15,734. THE MIGHTY, MANGLED

THE MIGHTY, MANGLED

I'd guess even Heaven has its

casualties list, along with the

no-shows and those running

late? Why would anyone skip

this date?

-

The souls of all the dead are

piling up awaiting an All Saints

Day of privilege as wheel : the

wheel-tide turnings of another

round, where the Kings and rulers

will be one the bottom, and the

sad and distressed will rule from

the top? Or is that what we

already have?

15,733. CAROLINE, MY HANDS

CAROLINE, MY HANDS

There was an eagle in the sky above me,

glinting like a Summer sun. A long, slow

flash, as it went by. I wondered what it spied.

Would it see chilled fish in the lake, and

swoop down to reach that negative space?

Darting a heart into watery film?

-

The rest of the world seemed oblivious:

the trees, now bare, stood by; a silent

audience of stools and chairs to be.

15,732. VERY DELICATE

VERY DELICATE

I watched the old lady set her iron to

that. Who irons any more? She went

about her task in a most deliberate

manner, really retro. As if it all 

mattered.

-

Turning away, I just shook my head

a little. There's a part of old things I 

never want to touch  -  ironing here

can represent all those things that are

gone.

-

They pull people's brains through

space in sync. 'Very Delicate' was

the setting.

15,731. GIORGIO MORANDI

GIORGIO MORANDI

It's all art, it is. 'Natura Morta',

a funny way to say 'Still Life,'

in 1953. Wish I could have met

the guy. Bits of wood trapped in

eddies of a stream, going round 

and round atop the water that

flows beneath them. Poor old

Giorgio died in '64, at 73.

-

Mostly he stared at things,

transfixed, in his studio. They

were often arranged on a single,

high, tabletop that he had built

so he could work standing up.

-

His 'bits of wood' in their equivalent

manner most often ended up woozily

drawn and always tenderly brushed

in muted colors  -  I think I've always

like his colors best. No chromatic

splashes or blazing pure tones. They

sort of 'look' repetitive, but never are.

-

Each item could be the first and only

one, quietly struggling with the 'defining

problem' of pictorial representation; a

reduction of three dimensions to two.

Mostly these are all he ever worked

on, as if, every day, he had to go back,

to finally work things right. But it

can't be got right at all - reality, as it

is, at one with our perception of it.

An enchanter, he was, and with a

crackle to his work.

15,730. 'CAN YOU MAKE SHINGLES FLY?'

'CAN YOU MAKE SHINGLES FLY?'

I asked that of a roofer fellow I know,

and he said, 'Nope, I only nail them 

down.' And I said, 'But Eddie, do you 

ever think the other way?' He smiled

and said, 'Only for pay.'

-

I liked that moment, and thought it

was fun  -  what other means of trading

information is that light and airy? And

how would a shingle fly anyway?

15,729. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,322

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,322

(always wanting to escape this life)

"The smells of earth will always be

our reference points. Lighter fluid

or stove fuel, scorched oil, a vinegar

dressing, a deviled egg, a just-unwrapped

cheese, a sip of wine or rum: all offer

distant echoes of the early cosmos."

-

I realized one day  -  after some

reflection, that for most of my life

I've been trying to escape it. Reject it.

Life. That's not too logical, nor can it

be proven, but I stand by it. In addition 

to the train accident, I've had various

other, highly-intimidating, versions

of-get-out-of-life dramas. They all

culminated, let me make clear, in

the 12 or 14 Biker years, within 

which I probably undertook every

conceivable way to die. Speeding

on an unsafe vehicle. Alcohol. Arms.

Taking chances at highway speeds.

It can go on, but I'm not going on

with it  -  suffice it to say that it all

was a death-wish acted out. Another

failure?

-

Why would anyone be like that? I ask

myself these questions, over the rubble

of too many wasted years. I come up

with lots of versions of why: things

I compose to tell myself of my own

indications. 'Look about you, at all

that you see. You acted like the donkey

in a comedy. In primitive representations

the Donkey is the lower animal self.

