14,173. WITH ONLY A HINT OF ME

WITH ONLY A HINT OF ME

It will go then, as all along it was

meant to go  -  with only a hint of

me; some tracer on the lawn, or a

piquant whiff on a flowered hill.

What's left of me shall not be. With

only a hint of me the lights and the 

darks will both glimmer, equally.

14,172. MAKESHIFT CONIFERS

MAKESHIFT CONIFERS

When the hillsides hereabouts are

in their mantle of snow, I understand

it all but still wish it would go. About

now I'm tired and wise to all things:

the river that runs, the fir tree that sings.

In the wind, and with it, which seems

always blowing. I look to the sky, to

ask where we're going.

14,171. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,250

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,250

(the world we claim to inhabit)

For this one, I think, I'll

take my boots off. A long,

Wintry slog of tired feet

near to cover, no? My own

memory for this doesn't go

back that far, but I can well

remember the days of, like

1955 and such, when there

were differences to be had:

Things were called differently,

and had distinguishing names

in ways they no longer have.

Galoshes. Slickers and rain 

boots. Those things with the

strange metal snaps that kind

of pulled-over on themselves,

with a little young-kid leverage,

to snap themselves shut; and

later open, in the same way.

There were thick, yellow rain

coats with those same snaps too,

across the front, riveted by some

means into that thick, yellow

plastic (it was more like rubber;

not plastic like we know today).

All these things fascinated me.

Sometimes the yellow slickers

I mention had hoods too, whether

detachable by snaps or not I

can't exactly recall  -  but it 

seems like that, and I can recall

simply loving being under on

of those hoods. I remember the

word 'galoshes' always throwing

me off too  -  for it always seemed

dangerously close to 'girl-shoes', 

yet I never knew why.

-

How is all that, I still wonder?

Is it the true realm of children 

to not know how confused things 

can make them? Do they walk 

through that strange garden of 

youth just mouthing back the 

things they hear, or can thy 

recognize all the hauntings

that keep them company, and

all those 'Goodnight, Moon,'

moments they live by? Bruno

Bettelheim was a writer, back

about 1972, who wrote a book  -

quite important, and well-noticed,

at the time, entitled  -  'The Uses

of Enchantment.' It was a pretty

cool book. I was in my Elmira

College German Literature 

days then, and the lady who

gave the class  -  though it was

quite difficult to get across  -  

used the book as a sort of foil

by which to prod the 'American'

sensibility (she herself was 

German) for its tendency to

partake of 'Disneyfied' fare

in regards to fairy tales and 

the old, deep-forest, European 

child-tales of lurking horror

and an almost Black-Forest 

and terrifying view. She'd

point out how Euro-kids grew

up with terror and frightfulness

and the role of parenting included

that acceptance of those dark

times and night-figments by

a child's imagination grew and

was nurtured. All for a better 

and more well-rounded maturity,

unlike American children who

remained naive and vacuous.

Much of the same points were

made by Bettelheim, and he (and

she) wove it all together with the

originally horrifying tales of the

Grimm Brothers (Grimm's Fairy

Tales), which over the years had

themselves been somewhat

sanitized.

-

I never knew much about that, but

I'd sit there wondering, in any case,

about what worse terrors there could

be. The stories of the American frontier

and settlements and Indians and slaves

and renegades and the rest, any of

that, to me, held the same ingredients

for fantasy and terror, as much as

any old-line European tales ever

could. I remember things that used

to enthrall, haunt and  -  yes  -  terrify

me too. There didn't seem to be any 

difference. Kids here too slipped out

into the night and were never heard

from again  -  weird tales of Kentucky

backwoodsmen with their hatchets and

bloodpails, and the lurid stories of

pirates and sabres and beheadings.

People getting crushed by boulders

or lost in deep caves; to with an die

and starve along the way too. Poison

water, streams and bad wells. Dead

horses and hangings in the woods,

I had wanted for nothing.

-

The more I got to thinking about all 

this, the more I realized I'd never

liked kids all that much  - vain, plump,

show-offy, needy, wanting attention,

and, with so little behind them, they

sort of had little to remember. That

was a problem for me; I always

liked people with memories and

pasts. Be that as it may, these

readings and studies led me on

to other items. Childrens' tales,

and childrens' thinking for instance.

