RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,273
(run amuck at tables of chance, pt.1)
When, in the morning of any
day, I see what's being offered
up, I know whether to run and
hide. I never used to be this
way. You may call me many
things, but it's taken me a
lifetime now to have reached
my wise and well-founded
conclusions. So I know they're
sound. I've been called many
things. I'm a conspiracist.
-
Not being sure what that means,
I'll blindly plod on. I can see
that the word itself contains
the other word, 'racist,' but it's
not really anything of that (though
I did at one time like NASCAR).
[Bloomer babies, that's a joke.
Lighten your asses up].
-
When I first arrived to NYC,
people were intent on one thing:
their tasks at hand. The vendor
guys, the horse/blacksmith and
cart places, the taxi garages and
the diners and pit-stop eateries
(obviously it was all a different
world then) were all bound up
with their own people who'd
set upon doing things with a
'laser' (we'd say now) intensity
to task. No guff, no blowback.
Just a lot of quiet and a steady
determination for getting things
done. I noticed all that, right off;
a sort of gray half-light by which
chores, tasks and jobs got done.
Personal and with responsibility.
-
It was mostly silent too. People
didn't talk and jabber as much.
The issues of 1966 and '67 were
mostly the serious issues, often
of life and death - Vietnam,
youthful guys getting churned
up in the grinder of that useless
'war' (as defined then), civil rights,
street turmoil, and nasty activism
when needed. (I learned that too.
My NYC streets were fervid
hotspots, culminating in the
W11th street explosion). 509
e11th street, which was my
address, was a wild-man's
paradise of - let's call it -
'intense social interaction,'
in ALL aspects. The grayness
was bleak, and the silence
was always deepening.
-
By any contrast, all 'Society'
had to throw back at us were
insipid remnants of idiot-thought
and non-response; all the blind
repudiations of a million Mr.
Whipples, protecting the Charmin.
For this we were supposed to
die, muttering last prayers to
Elsie the Cow and Mr. Clean.
Beats me what any NVA or
Charlie in Vietnam thought
of any of that. Especially in
the face of our own blight of
burning cities, assassinations
on demand, deleted-fin cars,
(they'd all been removed since
1962, as if the grand end of an
American world-fantasy had
never any basis anyway), and
TV antennas on rooftops until
we died in a great (supposedly)
Social Security blissfulness.
-
And now....and now....and now.
I believe there IS a conspiracy
afoot. To mentally enslave us
and to interfere with the normal
runnings of the human animal,
which, mostly, can take care of
itself, heal its own wounds, care
for its type and others. We are
just too dumb and too numbed
to realize what's going on. Being
raised in a pale of food, donuts,
booze, coffees, entertainments,
sweet drinks, candies, breads
and 'medicines' we no longer
get to feel the freshness of the
real wind. Even the oceans and
all its fish are now sour. Poisons
built into the food we're sold.
Dancing babies and blubbering
fat people on TV declaiming a
sort of immortality of consumption.
No one stays in place, and no
one can remain silent,
-
It's all made that way now by
design. Security cameras, the
blinking eyes of surveillance,
crooked cops, and legislators,
and accountants and doctors
too, are all put to use now to
spread and secure the fantasies
of a land gone bonkers. The
game is played by the same
people who fix the game for
their own favor : reeking hordes
of CEO's, politicians, lawyers
and goons run amuck at tables
of chance, long ago fixed by
the system in their favor. The
normal, little, people, the citizens
and the civilians of a new-midget
OZ, are left to absorb, take it in,
gape, and respond only by the
consumption of the rank fodder
thrown their way. Schools and
malls are ripe now for slaughter
shooting by the insane disgruntled.
Mediocre axemen with a bad
axe to grind.
(End of pt. One)
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