RUDIMENTS, PT. 1,309
(the emperor of nothing, pt. ELEVEN)
A person can go crazy thinking
about things. William Blake said
something about 'the road of excess
leads to the palace of Wisdom.' You
all can figure that out for yourselves.
It took me a very long time. What's
meant there is about like saying
'following your joys, over and over,
will get you to the complete satisfaction
you seek.' Maybe that's so, but maybe
even it's not on the right track at all.
I think of it a lot like posture; when
I'm at the piano there are about ten
things running through my head.
Keeping in front of what I'm next
to play, riding the melody, kicking
in some lower register and bass
things. All together, and then
there's always the idea of 'posture.'
All that piano-teacher stuff about
keeping your spine straight, not
slouching, hardly even moving,
in fact, and keeping your hands
and fingers too, 'upright.' Like a
spider flitting along on the keys.
Too many things to kill the joy.
The joy is in the excess; so I slouch,
bounce around, slap my feet and
move about with some small
animation, like a cartoon character
Thelonious Monk come to life.
-
The road that Jack Stove lived at the
end of was sort of an excess. Someone
years back must have found a great
pleasure in digging through all that,
whatever was there, to cut this fairly
miserable an isolated canyon of a
road. Bouncing, rickety-riding, in
some old 1930's truck barely worth
the chaining up. Boulders, trees,
shrubs, cinders, cliffs, and the long
river below. Man, that's excess.
Where things don't belong, they
usually fail. This, to date, had not.
-
Up in these parts many of the roads,
dirt, gravel, or paved, and even if
listed by the state or county and given
their designated numbers, are simply
named and referred to by locals by
whatever. These little names, funny
enough, last maybe for a mile or
three and then another names takes
in. Maps get pretty useless. You're
on Jeremy K. Road, for two miles,
and then it's suddenly 'Mikah's Mill
Road,' for the next three, and there's
a turnoff for 'Little Road' or 'Jacob's
End.' It's crazy, and those names I
just cited are only pale examples of
some of them. Right near to me here
we've got a Barracuda Boulevard (?),
and a Dragon Keeps Road (??). Also,
there's an old unkempt, lonely, small
cemetery, and the one stone you can
read at quick glance passing is some
forlorn-looking Buckingham person's
burial. Right after that, not too far, is
some long, twisting road called, yep,
'Buckingham Road.' So this fellow,
Buckingham, must once have been
someone special - and, by the way,
saying 'road' or 'place' is really
stretching it. But they do. It's no
wonder that Cortese Road has kept
its name all these years.
-
This is all conversational stuff.
I wonder, as I think, if I'd ever get
to these points with Jack Stove -
if ever such a comfort-level were
to be reached whereat I could just
rattle things of to him as they hit
me; ideas of plentitude and mostly
without caution. That's sort of what
friendship is about, or like. When
you can be at that stage with someone,
when the guard is always down, and
when the small voice within gets to
talk instead of being stiffened and
always stifled. I guess that's why
people drink too, in each other's
company - to break all that down?
-
Silence was much more my type of
thing, but he had brought out some
interest in me, of other facets. Like,
a person such as he is, what sort of
light would you think he'd use? A
wall-switch light, yes, that's one thing
and it's quite common, but - for use
on an end table or in a sitting room,
what sort? I hadn't seen any, and
was intent that next time I should.
A reading lamp with a hands-on
pull switch? Something you buy at
Walmart, free-standing and with its
own base? Or some quirky and old
antique fixture? Maybe his original
lamps from the 1980's? He didn't
strike me as the sort who'd go about
re-decorating or changing all that.
Curious, no?
-
It's like the road names; things you
can depend on. An old floor lamp
that's been with you for 35 years
can be a real comfort. Life is too
fleeting, and it's good to have some
old and personal things to latch
onto. In these parts we have so
many places selling old stuff
that's it's even easy enough to
fill those memory holes with
old 'bought' things, without then
having to stoop to the Walmart
craps of the world. I know it's
that way for me. Roads, and
lamps!
-
Thinking back to all this, I
stopped today, along my own
road, to say hi again to that
guy who's often out there
tinkering with his tractors at
the open barn door. Whenever
I see his red GMC truck, and
the old barn doors open to the
road, I know he's in there. I
usually then find something to
ask him about, in case any
excuse is needed. He's a big
guy, about 60, farmer type
for sure, overalls and cap,
wrenches and a bold, loud,
foul-tending mouth. I love
cusswords as adjectives. He
was in a fine fettle today, and
we talked a while. Nothing
seems to stop him. A real
good fellow. Nothing at all
like Jack Stove of Cortese
Road, and I could probably
fill two sheets of paper in
listing their differences.
-
This fellow, I know his real name,
and a little bit about him too, but
none of that's important to this now.
Suffice to say, in country ways it's
good to know your locals, and
neighbors too. There's always a
pending chance of needed help,
or the fair acknowledgement of
a deed or a favor. Lord knows
there's enough ill-will and bad
feeling all around the world; it
shouldn't have to be here. So,
we talked, he stopped what he
was doing and the two of us,
like tow old cowpokes, leaned
on my truck and just jawed for
20 minutes. A few cars went by,
with the waves and smiles, and
he knew them all. That's one of
the differences between 'here' and
Cortese Road - we were in a nice
daylight, and sun, and clouds. On
Cortese Road, deep as it is, a person
is most-usually in a more dense
and shaded gloom; a nice gloom,
but a gloom nonetheless.
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