RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,220
(little implements for living)
The way that time goes is strange.
We spend a few moments of it,
immersed, and it's gone. In the
old Yiddish, the Jews have a
saying about things - a finger,
pricked by a pin, for instance.
They say 'What does it remember
like?'
-
Compared to NYC 1967, into
the 1970's, for instance, I am
in a different place, thrice over
and very far. But in my syrup
of divining, it is all as if NOW -
present, livable yet, and real. It
has never gone away, and this
life now has allowed that life
then its own layers. We are
structured by those layers,
and in them reside everything
which we now are. What does
it remember like?
-
It is also written 'God loves
the plagiarist, because God is
a plagiarist Himself.' God
created Humankind in His
image, the stories go (actually,
in the Bible it's all plural, 'Let
us create Man in our image,'
but go figure that for yourself.
So God is the original plagiarizer;
couldn't even come up with
anything new for us? 'With a
lack of reasonable sources from
which to filch - man created in
the image of what? - The animals?
the creation of man was an act
of reflexive plagiarizing; God
looted the mirror.' When we
plagiarize, we are likewise
creating in the image and
participating in the completion
of Creation. Am I my brothers
material? Of course. Of course.
-
Things that don't exist, don't exist.
If we imagine a thing that doesn't
exist, it would have to be a thing
that God hated - the strongest
argument against the nonbeliever..
If God didn't exist, He would have
to hate himself. Nonsense. Anyhow,
ruminate on things like that, you
old cow, and see what comes up.
Ha!
-
Probably the first time I saw a girl
with breasts - real breasts - was
when I was at the Diggers' house,
1967, on east 6th, or 3rd, street, I
actually forget. The Diggers ran a
Free Store - clothes, food, 'stuff'
and whatever - on 10th street. All
the local hippies, it seemed, eventually
made their way into that little storefront,
pawing through things, taking or leaving
what they wished, and oftentimes too
getting something free to eat. There
was always some strange concoction
of soup/goulash/stew (no one ever
knew what to call it) simmering away.
It was composed of the leavings and
droppings of restaurant and diner
foods, or foods donated - and it
all went into this highly-seasoned
but often great gruel, stirred and
watched over by a guy we called
Granmon, or any of the others he'd
enlist for help. Cups and bowls,
everywhere, had to be gathered up
and cleaned for re-use. The store
itself ran on a sort of Anarchy-luck.
Things were dropped off, sorted, or
given away, but very little 'money'
ever turned hands because no one
admitted to any interest in money.
Factually, more than money anyway,
what was most often needed and
would have been nice, was some
sort of medical personnel - doctor,
nurse, whatever. Fulfilling that
role would have been worth lots,
for there were constantly people
with wounds, sores, ailments,
and more. No one knew what they
ever were talking about but the
remedies and cures and practices
for same were always in play. I
never knew how anarchy and
medicine could co-exist, but I
did suppose, like in Vietnam, it
occurred together and went on.
-
In those very bitter days, before
pot was a plaything and sex no
longer mattered, hunger for new
experiences took precedence.
Hippies were, essentially, a race
of fools - with little compunction
for the rights or wrongs of attaining
their pleasure. Girls seemed always
willing to be broken in, and guys
always their 6-inch flags flying.
It wasn't even discussed; just
assumed. Like scar-tissue, it grew
over, with only the tiniest of marks
or scars for its own remembrance.
(What does it remember like?
-
I was never no Marcel Proust, nor
would I want to be. BUT, ungracious
as I am, I can recreate most every day,
time, smell, path, and manner of all
that went down. The Digger girls,
from the store, all lived in some sort
of group house, as I said, on 6th, or
3rd. Maybe between First and Second
Aves. They lived naked. That was
just the way it went and the way
they did it. Maybe they'd left all
of their daily clothes at the store; I
never knew. Surely, there had to
be some guys involved, but I never
met them. My role in all this Digger
stuff was somehow, or had somehow
become, as the 'occasional messenger'
who would go back and forth from
that group-house to store, and/or
return/deliver, whatever it may have
been that needed ferrying. It was a
most intriguing assignment, in that,
as already noted, these girls lived
naked - answered to door thusly,
moved about thusly, and attended to
me (clothed) thusly. I was 18, that
Summer. They were probably, already,
entering their 23-25 year old era. So,
the bodies were, to speak of, 'mature.'
Fully developed, wonderfully shaped.
No training-bra stamp-outs here! I
enjoyed me work.
-
As I said, the first time I saw a girl
releasing her breasts, or getting and
being, unclothed, etc. was in these
environs. How does that remember?
Yes! How does that remember?
No comments:
Post a Comment