The sort of nitty-gritty street life I'd

been leading didn't show me much

of the soft-side of anything. All was

rough, raw, and adult. But, I learned,

there always had been people  -  yes,

besides the Grimm Brothers and

Bettelheim, who thought of 'kids'

and their thought patterns and imagry.

It was still outside my area of interest,

yet the minor role it played became

important anyway.

-

Some of it got pretty interesting, as in:

"When boys and girls are first exposed

to reading, they are most engaged by

stories about 'tables and chairs, plates

and telephones, animals they know."

That was an outgrowth past the 1930's,

when children's books still drew on

classic fables and folktales, providing

'moral instruction.' In 1935, there was

a school run by a 'scholar' named

Lucy Sprague Mitchell. It was called

'Bank Street,' though it was NOT on

Bank Street at all...rather  on the

upper west side and run as an

experimental school of education.

The initial idea was to 'redefine'

early education by incorporating

insights from social sciences and

from research into the lives of

children. The hope was that the

new teachers would 'develop a

scientific attitude' and express to

children the attitudes of the artist

towards work and towards life. 

-

Mitchell had said that (in 'The Here

and Now Story Book'), the children

needed stories anchored in the more

familiar before they can contend with

the 'fantasy of the unknown.' She

then went on, "It is only the blind

eye of the adult that finds the

familiar uninteresting. The attempt

to amuse children by presenting

them with the strange, the bizarre,

the unreal, is the unhappy result

of this adult blindness. Children

do not find the unusual of much

interest until they are first firmly

acquainted with the usual; they

do not find the preposterous 

humorous until they have intimate

knowledge of ordinary behavior."

-

'Children don't really care about

plot. When listening to a story,

enjoyment comes not from any

awareness of a beginning, middle

and end, but from the pleasure of 

the action itself.' Another writer

said that a child, at five, reaches

a point not to be achieved again. 

'A keenness and awareness' that

will likely be subdued out of

them later in life. Here, perhaps,

is thestage of rhyme and reason...

'Big as the whole world; Deep as

a giant; Quiet as electricity rushing

about the world; Quiet as mud.

Those are the similes of 

five-year olds."

-

Well, I guess you get where I'm

going with this. It stayed on my

mind for a long time, but I sided

with the Grimm Brothers, truth

be told. I always loved the ogres

and the outlandish genies and

imps and elves and spectres that

haunted my world in the same

fashion that  -  I believed then

and still do now  -  they haunt

this very world we claim to

inhabit.

14,170. IT'S NOT LIKE THIS

IT'S NOT LIKE THIS

Early morning, say 10am, and

all those people lined up again.

To enter the Whitney. To see

the cigar geeks and that Calder

Mobile. Static profusion and

event-non-event. 

-

I stand by the potted willow

just watching while the 9-year

old girls buy crayons and the

school-bus kids enter in lines.

Art History to the right and

Art Futures to the left. 

-

All that art-store sublimation

can take them to the stars, while

their futures are carpeted stairways

of gleaming metallic. Chuck Close 

gets pushed by in his wheelchair 

of bliss. I stand aside, to watch 

all of this, though it's not really

this at all.

 

14,169. HARP TO THE NINES

 HARP TO THE NINES

Sartre said 'Existence precedes essence.'

I say 'Memory precedes existence' or

I say nothing at all.

14,168. A QUITE INDETERMINATE PRECISION

A QUITE 

INDETERMINATE 

PRECISION

It is said one world goes around 

in its pattern. I believe none of it. 

Even when not told, I sense the 

messages of many worlds and all 

at once. There is a myriad of depths 

and rotations, and nothing goes ever 

as it seems or is said. I am OK with 

that, and  with open arms accept the 

expectations.  But along my way I 

must first be sure  the way is mine.

14,167. GOING SLOW ENOUGH

GOING SLOW ENOUGH

Hence this: A quite deliberate

motion. We can have both the

weather and the news announced,

but no one need listen and I hope

they get it right.

-

The factor of annoyance is yet

still building: It all will break,

and soon enough too. In a new,

deliberate, pace, we will break

the bounds of time.

