or goofballs,

these later-generation emcees got

some respect, through 'Toastmasters.'

-

At the same time, in Elmira (all

these odd offices and storefronts

ran along Water Street, right at the

river, and were all smashed to bits

in the 1972 raging flood from

Hurricane Agnes. Most never 

came back), there was another

organization, same sort of thing,

called 'Dancemasters' - also with

a monthly newsletter for members;

brochures, photo sheets, booklets,

etc., for which we did the printing.

Dancemasters was, I guess, for

performance dancing pros, teachers

of dance, ballroom owners, or

whatever. The two people who

ran 'Dancemasters' were, truly,

among the oddest people I met in

Elmira, or anywhere. I forget their

names right now, but they were

both, in the most fantastically perfect

way, sincere cut-out from the 1940's  -

hadn't changed a whit. Formal dress,

rigid postures, clipped, perverse

diction. I can't remember, but I'd

also ay money on them using

cigarette holders. The guy was

pretty tall, the lady was pretty

short  -  and that was an odd

combination that always baffled

me, imagining how awkward the

two, together, must have come

off on the professional dance floor.

but, no matter. Elmira seemed prone

to capturing such odd leftovers,

on their ways down  -  or if not

'down,' then in their long, weird

Limbo of what amounted to holding

patterns unto death. Like the

small city itself. 

-

Tommy Hilfiger worked, at that time,

for another of those oddball, Water

Street storefront guys, some old

haberdasher fellow. He always

reminded me of Harry Truman

(a President), who was also a

haberdasher, in Missouri or

Kansas somewhere before being

kicked upstairs by the political

guys as the suit-fitter President.

Then he 'wrinkled everything by

dropping those two A-bombs on

the Japs  - which in many cases

saved your Daddies' lives, folks,

by ending the war in the Pacific.

-

This fellow had a men's shop,

'Gentleman's Quarters' I think

it was, or something like that. It

always reminded me of his taking

men's money, except there was

nothing in there for a quarter. He

was an inveterate 'reformer' and

letter-to-the-editor writer in the

Elmira Star-Gazette, the local

newspaper (one of the first 

'Gannett' papers, the company

that came up with USA Today).

There were post-flood plans afoot,

as usual, to gutting and savaging

the town (which all eventually

happened) for re-developments

and changes, new bridges, new

flood-plain parks and walkways,

removing the damaged areas, 

changing construction zoning,

etc.  -  all the things that alter

completely, and kill, the older

aspects of whatever charm the

places may have (had). Anyway,

he bounced back, stayed somehow

in business, and, until he broke

off and opened his own, young

people's store, Tommy Hilfiger

worked there. The old guy was

a constant thorn in the side, for

the Mayor and group that ran

Elmira, and his opinions and letters

were endless, but had some good

ideas. I responded to one, also in

the newspaper, and he contacted

me. We became chums of a sort,

talked things over. He always

wanted me to come along with 

him to council meetings and 

hearings and such, and pipe up,

but I always declined. Between

having a young son. family, house,

work and college to tend to, I just

never wanted to fir more in.

-

So, yes, the entire town did get

revamped. The old codger died.

The 'Mark Twain Hotel' had its

dissolution auction  -  all sorts of

cool 1890's hotel-culture stuff,

downtown became the same but

totally different. Losing ALL

vestiges of the past, it assumed

a common unrecognizability that

brought it more firmly into the

late-1970's junk-shop stage of

normal American culture. Ten

years later or so, Hilfiger was

big-time.

(this is part one of 'Elmira')

13,727. MR. MACGIVER

 MR. MACGIVER

I guess that we all have memories,

and as we throw things away the

astounding ones stay. Like a magical

crystal found in a sterling forest, and

one can grow to enormous dimension.

Relegated to subservience, reality

stands behind. To the rear, perhaps,

dwells fantasy, while out ahead spans

pure disappointment as the facts come

back to take the stage.