Christ himself rode a donkey into

Jerusalem. He did so to indicate his

triumph over, his psychic superiority

over, and fulfillment of the goals of

his 'psychic' stage of human initiation

amongst the world by mastering his

lower nature. He is lauded! But his

goal was not to be King of this world

or of the Jews. Instead it was to show

a means and the way to seeing through

the illusion of the separate self and

discover the essential nature of the

Mysteries of God.

-

Now, I'm not sure what that means,

except that it's valid. It's an opening

which can bring a person forth, out, 

into the broader realms of consciousness 

so as to see the artificiality and the 

falseness of this world  -  as it is

presented to us, and 'formed' by us.

-

So much for that -  it's already getting

to sound way too high-minded to go

on. If there's one thing I always disliked

it was pretentious babble. It's mostly the

ultra-grad school types who endlessly

write and rewrite their papers, later turned

into tenure-books, about things like 'The

Influencing of Doctrine : Outer Premises

Present Within Dante's Vision of Hell'.

Great chatter for the cocktail party at the

home of the Dean, but not for me and

not my style. Many things are sacrificed

in those sorts of pursuits : the University

crowd gives up all pursuit of capital and

economics, while doggedly pursuing,

instead, the chained-slavery of taking

 a seat along the mandatory-disciplined

treadmill of University slavery, for a

cheesy lucre of stability and security

amidst chaos which they then propagate.

-

My starting point was about how I

spent too many years and too much 

time trying to somehow loosen the

mortal ties that bound me to this world

(I wanted to say 'crummy' world, but

I've recently sworn off value judgments).

And it's true. I probably would have

done anything to see if I'd perhaps NOT

survive it. It was a form of enflamed

and extended suicide-by-urges. No one

stopped me because no one really knew,

though I'm sure that  -  among my cohorts- 

there were a few more intuituve types

who could sense that I was seeking a

final mission-to-the-death. But it  never

happened. I survived every mangle and

each rainy-street/bald-tire episode at

speed. Tumbles and falls there were,

but the Death (that release sought)

never happened. 

-

A fool is known by the fool-clothes he

wears, the outer raiment of the garments

of an idiot let loose. That was often me.

Right now  -  thank you  -  I'd prefer to

live on.

-

The tragic betrayal, as I see it, of this life

is the falsity that comes with it. That is

what must be fought off, struggled with,

and overcome. It takes many forms: the

grandeurs of riches and silk, the fast cars,

the grand homes, the materialism of many

layers of junk, the endless seeking for more,

the myopic worship of money, the ignoring 

of the essential (and endless) self. Its a high,

and a very difficult, pole to vault, but each

of us must try. I know; 've been trying it

all of my life. 

- 

Our essential nature, then, which in the 

language of philosophy is described by the 

word 'Consciousness' and in the language

of theology by the word 'God,' could

rqually be described as 'Oneness,' or, for

ethics, 'Goodness,' or for emotion, 'Love.'

Aesthetics would call it 'Beauty.'  But these

descriptions are useless, fall short, and

are always inadequate. We are 'reaching' 

here far past anything which a language

of words can give us. Perhaps, in the same

way, the word 'failure' just indicates, instead,

'inadequate.' All those billiard ball words

just bang into each other, but nothing ever

perfectly fits into a hole (nor a 'whole').

At the heart of each one of these lies the

same Mystery. As Plotinus puts it: 'All

consciousnesses are the various members

of THAT.'

-

We can never not be, since we are being itself.

The world is a world of suffering, from

which we must disconnect ['horrific nightmare

that disappears as we awake']. Even if the

physical world moved, I shall not move. Even

if it is destroyed, I shall not be destroyed.

15,728. LISTENING TO THE HERE AND NOW

LISTENING TO THE HERE AND NOW

An arid gulf stretches out in time; here

before me it stays. All the people of all

the lands have never this far strayed. Gobi

Desert or Alexandria's harbor? Istanbul

in honors, of the shambles of Rome?

-

Once we get past the daily marker, the

newsmen make up the scenery for us.

Here is the issue, and there is the cure.

-

Sure, on that count, right. The subway

car has a new virus running through its

center  -  a mishmash of the vile and the

violent. The city bus does not relent of its

errors either: running over the lady who

just bent down to pick up her package

while the thief who burrows into her

dead body makes off with her wallet.