14,166. VICTORIA STATION / MANCHESTER

 VICTORIA STATION -

MANCHESTER

If we are riding lightly then

we are not riding at all. There's

nothing worse than the waste of

time; so let's move on. Carry my

case, and drop it in the back of

the cab. A cigarette ash dangles.

-

I hear music over the radio, and 

all of this seems so old and distant.

Camden-town? Twisted tunes and

running voices. Every little thing

now seems so large.

-

In the passing window: laundry ads

and flower pots, housing courts and

commercial fronts, some benches

and a clutch of gents.

14,165. A PERFECT SYNCHRONY

A PERFECT SYNCHRONY

She approaches me and says:

'Here comes trouble.' I said,

'Yes, you are trouble from top

to bottom. But mostly on top.'

At least we laughed together.

-

It's a fair enough world to be

dealing in  -  posters already

are up for Springtime fetes.

I wish them all well, but hope

they're not jumping the gun.

Their gun, not mine.

-

Then I got to thinking, should

I have said instead, 'But mostly

on the bottom.' Would it have

made any difference to the

message intended? How does

all this work? Am I not always

walking on ice, or do not things

come well together?

14,164. Not I

NOT I

I haven't exactly been faithful

to things that have come my

way. A fanciful Jesus, on an

oak-tree leaf. Ther's too much

clack and chatter, noises, no

relief.  Leaving all that for a

moment, I still try to respond.

-

The voice from within grows

major with din. Hearing is lost

in the listen, and louder noises

grow. It is all I can do to keep

up  -  transcribing a diction I

so little know.

14,163. LANDRY

LANDRY

Reading 'Bend, Sinister' by

Nabokov again, I got lost in

a reverie of time : dormancy

keeps those ides in mind, until

something makes them fresh

again. Like Ithaca, 1972, all

that reappears is vivid anew.

-

Cayuga and Taughannock,

every mother's son. The hill

that runs to the downtown,

two thousand feet long. 

14,162. MOST ILLUSTRIOUS

MOST ILLUSTRIOUS

My mother used to say 'Things

happen for a reason.' I never

believed it was true, and probably

still don't. If they happen for a

reason, does that mean they

don't happen for a reason as

well? That's a rather strangely

negative circumspection; a way

around the unhappening void.

Fact is, we spend most of the

entirety of our lives amidst

things that do not occur.

-

That's pretty strange, but real.

And I don't think there's any

difference between. Like

'Possession being nine-tenths

of the law,' not happening is

nine-tenths of a life. So, take

your chances when you may.

It all works out in the end,

in most-illustrious ways.

14,161. CIRCUMSTANCES THAT CHANGE

CIRCUMSTANCES 

THAT CHANGE

The come-on can be the

comeuppance, and anything's

liable to change. It's a mixed-up,

not-steady world. Light reflects

back from glass and metal, and

such glimmers are all I can see.

Broken, or blind, that's me.

-

A headful of pain, and a heart

filled with horror : Won't the

Ladies Aid Society help me

now? Let's forget the Spaghetti

Dinners and the Bake Sales too.

All I want is comfort; like a

new cage in this zoo.

-

One hundred faces of solitude,

amidst all these changing moments.

14,160. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,249

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,249

('it wasn't brain surgery' - Jack, pt. 2)

Jack was as good as they

come for regular guys  -

steady, proficient, wise;

in that worldly way that

uses a constant suspicion

and evasion so their own

foibles don't have them

falling for the simpler

come-ons of others. He

and I were worlds apart

otherwise, yet the work

of co-existing was never

mention nor toiled over.

-

He kept returning to his

Vietnam service in ways

I'd never have understood.

As I said, the subject was

never broached, even with

Joe  -  the third guy  -  along.

He'd been deferred easily and

without complication for

poor eyesight. One of the

benefits of that old phrase,

'Coke Bottle glasses.' You

don't ever hear that anymore

but at one time it was the

phrase used in belittling 

those who walked around

with very thick eyeglasses

on, and heavy black frames.

Back then, of course, the

more glass in the 'glasses,

the heavier the heavier the

frames needed to be. And

they looked it. Today's plastics

and blends have changed all

that; in fact glasses have now

become fashion items as well.

Funny how that goes.