13,726. FATHOMLESS BOAT

 FATHOMLESS BOAT

This fathomless boat cannot sink, 

even though there is (already) water 

above it. Christened the 'Walk No 

Bottom,' it's always lived down 

to its name.

13,725. A PRAYER

A PRAYER

Between oceans of ash and feet of Saturn,

keep us. Encourage us to seek and see the

never-altering constancy of what the world

is made of  -  realizing at all times your

true presence and the reality of that presence,

which is that things are never what they seem.

Show us the fine distinctions between all

causes and effects. Let us sweep the mountains

with you, as you sweep them with us.

-

Keep close by your word, which is the power

of the changing world; which can create what

it is by the essence of the words as they are

spoken. Keep your tongue in our ear, speaking

words we understand. In all your silences, yet

maintain the vigil to us. Tend to the flame of

our ages, which burns in our breasts. Watch

every world as they appear, as oceans of

thousands with creatures of mud.

-

Incline our faces towards you, imbibing in

the magic potions of days all of our drink.

Manifest oneness in all our multiples, and

keep light the sky. Treat us to drunkenness

on your highway. Call forth the idea of this

the latest year. We are all of what you form,

and share in the forming of by the power of

our thoughts  -  vast, strange, and awesome.

Treat us always to your wonders.

13,724. VERSIMILITUDE, WANTON

VERSIMILITUDE, WANTON

The dogs are barking. The

yellow lightbulbs throw a

glow across two dim-lit 

rooms where silent people  

-  so intently working  -  pass

their times  of day. Along the

painted millwork, Springtime

has arrived. I see the spiders -

prancing about - that have now

appeared with this new season's 

warmth. 

-

The new air brings out everything:

saps that flow, flower-bulbs ready

to pop. People lunging at anything:

to go , to  have, to get. To give? No,

that I do not know. 

-

Centuries eventually crumble under

all this pressure, like coal into a

diamond turned. Such urgings 

take the toll of time elapsed. 

-

Say nothing to break the endless spell.

Say nothing to break the endless spell.

13,723. SOMETIMES

SOMETIMES

Sometimes I just do nothing,

wrangling the easel away from

my arms. The style of light that

comes in is amazing, and below 

me the flat water shimmers.

-

Sometimes I sit back and ask

myself why : If that isn't a most

vacuous question to have to address,

even when asked of oneself, then

nothing else really is.

-

Sometimes I grow tired, or weary,

of the maelstrom of matter around

me. Tables not solid, atoms on edge,

items not staying in place. Why?

13,722. INTERIOR INTERDICTION

INTERIOR INTERDICTION

Banal and foolish; those are

the quick, amusement-park 

type designations given to 

thought these days. The King 

is in the counting house,

trying to read the funnies.

-

Carnage has enflamed tradition,

and no one any longer minds the

store. It's all new to me, though

I've been here before.

13,721. THIS IS WONDERLAND FULLY, JUST A STAB

THIS IS WONDERLAND FULLY, 

JUST A STAB

I think it takes a person a lifetime to

actually become what they really are. 

Like me, for instance. Once I stabbed

for death and left it all behind, then I 

closed the door on a wicked book. You

think I cared a whit about who lived

or died? Sammy Gravano had nothing

on me. Now? It's all carbines and 

Nature. A dead future, waiting to be.

-

I sometimes just sit and watch the

cars go buy; noticing things, realizing

my little regard for people, how I hate

the world. This good book on my lap,

just delivered by some loser in a kettle

bonnet, tells me to judge not, lest I

be judged. OK, that's good enough

for me. Eat not, lest ye be eaten?

-

I am a scamp, a regular Mark Twain

scoundrel, but without the cigar. He

smoked 47 a day, it says in the bio

I read. I wonder, how can that be,

and for years? That like every half

hour, the jerk. The word around was

that he stunk, dressed like a bum,

and was foul and rude. A man has 

a right to be whatever he will.