-

That is our wisdom today, and only the

good are dying. The thieves and the 

knaves always get another day. Rampant

runnings of the wrong and the sick,

like a marathon of evil intent, are given

the floor and have now taken over.

Pity the poor man's lament!

15,727. TO REPAY THE WATCHMAN

TO REPAY THE WATCHMAN

To repay the watchman is a daily task.

He sits by the latch gate, just staring

in. I do not know his name, nor have

ever really spoken to him. His caliber

is like a gun, and I am afraid of guns.

-

They go both ways, those guns do.

One fires out, or one fires in. The

choice needs always to be made.

I'd  -  at this point  -  more fear

the firing in than the firing out.

-

It's too late for uncivil words, so I

merely let the watchman sit. He can

do what he wants  - and even if I said

no, he'd probably do it anyway.

-

Right now, I sense the thin light of

morning changing in. The long sky

so slowly lightens. There's something

out there once again : Is it him?

Is it him?

15,726. WATCHTOWER

WATCHTOWER

Long back ago, about '78,

I walked the Hart Crane 

streets of Brooklyn Heights

with my friend Paul. He's

dead now, long ago too.

-

His missed-logic was

impeccable in his poetic

way. One night, we were

freezing cold, and he pointed

ahead and said, 'I'm so cold I

could eat that dog.'

-

The Brooklyn Heights Promenade

was up ahead, and, after walking

the bridge from Manhattan at 2am,

we edged over to the dark and old:

Where 'The Watchtower' building

was  -  those Jehovah Witness guys

and their printing plant for their

magazine.

-

Some lady walked by, in the lit

distance, walking her dog  -  that's

when he said that, and I asked 'What

do you mean?' And, yes, we were so

shot that we began discussing the

eating of dogs.

-

It turned out, he'd not meant to say he

liked eating dogs, but in this case was

saying that the supplanted heat and the

energy from that one dog would do a

lot to warm him up. I guess he meant

himself, because he hadn't mentioned

me, nor even asked if I liked eating dogs.

Really makes you wonder, no?

15,725. REPLAY

REPLAY

Old hubcaps line the hallway,

and nowadays no one even 

knows what they are? Such 

a curious thing. There used

to be hubcap stores  -  old

grizzled guys along roadsides,

sanding near their collections.

Cast-offs, from wrecks and

junked cars, the hubcap industry

of 'entrepreneurs'. That's what

they'd be called today, and

they'd laugh in your face 

if they heard you say.

15,724. BROKEN

BROKEN

Not enough time, nor enough

words : the motto is 'if it ain't

fixed, break it again?' Makes

no sense, but you can get away 

with that here. I hear it most

everywhere. County lines and

bridge-state closures. Nothing

works like tomorrow.

-

I watched an hour's worth of

serious mirth  -  Both Oz and 

Fetterman brawling. Words

in between spaces, and the

recaps and the times. Little

likely the bell meant a thing.

-

Let's have a pugilistic brawl.

One down for the count, and 

the other, standing tall?

No, not at all.

15,723. THEY TELL ME

THEY TELL ME

They tell me I was born in the

age of steam, I can do nothing

but believe them  -  though it

seems so wrong. I do not feel

that 1949 was the age of steam.

-

Things around me were wobbly;

cars were big and round? The

skyline, looked back at now,

seems thin and insipid in a

contrast to today? What words

were there left to say : smoke

and pallor, smog and noise. All

that too was very different.

-

The thimble that the industrial

shirtwaist seamstress held was

a certain and very sure thing: In

the age of unions, magic, and

expectations of what was yet 

to come. The long, loft hallways

were often dark and dingy.

-

Yes, maybe then, yes. I was born

in the Age of Steam  -  but just

before it left the harbor for today.

15,722. COUNTING ON A NEW GOLD

COUNTING ON A NEW GOLD

In general you can't be too specific

about things that go down. Yesterday

my doctor just said, 'Now take a deep

breath.' It's all as if he's got not a concern

in the world, while - before him  -  I am

struggling to stay whole. And then, before 

that, the nice nurse exclaims it's nothing 

to her, she's gone through it before.