-

In the end, like I said, old

dead-eye Joe took his own

life (years later). Things have 

a way of getting buried and

gobbled up by other events

which overlap them, and the

mind then loses the power of

focus to say 'this caused that.'

It's a sort of wry consolation,

otherwise we'd all walk around

being amateur psychologists

finding root-causes for every

action and habit. I remember

when the Selective Service

System finally threw me out

of their system with a 4F as

a crazy-man, they sent a note

to my mother stating that I

would be getting notified of

arrangements for counseling

and psychiatric treatment. She

never turned anything over to

me, and I was never notified

directly, so I always figured

any 'root-cause' of my mental

maladies were beyond even

their organizational thoughts

of treatment and normalcy. 

Jack, on the other hand, seemed

to thrive on the group dynamic,

the sense of cause and mission

with others. I've known any

number of such people over

time  -  Vietnam guys, combat

vets, etc.  -  and they've all

carried the same trait; which

is one I never possessed. To

paraphrase Jesus, 'Where

three or more are gathered 

in my name, get me the Hell

out of there...' The end result

is carnage and destruction and

loss of lives in a 'cause' only

rooted in the simplicity of

base ignorance. To prove my

point, study Vietnam, 1954 to

1974. See who came out on top.

-

I don't think Jack, or Joe, ever

realized the granite solidity of

self-hood. (Well, probably Joe

did - bearing, as he always did,

the characteristics of loner and

outcast. His main problem, and

the root of his eventual despair,

was, for some reason, the fairer

sex. And the 'problem' there was

that he wasn't attracted to that

fairer sex as equal individuals,

rather as sexual objects and

opportunities. That always

left a lot lacking, and caused

strange and violent episodes of

control and exploitation mixed

with abuse. It all ended badly.

On the other hand, I found out

much later, Jack was on the

receiving end of letters from

stateside girls, in the guise of

pen-pal 'boost the boys' spirits'

letter-writing campaigns. I never

knew about that, but he'd made

a few friendships from that.

As I looked back after the fact,

I used to kick myself for being

so stupid and self-absorbed as

to never having sent Jack a 

word during all his service time.

Maybe a correspondence would

have been cool. Maybe I could

have learned from it too. Or,

maybe, me being on a sort of

Selective Service 'Wanted' list,

it would have just caused him

trouble.

-

Time sure gets jumbled. Events

take on lives of their own. We

go on living...or we don't. Jack,

my friend, it certainly was never

brain surgery.

14,159. HANG ME

HANG ME

Over at the trestle, across the

tracks from Channel Lumber,

we were tossing cards against 

a wall. No one talked, so set

were we each on winning a

quarter. At ten years old, it's

quite a fortune. It was then

anyway. Nearby ran a dirty

old stream where some dog 

came to drink. I watched,

transfixed, and forgot about

flipping cards. I watched

again, and the dog went

over and pissed on our

bikes.

14,158. EDELWIESS

EDELWIESS

It's always on the high-side,

where the alto voices range.

Good for something at the

higher levels. Breathing,

and air.

14,157. THIS QUIET IS NOT SOLITUDE

THIS QUIET IS NOT SOLITUDE

I hear a police radio out on the

street : the garbled but amplified

language one can't understand.

Men stand around talking on a

darkened street. 

-

How come it always happens thusly:

a blind intrusion, some suspect who

runs, and then no one seems to know

a thing? I don't know the difference

between confusion and order.

14,156. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,248

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,248

('prove my pathetic point')

I can remember my friend 

Jack, back from one of his 

two or three stints in Vietnam, 

as a medic along the 'front

lines'  -  although as he'd

point out and as became

common knowledge, a 'war'

such as that was had no real

'front' lines; they were instead 

everywhere  -  paddies, trees,

bushes, marshes, each held

their own terrors and anything

at any time could pop out and

surprise with its own version

of lethal imprecision. In contrast

to myself, Jack was the sort of

guy  -  perfectly normal  -  for

whom the military made sense,

was apt, and held no areas of

doubt or ambiguity. Jack had

wanted to be a brain surgeon

(no kidding), went to Upsala

College until it closed up, and

became instead a medic in 

Vietnam. On the day of his

induction, I drove him in my

car, along with another friend,

to the assigned induction

center on Broad Street, Newark.