-

Back in Metuchen, I had a few

friends; people like that: The

guy, Darrell, with a knife-scar

right across his face, fully; Billy

English, who shot up the local

Ford plant in a fit of anger over

computerized trains. Two local

whores, always willing to drop at

the Durham Cafe. Life was good

then, in its screwed-up way.

13, 720. MOOD LIPPERHCANCE

MOOD LIPPERCHANCE

I was flat on my back on my cot

think of that. The world around me

was spinning while hummingbirds

'chivered' above. They make me

more nervous than happy. Man,

don't they ever quit, (and I made

that 'chiver' word up).

-

Maybe it's just me, but who gives

a fuck any more for a moron? Well,

apparently lots of people do - so I

guess I best remain. I can hide out

right here and I do.

-

They say that chivalry is dead, so

open your own damn door, OK?

13,719. TO DUST A TREE LIKE A LIMERICK FACE

TO DUST A TREE LIKE 

A LIMERICK FACE

With capital stitches and some leftover

lace, the world grows lightly, a pretty

place. There's a value here even in garbage

and I've watched the artist climbing the

hills to retrieve tiny objects and stones.

History is not written by memory but

but men.

-

Stevedores and freightliner guys. The

truck-stop whores patrolling the lot, while

small tyrants are fueling their rigs. Men

start to talk about where they're headed

or where they've been. I sit at a table

outdoors, with a coffee that tastes

like their fuel.

-

Sometimes the world really is just cruel.

13,718. EVERCHANCE

EVERCHANCE

I will wander haphazard, with ever

a chance of a landing to somewhere

good? I am lost amidst pointers and 

maps galore? I read portents but miss

their allure; leading myself only astray.

Foreign lands of idiotic ideas and words

I do not recognize? Lost. Tired. Agreed:

Is this the ever-changing mark of a solid,

modern man? (I am sure that is not me).

13,717. AND, YES, THERE IS A WIND

AND, YES, THERE IS A WIND

Benevolent though it may be, it is

still a wind  -  it bends around things

and shakes the trees and shrubbery.

Reflected in glass, it only shows the

clouds it pushes along. Crossing the

new cemetery, it tosses leaves. Roiling

the water's surface, it disrupts the

reflections of the reflecting pool.

13,716. YES, MY CHARACTER IS HAND-MADE

YES, MY CHARACTER 

IS HAND-MADE

Or should I say, instead, 'this character

is hand-made, since there are really so

many. I am a shadow of the last shadow

I passed, and you may walk me out for

the evening. But, the last thing you will

see then, yes, in evening, is a shadow.

Is it not? How we negotiate such strange

terrain. And I wonder, for other purposes

too  -  not just shadows  -  as buildings

get taller do they have to get thinner?

13,715. THE BIBLE HAS NO END

THE BIBLE HAS NO END

It is said, and I agree with that.

Spoken word. Double passage.

There are doubtful things, but

they are always couched within

hopeful things. Slaughters of

babies, say, but for what turn

out to be positive reasons later

on. Not much mention of sky,

or water for that matter, except

for other purposes. I always

wondered, is that for 'plot?'

Is 'plot' alone enough?

13,714. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,194

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,194

(Scots/Irish, the match)

 My eventual taste in bourbon

went from that Knob Hill time,

over the years, to some of the

others. I even had one named

Evan Williams, which was, oddly,

also the name of a Princeton

friend of mine. However, as nice

as a guy he was (is), that brand

of bourbon wasn't much. I can

only thing that  -  when the

Bourbons ruled whatever they 

ruled, this 'drink' became their

house drink and we just kept

naming it 'bourbon.' Sounds

right anyway. I was always, as

you know, fascinated by words.