-

The linemen are ready too play. It's

their wanton season of football again?

The news screen in the wait-room shows 

both scores and weather, for a number 

of different places : Green Bay, New York,

and Cleveland. I wonder is the country

in that great a divide we need cities to

bang heads in too? Packers? Rams? Jets?

-

My wife's always with me - she, who I

thought would go first. We're playing a

funny form of football now ourselves.

Battering ram stand-outs in an arena

of ten thousand other people working

our plays. A pile-on at the scrimmage

line? Who knows, and who can say?

15,721. WHAT CAN BE MY PARDON?

WHAT CAN BE MY PARDON?

When the noonday sun comes calling

I stand back, three steps from the edge.

What can be my pardon for having no

forgiveness? I serve lunch. I want you

all to come. I've not been to my piano

studio garage for three whole days, 

unable to make the walk : no air to

breath, and an unsettled chest. 

-

Meaning? No music, no tunes. No

readings, no anything. I have now

absconded with my own presence?

-

How weird can that be? I go forth, and

back, and forth again, though I cannot

breath? For the life of me, this sounds

like death instead. What can be my 

pardon for this turning away?

-

You see? This is from a very serious man.

A man in trouble with his self. A man

who can no longer see : all trifles and

brickbats waiting to be. Writing is a notion

too far gone. I am long lost now in those

traces of distant stars, the light from

which, they say, has taken thousands

of years to reach us.

15,720. MIRACLE WHIP

MIRACLE WHIP

I've always wondered which advertising

guy dreamed that one up. Unbelievable

froth  -  was that ever in the running?

15,719. TREMENS WILL DEFEAT

TREMENS WILL DEFEAT

Standing with both feet on the ground

helps, and maybe that's the way to go.

I've got a bug-bite on my arm that I

cannot figure out.

15,718. UNCLE MISHMASH AND MARJORIE GLENN

UNCLE MISHMASH AND 

MARJORIE GLENN

The housewives were hanging their clothes

on the line; slight breezes blowing along.

It was another brisk morning at Gaverner

Falls; lots of quiet with not much to do.

-

Uncle Mishmash (my name for him), threw

done the newspaper just to exclaim: "I can't 

read this rubbish no more! Don't even know 

what they're talking about? And what the

hell do I care about the British Pound?"

-

No one made a sound. Uncle had tendencies

like this  -  to blow out and rant about new

things he'd found. I looked away, content to

be comfortable and content; watching the

trees and the laundry.

-

If I couldn't talk, I wasn't so sure I'd even

wish to learn to. Talk, that is. Just a whole

pile of words. Bobbie ran in, saying a whole

sentence about something at the lake. I wasn't

much listening, but Margie ran out with him.

-

Half hour later, 'bout, I heard the whistle call.

An overturned canoe by the falls had been

rescued, and there was a gad-durned body

beneath it! And roped in too! "Why that

sounds like a crime, to me!", said Uncle,

"let's go see!"

-

He put down his stuff and went out and I

followed. Nothing much else to do. The

ladies looked up, but I couldn't tell what

they knew  -  had they been alerted to

this new situation too?

15,727. NOTHING MORE FOR ME TO EXPLAIN

NOTHING MORE FOR TO EXPLAIN

Someone tries hard to reach the summit

only to fall off at the top? You tell me

is all that trouble worth it? My life is

rear-view mirror stuff these days; so

what it's worth to me is merely mine.

-

I have my own hallowed ground and

places I have loved. And people too,

be they flat or round. The only resource 

left is to laugh -  at the miners in the lake,

the workers on their beats, the housewives

in their chambers, the prisoners in their 

pens. All things keep their own sum now.

-

Nothing more for me to explain, and

how it all goes down, in the end, I can

only wait to see. I'm mourning already,

but the mourning is for me. There's

nothing more for me to explain.

15,726. KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE

KNOCK-KNOCK JOKE

Maybe you have to click twice.

This computer stuff is a rush job

delivery sometimes. I can sense a

lot of things; but it doesn't work

with this. Bits and Bytes and linear

frights. I always wonder who's at

the door.