My friend and I, I'll admit, viewed

it as a comedy scene; the poor

schlub, Jack, rolling himself into

the Army, to be whacked with

rules and regulations, willingly;

objecting to nothing and just

doing what he was told. (Boy,

weren't we tough)...That other

friend, by the way, them moved

to San Francisco, where he lived

for some 30 years, eventually

blowing his brains out in an old

garage in Vallejo, CA, and staying

that way, behind the wheel in a 

Renault LeCar, where he's blown

those brains out. Talk about weird

irony....brain surgeon Jack?

-

Anyway, Jack made it through OK, 

re-enlisted, as I've noted, a few times,

and even eventually wrote a nice,

self-published book about it all,

entitled 'Incoming.'  In it he details

many of the tales and stories I'd 

been told. I'm even in it, named

as 'Fields,' in the episode wherein

I go to pick him up, in the freezing

January dead of Winter, in my

unheated Jaguar, from JFK Airport,

for one of his leaves or downtimes.

Having gotten lost on the way

there, the unheated Jaguar was

late and tropical Jack had been

freezing his Montagnard butt

off while waiting, for some

reason, outside. Getting into 

the 1957 unheated Jag for the

ride home  -  in which he thought

he'd be all warm and happy, was 

a real sour spot. Jack is in Florida

now, somewhere. I've lost track.

He left Rahway long ago.

-

With Joe, my 'brainless' friend,

(thanks to his last seating in that

Renault LeCar), Jack, and myself

as a third, we'd sometimes stand

around wherever we were (it seems

now it was always Winter, always

cold  -  all my memories are of

our 'cold' weather), and they'd

go back and forth endlessly over

the 'qualifications' of a girl, were

they to marry. It was the most

bizarre list of things I'd ever

heard of, and left out any and

all references to erotic, sexual,

or romantic likes or dislikes  -

which omittance I just marked

of to their naivete and just left

it at that. It contained things

like 'paneling,' (She'd have to 

like paneling, which was a house

interior thing back then that lots

of people were doing. Now it's

a joke); dogs; guns; pipe-smoke;

various movies; the list went on,

and was probably the dumbest

thing I'd ever heard. My own

points of view and interest were

completely different, but I

tolerated this stuff. The absence

of books, art, creative stuff and

the rest was galling to me. Jack

eventually married, and stayed

that way. Joe, before his untimely

demise, (not sure if it can be

called 'untimely' if you yourself

have chosen the timing, but that's

a question for another day) had

himself churned through some

three wives and four girlfriends,

each one the latest and greatest,

but only for a time. It was, in

fact, the romantic entanglements

which led to his self-shooting  -

according to the note he left 

behind.

-

It was confusing, yes, and always.

But, let me get back to the Vietnam

story  -  because it always brought

me to reflection on the attributes

of 'War'  - the weird terrors involved,

the dividing line between simple 

'warring' and more complex idea

of simple 'terrorizing' under the

guise of war. (I guess it all still

goes on today, when ideological

and religious allegiances take over

that same territory). There's a place

in Jack's book were he relates the

story of a 250 mile convoy-like

field trip he was assigned to as

a Medic. His companion in this

huge truck was some 40-year

old guy who Jack considered

already ancient (I guess he was

an army 'Lifer' or something);

his last name was Pidgeon, and

in the book and episode he's

referred to simply as 'Pidge,'

his camp name. Anyway, this

huge truck, pulling some equally

huge, wheeled armament, had

NO floor on the passenger (Jack's)

side; the travel kicked up dust,

rocks and pebbles, to the extent

that, along the way they decided

to take off their flack jackets and

coverings to place them down, 

instead, on the floor. That stopped

the dust infestation but, as Jack

mentions, left them unprotected

and without coverage from any

flak, shrapnel, or open-arms

fire they might encounter, and

which was, as well, against the

prescribed regulatory advisements.

'The trade-off was worth it, we

figured. After all, no one lives

forever,' is how Jack put it.

- 

Jack relates how, before leaving,

he'd stocked up on the usual candy

bars the Army gave out to throw

to the Vietnamese kids along

roadsides, making what they 

claimed was a sort-of goodwill

effort to gain local and popular

support. Jasck had never eaten

one of these before, so he tried 

one  -  he found it horrible and

as close to the Ex-Lax chocolate

stuff his grandmother used to

foist on him. He never realized

how bad this candy was, in fact,

until he saw Vietnamese kids

throwing it back at them! (The

Army called them 'tropical

chocolates' because they never

melted, even in jungle heat).

