RUDIMENTS, pt.1,283
(much too late for goodbyes?)
For those who came away
with me, I was thinking of
other things : how memory
fades and things pass away.
A droll image on a cartoon
sheet. An old sagging car
on the curb at Twelfth
Street.
-
There have always been
times for confessional
moments, and I suppose
this is one now. I look too
intense, perhaps, but it's
never been my way to press
hard on that count. Most of
my difficulties have been in
dealing with others, not myself.
A rudeness equation I seemed
always to have the solution to,
much of my time was spent
nursing hurts - the sorts of
hurts inflicted by others, but
always without them knowing
they were doing so. It's always
been said I was too sensitive;
but it's the way I had to be.
Within the nature of each
creative person - whether
it be writer, artist, musician,
whichever - is that uncertain
pouch wherein such hurts
collect. A creative person
learns intuitively how to
'blend' them back out into
the better realm of everyday
life - by making 'art' or by
whichever creative format they
use to interweave that light of
interior reality with the more
paltry substance of the everyday;
the unblended world of the same
reality in which the everyday
crucifixions occur - that of the
one-dimensional and quite dull
enterprises of such relentlessly
stupid things as politics, opinions,
money, the inter-personal strains
of work, family, life, and leisure.
In true fact, for an artist, much
of that is far outside the realm
of the real. I never knew my
place, and I never knew my
substance, except for that factor
of the 'creative' within me.
-
Too late it all is now for apologies.
For all the things I've failed at an
inner bell rings. The million nods
and notions that went into my
makeup and life - myriads of
of nothing, really - are fading :
All those crazy ladies at the flea
markets and swap meets, with their
toys, jewelries, blankets, trinkets
and junk; the sports guys, with
their cheering and emotive assaults,
bets, wagers, and beers; the alchemical
darings of those insistent that they
could turn their everyday dross into
a new gold; the parsons and padres
and priests and ministers all that I
have met along the miserable via
dolorosa of these days - to each
and every I say Ole! Or perhaps
just Thanks!
-
I had a brother-in-law once who
blew his brains out in a car. Just
like it sounds too, it's not just some
weird Beatles reference or something.
Talk about 'acting' upon internal
impulses, boy, I could never get past
that one. He'd had it all planned out:
a note/letter left on the desk, food
put out for the dogs, a final message
on the old phone machine, instructions
for dispensing the ashes over some
Sierra Nevada foothills, which songs
were to be sung and by whom! Willful
dispensing of properties and possessions.
It was all baffling to me, all. The lights
were left on, he walks out to a car in
his yard, sits in it, and POW! Two
days later the willful barking of his
dogs gave him away. Probably the
saddest moment I experienced, to
that date. It only got worse.
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