-

'Knock, knock who's there' - boy

that used to get tiring to me. (Does

that qualify as an answer here?)...

15,725. GLOBAL REVOLUTION

 GLOBAL REVOLUTION

Seeing Putin in school with Huang Jao Ping,

made me laugh a little bit. They were enrolled

in Canarsie High; both studying equivalency

classes in minor chemistry chores. Along came

Ming; Ming said to Ping: 'How do I get to the

other side of these miserable problems I so

much adore. Putin said 'Claim them as your

own, and you can blast right through them.'

-

Ping said to Ming: 'That Putin was always

a charmer.'

15,724. I SAW MY PICTURE IN THE:

 I SAW MY PICTURE IN THE:

Well heck, it certainly wasn't Epicurean Magazine,

nor Tracer's Digest Of the Sky. We remember those

things like a knurly blot of wood on a tree trunk

stained with April. It catered to everyone else but

me. Maybe it was a race-car drivers monthly.

-

Is this all too abstract for you? Let me fill you

all in. I am dying nightly. Every fetish fills a

point. My time of revels is over. 

-

You can come here, and take away whatever

you wish : salt water, pepper and tears. My wife

still cooks; firing up the griddle while holding

her cane. I thought she would go first, frankly,

and from what the medics told me. Now I know

that's wrong : my friends, I am taking my leave.

-

Without knowing what else to say, 

I finally say nothing at all. Do you

ever bless me like I bless you?

15,723. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,321

 RUDIMENTS, pt.1321

(the emperor of nothing at all)

Crops don't grow in the dark; the

nutrients from sunlight are essentials 

You're not going to find rows of corn

plants, or even a pumpkin patch or a

sunflower garden along Cortese Road.

Remember that next time you're there.

-

Maybe it's a settled place of darkness,;

some people are OK with that. As I write

this from my own vista  -  more a highland

that looks down over water and trees, I see

morning's light, with its loom for layered 

frost and fog separating into layers. It's

always different, and always changing  

- light and fog wrangle with each other,

the sunlight burning off the fog, always 

recalcitrant to leave, clinging to trunks 

and tree tops, waiting for another ten 

minutes to hang on, to linger. It's good

like that  -  the Autumnal colors get

exaggerated by the play of light and

frost. Interesting morning, as much are

the early mornings of Spring interesting.

-

I've always bounced from one emotion 

to the next  -  in my life, I never cared.

I wanted to experience a lot of things  -  

ten-minute emotional affairs with most

everyone I saw. I liked talking with people,

to bring them out, and to bring me in. In the

same way I met Jack Stove, I met numerous

others  -  outside of stores, next to broken

down cars, hanging around idle, involved

in a scene of their own. If you dig a little,

no one's really a closed book. Every moment

in life  -  even the most miserable ones 

I'm now undergoing  -  are living pictures. 

Vignettes of the understory of what 

makes up life. Hidden carnivals or 

funereal processions.

-

I think it's safe to say I've aged out of a

good life, and now it's just a bum deal  - 

lingering about, and waiting for demise.

Outside the Thrift Store, the guy who

bought a large cabinet has no way to get

it home. What was he thinking? I don't 

know, but I offered. It would have been

criminal if I had not. 'How far you got to

go?' I asked. 'About 7 miles,' he said.

'C'mon, let's put it in the truck and I'll

get you home.' All went well, and the

task was concluded. A shake and a hi

and a bye! Life's good like that.

-

The wife says 'Never pick up a hitchhiker

when I'm in the car. I don't care what you

do on your own.' On the rural roads I see

guys, usually the same 4 or 5, each 

separately, with their thumbs out, just

rolling the hilly road, for something

between Narrowsburg and, maybe,

Beach Lake or Honesdale. A 12mile 

scrap, maybe. It's like I get to know

their faces, but just from passing them.

That's a bummer, and I get distressed.

These guys are in need of something, 

and I've got the wheels. The days of 

hitchhiker horror stories are over, in

my opinion. I'd love to hear what's up.