-

The overlap here, with warfare

and terror, is as follows, and

comes a bit later here: Once 

again, children are involved. 

I'll let my friend Jack tell it:

"Three hours later, pulled over

for a rest and piss stop, the

convoy waited. Children 

rushed up to our trucks, 

trying to sell us cold canned 

or bottled sodas. A cold soda 

was a buck...a worthwhile

tradeoff after sucking down 

tons of road dust and drinking 

warm canteen water...Just before 

our convoy departed camp that 

morning we were once again 

warned about buying soda 

from the locals. The VC and 

NVA were adding ground 

glass and acids to soda bottles 

and cans and then giving them 

to children to sell to us. This 

was old news. We were all 

told about these and other 

dangers during our in-country 

lectures months earlier at our 

ports of arrival. I found it hard 

to believe that children would 

willingly sell us such deadly 

drinks. Ground glass was the 

medium of choice for bottled 

soda. It was a simple process 

to remove a bottle cap, pour 

in a quantity of ground glass 

and then immediately close 

it again. If done quickly enough, 

little carbonation was lost, thus 

keeping the soda as fresh and 

tamper-free-looking as possible.'

....There's then a long paragraph 

about how acid was added to the

sealed cans, but I won't recreate 

that here. You get the picture.

-

This and other instances related

here has always made me think

of how vile humanity can find

itself stooping to most any low

level if the commitment to cause,

indoctrination, and momentary

belief is strong enough. I'm not

a fan of any of this stuff; politics

and Vietnam itself have always

been enough to prove my

pathetic point.

14,155. NOT IN POCKET

NOT IN POCKET

I keep trying, keep trying.

On the corner of 9th, my

friend Jane Mary sells

flowers, and as I walk by

I say Hi! She's a lovely girl,

from Stuyvesant Town.

-

The locals, mostly the grim

blacks with their bottles

anyway, abuse her each day

with their scowls and ingratitude;

for being, for living, for having

a breath.

-

Almost every doorway has its

posters peeling : filth bulletins

from the first of never. Dead

bodies giving concerts, the

proto-punk bands slicing

their arms to make a song.

-

Nonchalance is a major here,

and, five blocks from NYU,

and five blocks from The

New School too, everyone

is flunking something.

14,154. WE CAN WALK

WE CAN WALK 

The world of glass, which

spreads like cracking, shows

only what our viewing perceives.

There are other variants here :

other; mother; brother; bother.

In the same way, do not just

take this world for granted.

-

We can walk through the grass,

as high as it gets. When Summer

breaks these bounds of Winter's

ice, through the broken shards

we can exit the real and enter

our alternate world of dreams.

(Reams of dreams, and sunlit

beams shall welcome us in).

14,153. IN THE THICKET

IN THE THICKET

Barrelhouse laughter just 

makes me cry; that's how

opposite I am. The gloves

come off when the crowd

goes home. Barrelhouse

laughter makes me moan.

-

It's not for want of trying.

Dearly me, awake now and

alone? I play dice with the

Devil and He goes home?

-

Hey! Where's that leave me?

I ask his assistant demon

thing just before I try to 

leave. 'You got to go over

this fiery cliff. Here, I'll

give you a heave.' 

14,152. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,247

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,247

(melding a psychotic nation)

Unsettling dreams for sure are

one thing, but an unsettling reality

is far worse. That's where I find

myself now. Essentially it's been

55 years since I first set foot out

and into my own 'New' World.

Antonin Dvorak couldn't have

written it better; my own theme

song to something  -  rattling

and wafting past me as the new

pictures beckoned: realities of

glass and steel, the fast-talk

of NYC bullshit and Orwellian

double-speak. 1967, in most

aspects, was my watershed

year. Before that, yes, all the

signs had been pointing to 

destiny for me, in portents and

manners I couldn't recognize,

or nor fully. I had phantom

recognitions of something that

was headed my way, though I

never knew what it was. The

'Spirit' part of me  -  that really

old hunk of my cosmic, eternal

make-up, was the only part that

actually knew. I had to learn

how to read all that  -  which 

in my case has developed into

my 'other' language of words

and poetry exclusive to myself.

