RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,238
(ill-used, in unison)
It was August, 1967 - maybe
the first or second of that month -
when I got to NYC. Like a bum,
or an untuned kid, with nothing.
I wasn't even sure what I was
stepping into, but I was sure of
the one thing I knew, and that
was to beat a path out of Avenel.
My sister's boyfriend (later her
1st husband, RIP, Bill Yorke),
with whom I'd never been close
nor even had any dealings, had
somehow gotten wind of what
I was about to do, and out of
the blue he came up to me and
offered me a ride to the bus
station at the Carteret Turnpike
Exchange, for like the 6pm bus.
Accepted! So, instead of walking
to that location (maybe 5 miles,
just guessing), I got a lift. I had
a small bag of items I took with
me, and the clothes on my back.
When we got there, he gave me
5 bucks too! No, doesn't seem
like much now, but back that
that was probably the equivalent
of 30, maybe 40. It was a Godsend,
and I wasn't sure how this otherwise
regular guy in his '66 Chevelle
had gotten to the emotional level
of deeding a momentary (and
monetary) part of himself over
to me, but man I sure did
appreciate it.
-
This was the time when the
first use of the word 'freaks'
was getting put into play, for
the outlandish and hippie sorts
who were just then starting
to rip at and break down the
norms of regular, staid, society.
(These days, freaks are more in
honor than normal people - all
the slobbering fools going on
about their own bored selves.
One more Stallone interview -
about his paintings, no less -
and I'll bring myself right to
some hobby counter at a
Woolworth's along the way.
The painter Bob Dylan? The
artist among many you never
knew), but back then it was
a term of approbation and not
much good was ever meant by
it... 'Scuse me, Ma'am and wasn't
your daughter ever so nice.'
The more things change, etc.?
-
Boredom, of course, carries its
own swagger stick - and there's
something to be said about people
'outside' of their definitions. Yet,
at the same time, it's pretty dull
to have to keep reading of
millionaires and more, 'outside'
of their space, barging in on
others after doing nothing of
substance - except the name
recognition that comes with the
fame. Then again, I've never
heard Michelangelo singing
'Like a Rolling Stone.' Were
that to happen, it could maybe
be about the same equivalency.
I don't know how such a society
as ours, well-vaunted or not,
and puffed up by its own steam
or not, could have reached the
point where only notorious people
or superstars get, and apparently
are felt to deserve, all the accolades
and attention. When I see some of
their crud, and then learn what's
behind it all, I want to barf. I had
a friend, Aleck, (died last year),
with whom I spent a lot of time
while growing up. He used to say
that an 'artist' should be like the
Beatles - getting all the dumb
and stupid and popular stuff out
of the way early on, then rolling
in all that dough, and then turning
tail and repudiating all that cruddy
stuff and going real creative and
cutting edge.' No one would touch
them at that point, and they'd have
a complete freedom of operation.
-
I used to think about that, but it
never made more than a surface
sense to me. Too many other things
were involved - the corporate and
record-company whirligig that would
only demand more of the same, more
Hitsville, USA crap. Aleck was always
unashamedly filled with big ideas, but
none of them ever went anywhere.
It was all tedious, soon enough, but,
being easy to listen to, I never got
involved repudiating any of them
(the ideas), and just let him roll
his fantasies and ideas along. The
few times I did go back at him
turned into disasters anyway. He
was v-e-r-y touchy. I used to be
glad he was a continent away, on
the west coast, for the few times
he made claim to be aggressive
I'd figure him as a candidate for
showing up on my lawn. With a
gun, or acting the madman. (Of
course, if he did, in his version the
'gun' would have had to be a very
collectible, special and treasured,
an antique gun of the highest
caliber and provenance, probably
bought expensively at auction and
once owned by Billy the Kid. Nothing
with him could ever be simple or
straightforward, and no 'ordinary'
gun would ever be his claim. I never
knew what finger he claimed to
have on the pulse of that music
industry stuff, but he stayed on
the subject. What always bugged
me was how - and it's like that
everywhere today too - any
person, from outside the realm
of what they were talking about,
could be so adamant about the
claims they were talking about.
It was all very oddly crazy, but
somehow it suited us both to a
tee, and we carried forth this
bi-coastal, internet-contentious
sparring for like 11 years. He was
always bragging about 'cent an'
(something his 99-year old
grandmother used to go on
about, regarding living to 100.
She died at 99). He - picture
of health that he never was, in
spite of his claims - walked
out to the sidewalk one day, at
71, and dropped dead right there.
Poor bastard - I still miss him.
-
The trouble with life, in the long
run, is the shortness of that run.
There's nothing much anyone
can do about it, but I've read
10 million tomes about eternal
life, extending life, surpassing
life and elevating life, and none
of them amounted to anything.
Not even the good ones: none
of the religious, Zen, eastern
orientalism, Vedic, Buddhist,
psychedelic, or bullshit New
Age stuff, ever gets to the
bottom of things.
-
I always thought the bottom
of things was Consciousness,
pure and simple. Consciousness
is what grows around us and folds
us in as we establish all the means
of the rest of the world. Vedanta,
say, holds that the non-duality
of the Godhead seeks an intensive
focus by 'us' of the unity of all
things; the divinity of the soul,
and the harmony of all religions.
It teaches that there is only one
God and that God is present in
all things. The names and the
distinctions that human beings
apply to the things around them
are illusion. 'These distinction do
not exist, because all is God.'
-
Yes, surely it had to be so, especially
in the dumps where I found myself
soon after. No lines to recite, and the
play itself was just a mad jumble of
words, like on of those cartoon games
in the Sunday Star-Ledger my father
was always looking at. Never doing,
just looking. In Vedanta, I also was
about to learn, (deep study, pal; and
all those missions and free-food
craniums I was always getting stuffed
into), that 'Each soul is holy because
it is part of God, and the body is
merely shell. One needs get past the
shell and see God, become one with
God, perceiving the holiness within.
You've got to look beyond the shell and
all its false concepts of differences.'
-
And yes, right, I was instructed to
chuck all those distinctions and
differences and get along with my
own game, to be dedicated to only
that. About as useful as one of those
spoons with design holes in it, while
trying to have a bowl of soup. Soap
that slips between the fingers? All
is illusion? All is ill used, in unison?
I found that sometimes, in spite of
everything, holy men act, and that
act - when it comes - can come out
of the most ordinary of men and, for
that moment, turn all illusion holy
too. Even in a Chevelle.
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