- 

Cortese Road is a shade spot. There's 

a supermarket over in Honesdale that's 

a light spot. All the people are mostly

always the same, busy with things,

interesting and talkative. I'm met a

few cool people there  -  the kind of

friendships that you talk through, not

so much 'doing' things. Like park bums

or loiterer, the gift is the presence and

the 'what 'cha doing now' thing. The

girl there named Swamp-Ass, my cool

friend Randy, the owner named Dave,

and his wife. The cart guys and the 

clerks. Everybody's old-school and

throwback  -  deliberate characters in

a fast-paced world; they stumble here

and there, but then who doesn't. These

are the sorts of folks America once 

served; Now they just get run-down

by 18-wheelers.

-

There's really little left of America,

by its own definition of itself. Once, 

from a long time back. The transformation 

has been brutal, and mostly unjustifiable.

Streamlined capacities for industrial

production  -  I suppose. 88 kinds of 

paper towels, 90 brands of toilet paper, 

14 layers of cleansers and grease cutters,

weed-killers and 750 different kinds

of killer-sugar snacks, peddled without

conscience and stroked without shame.

-

Why we got to that point, I'll never know?

It certainly isn't wooded, forested, and

green, and it certainly isn't rural, nor is

it Cortese Road. What little left zi have

to hang on is fast disappearing, and I

guess I'll never know that either.

15,722. MATCHPOINT ZERO

MATCHPOINT ZERO

Down home the taters are grown. 

They stay beneath the ground as

they grow  -  as much like thought

as anything else can be. The easel

that holds the sketch looks more like

the sketch than the sketch looks like 

me. (I hope that as easy for you to see).

-

I've messed with my mantra too long

by now. It's riddled with lies and deceit.

A flavor of onions, but maybe they go -

with the taters you're ready to eat?

15,721. MAKESHIFT OMNIVORE

MAKESHIFT OMNIVORE

I am sitting beneath a tree, clutching

my head in my hands. Too much do I

think of the end. My own. No reasons

surpass what I can come up with to

want to live on. I, who was once the

best, am now the worst.

-

What to do with a million seconds?

Throw them all away? Carry them from

home, to another place indeed? Pat them

on the head, as if they were small children?

Outlandish responses to an outlandish scene.

If you misunderstand me that is not what

I mean.

-

I mean to say the opposite of what you

think? There's a shell in the island of

living. It stays in place in spite of all

the tides that may slash at the shore.

Fate is a makeshift omnivore.

15,720. I AM TURNING UGLY

I AM TURNING UGLY

Life before deliverance ought to be

enough, and if it turns out it's not we

need find someone to blame. Ourselves,

perhaps? I saw the man on the ladder,

high up, painting the spire. He couldn't

go any higher, and I wished to ask him

why? Had he ascended the heights to 

his own form of happiness high? The

color was a nice white, with a sky-blue

trim; not very much a church color, but

I then found out it wasn't one anyway.

-

It was now a house : living room and

porch, alcove and entryway, all very

nice. Surrounded  -  as it was  -  by a

19th century graveyard, it had the air

of another day. A deer stood in the

weedy shrubbery, staring back at me.

-

I think of myself, in contexts such as

these, and can only conclude that I

am not up to the needed snuff: I am

turning ugly. I have blotches and scruff.

I linger and I hurt. My medallion says

'Death' yet I refuse to put it on. 'Do not

go gentle, into that good night. Rage,

rage, against the dying of the light.'

15,719. I WISH TO BE YOUR BEGGAR

I WISH TO BE YOUR BEGGAR

Outside of your front door, the ivy

is growing; and down from the steps

there is a nice moss. I like things

like that. A few spiders, a twirler,

and a web in the misty light. I wish

to be your beggar here, all right?

-

Sentimental favorites like me always

end up losing  -  too many old bets and

they all fall flat. The cards tumble and

the disappointed people leave. There's

a line, in fact, out the door. I wish to

by your beggar, evermore?

15,718. HOW DO I MANAGE THIS PLEASURE CRAFT?

HOW DO I MANAGE 

THIS PLEASURE CRAFT?

Let's make it to Mars, all right? In this 

new kind of floating menagerie : broad

as a building and filled to the hilt. We 

seem bringing the good half of Earth 

along with us.

-

Communication has been lost, you say?

I didn't know we ever had any to begin

with. Who were those rascals with the

nervous voices anyway?