It's my translation. All I ever do

when I write my weird junk, is

try to break through to that other,

almost translatable, side (of me?).

-

Two trails had led me to 1967,

and quite nicely  -  first, the 1958

train wreck, through which I was

introduced to, shall we say, 'other'

aspects of being. Mine, and the

world's. I awoke from a long coma

and was immediately, yes, 'another' 

person than the one who'd gone 

into it. The second was the self

imposed exile years of seminary,

chosen specifically by me, to get 

away and seek a necessary, personal

solitude through which to develop

the chrysalis of 'me.' That all rolled

up into something. Something I

could never get in order, nor put

my finger on. I'm still confused 

by it all.

-

Yet, in one sphere, that brings

us to today. If it's the responsibility

of each individual to own up to 

their own 'todays', each and apart, 

then I guess I'm admitting to doing

a pretty good job of all that, albeit 

in my own way only. No markers 

of which the world notes. I leave

as well as I entered  -  an abject

entrant who never pulled a win.

 -

'Footfalls echo in the memory

down the passage we did not take,

towards a door we never opened,

into the rose-garden. My words

echo, this, in your mind...' That's

T.S. Eliot, something from 'Four

Quartets.' I always liked those

lines; they sounded so old and

noble. Important, even. When

you're young, as I was, and you

run into things like that  -  Eliot

winning the Nobel Prize for

Literature (1948), it can act, 

first, as a mysterious entryway

into something you're not sure

of, but attracted too without

knowing why. I was like that 

at about the age of 12. Eliot,

in my seminary years, was

allowed in, as a library item,

because he had 'saved' himself,

in their eyes, by turning so very

Christian in his later writing.

I went at him from the other

direction; which was quite

strange because if one starts 

out that way with him he's an

entirely different writer with

an entirely different worldview

and approach. Or at least it

seemed to me and I was OK

and satisfied by that. I think it

all gets internalized as a person

grows along, into their own

fated destiny; about which,

pretty much, there's not much 

you can do. Some guys, reaching

the right age, find themselves

deeply in conflict with their

own personal directions, fated

and destined, and their soul and

spirit knows that. So they, say,

go and join a military, with the

subconscious motivation of

getting out of all that by being

blasted to smithereens or killed.

Which 'intention,' always lurking,

then transforms the rest of their

lives and they lead fanatic pushes

into other realms  -  police, stocks,

business, and the rest. Hoping 

thusly to sort out their otherwise

lost lives. The subconscious rules,

always. 'The personalized version

of good and evil usurps and

individualizes the more archetypal

concepts...a hero becomes one who

safeguards his or her individual

integrity at almost any cost.'

Victory has nothing to do

with happiness.

-

That same Nobel Prize, by the way,

can now be given out for mostly

nothing at all (see 2016's Prize).

The fixability of referentials has

been shifted now so far that any

ideas of tradition, learning, and

interpretation no longer really

exist. Everything is different now,

and in a world without values

there simply are, well, no values.

-

I always (and, yes, I mean always),

viewed the USofA as a captive nation.

Any connection to what are now

glibly called 'Founding Principles'

have long ago been cut and thrown

out  -  the only public role they

play is in the glib mouths of

diuretic political types who think

nothing of dredging from the muck

to pull out their kernal of defecated

corn to hold up to their audience.

Which audience is mostly deaf, 

dumb, and blind anyway. We've

somehow slid into a soft totalitarianism

(contradiction, yes, but it works), 

by which the bottom layers of people

are laughed at and disregarded, while

the corporate and statist levels have

been thrown a sort of National Welfare

Bone of their own  -  subsidized to the

hilt, every endeavor of Science, Medicine,

Education and....yes...even Arts, is 

supported by tax dollars and lobbied

funds and programs, to line their own,

bottom-line protectorates. But the

common-man aspect of all this, in

turn, is curtsied to with lies and

misrepresentations and, of course, a

complete fantasy-world commentary

still using base-statistics to prove we

are 'free individuals exercising all

rights and privileges unto ourselves.'

America hasn't had a free month since

about 1810. Thanks.