After Scott, my bourbon drinking

became very minor, but by the

time it was 'over' Maker's Mark

was where it had stopped. It's

funny about hard liquor  -  when

you're not used to drinking it,

it simply tastes horrid, but once

you're acclimated you start to

notice all those little attributes

of this or that which the brewers

always go on about. I once sold

one of the commemorative Jim

Beam traibn sets online  -  had to

sell it to an old railroad guy out

in Colorado. It was a nifty, three

car setup, and each of the cars,

(engine, tender, and caboose, in

this case, while nicely emblazoned

with Jim Beam logos and such,

were also carafes or 'holders'

anyway, each, of a good load 

of the Jim Beam  bourbon 

being advertised. as it turned out,

for shipping, I lessened the cost

and the weight greatly by first

here draining the booze from each

car. The guy didn't mind, and I came

away with about 2 750ml bottles

of Jim Beam, poured into empty

Maker's Mark bottles I had around.

-

That Allan fellow, the Scotsman I

wrote of in the previous chapter, he

too liked his 'stuff,' and I figured

well he might. One time we were

at Peter McManus' Tavern, at like

17th Street and 7th Avenue. It was

some sort of wicked Oktoberfest

BS we'd stumbled into. The place

was packed; it was about 8pm, and

outside it was pouring rain. We 

jumbled in, already poundingly 

drunk from walking, and got a table. 

The gamely waitress was done up

in some fraulein Oktoberfest garb,

totally fetching, enticing, and ripe

to the touch as well. That was all

Allan needed. He went for her, and

the considerations of 'how drunk are

we, really?' were cast aside. About

2 hours later, almost already having

become personae non grata, we

stumbled outside, where Allan

collapsed; just drunk-gone out of it,

right out on the rainy sidewalk. 

There were 2 others with us, and

we managed to scraep him up and

get him propped up, sitting, against

a nearby building. He was totally

out of it  -  so the one of us with a

phone called up his 91st Street

girlfriend, Gurinda, who soon 

enough came down in a taxi to 

retrieve him. We were cracking 

up; she was profusely apologetic 

and humiliated, but we, in not that

much better shape than he was,

told her not to be silly, it was all

good. As sport about it; we stuffed 

him into that cab, and off they 

went, back to 91st Street. It was

great fun, and in retrospect, the

re-telling made it, each time, more

fun. One of things about 'alcohol'

is that when you are in it, looking

out, the lens you're using is a

completely different lens from that

normally used, so that things seen

in one way by others are, (if seen

at all), viewed from a different

perspective. It's not always pretty

or jovial, though in this case it was.

The funniest part of it all was that, 

historically (you can look this up),

the area/location/corner we were

at had, 200 years previous, been 

the location of one of Manhattan's

worst slaughters, when militia-men

opened fire on protesting citizens,

and many died, right there; bullet

ridden locals dying on the street.

(1871, the Orange riots, [there

were two, in close sequence], 60 

killed,  in the area of 21-25th streets, 

and  8th Ave). [See link below].

-

I admit, in the long run of things

this all has nothing to do with

the other  -  drunkenness versus

militia and insurrection on the

streets  -  yet, even today, when

I stand in those areas, that old

fury and ghostly presence of

the famed (but forgotten?)

past lingers on and engulfs me.

I can never help myself over

those situations, for to me the

'time' I live in is a mere beggar's

reflection of a greater presence,

and an opening (portal) into

the far more vast worlds that

unfold within consciousness and

creative force. I can never walk

a straight line.

-

The last I knew of Allan, still

living in Princeton Junction, 

he'd taken his nice, tidy, Cape

Cod house and enlarged it

greatly (doing it all himself),

adding a second level, and a deck,

 etc.  -  things specified by his wife,

Gurinder  -  and it all looked

pretty nice. Nothing slip-shod,

the guy was good with both

a hammer and plans too.

These are things I could never

do, and for all that I applaud

such efforts and often scratch

my head over how such men as

these can do things like that. I

think it's a great skill. When I

hang even the simplest picture,

it's either hung crookedly or

upside-down!

-

The other funny thing was that,

with the marriage, Allan needed

to get a car, an auto, his first!

I wanted to explain to him

about this country's drunk-driving

law, in case he was unaware, but

I never got to that point. He seems

OK, and all seems well!