15,717. THIRD MORNING'S FROST

THIRD MORNING'S FROST

In trying to keep out the cold

there are so many other items

to watch for : the seam along the

window's edge, like a barrier that

refuses warmth, there's ice in each

small crevice; the curlicue break

in the bedrooms glass. Just more

for another loss of warmth. So I

just sit here watching - the sentinel

who catches the errant breeze and

entreats it to return whence it came.

15,716. THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER, #7

THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER, #7

The thing about 'music' to me,

even after all those really basic

years of piano lessons, was that

everything was held to be too

'sacred' or sacrosanct, or unable

to be touched. I'd have to play

portions of all these hallowed

composers, all that Schubert,

Chopin, Liszt, Bach, Beethoven,

Grieg, and Mozart  -  an out-of-

sequence jumble of names, but

no matter  - because people

revered them. They were part

of the classic 'canon' of music.

Ordinary people, of course, they

didn't care, and they'd just as

soon footsy-dance to 'Fly Me

To the Moon' or The Yellow

Rose of Texas,' than to anything

else. Yet, instead of 'Tennessee

Waltz' (Pres. Kennedy's favorite),

piano teachers would stuff a Strauss

'Vienna Waltz' down my throat.

Any of this  -  without any music 

'theory' behind it, was just fluff, 

I figured. And no one, back then,

ever approached it with theory.

A Bach Fugue can be approached

in any number of ways by both 

theoretical and musical discussions

of number, relationships/progress,

and all the rest of the emplacement

that goes into their makings. But,

none of that was given; it was all

just more an endless exercise in

pleasure-music. Which is why

these teachers, all of them, that

I had, were always worried about

phrasing, tempo, and all the rest.

It was hard to determine how to

get across to them that none of

that really mattered to me. If some

eighteenth century guy wrote his

piece that way, fine. But I never

saw any rules, except at the piano-

teachers' places, that said it had 

to be played exactly that way, 

or - in any case - that I had to

play it as such. I took pleasure

in re-writing all that stuff and

doing it my own way, perhaps

while still leaving a recognition

of what it was supposed to be.

To put it another say, 'I never

danced a Minuet, and they

never saw a TV.'

-

The piano, as I learned it too,

was a 'percussion' instrument.

Hammers striking strings, just

like a drummer strikes a drumskin.

The only drawback it had  -  and

that was a large one  -  was that it

could not 'bend' notes, as a guitar

could. Stringed instruments, 

strummed or bowed, they were 

different, always. I was never able

to get the hang of any of that guitar

stuff  -  it seemed too much to have

to do, to look at  -  fingers, frets,

strikes, and the moving of those

hands and fingers. Yet, I'd see a

hundred people, capable and skilled,

just going right at it. For myself and

'piano' it was all just a basic violence.

Before amplification, before any

electrification of the piano or the

synthesizer. It was pure, like an

eighteenth century pure, yes, but,

again, who wanted that? I didn't.

So I made my own way along the

route of possible  -  fragments of

others' tunes, broken up meters 

and timings and chords. Stops and

starts, even. I didn't much care.

They could stuff all their classical

repertoire stuff; I lashed out instead.

Of course, my piano teachers never

knew any of that  -  good old Mr.

Novack would start showing off 

with a show tune or something, in

order to show the run-up from a

minor to a major  -  key, note, 

chord, whatever. I'd listen, yes.

because I had to, but that was

all. I had my own ideas.

-

So, anyway, that's how it all went

with this piano stuff. I used to drive

past Mr. Novack's place, just for

the memory, until about 2018, when

I left that area, and then I just forgot

about it. The old garage and house 

were still in place, both looking 

very nice. I don't know who lives

there now, and it hardly matters. 

I never did see any of those rock

throwing kids, as adults, I'd probably

have still ignored them.

-

On the whole, the piano part of my

life was pretty interesting, and the

cause of many an adventure. To say

the least. Once I got to the seminary,

as I mentioned, I mostly stayed away

from the music classes, bands, etc.

Once I got involved in the Drama

Department, I was used once or twice

as the organist/back-up for some of

the plays and things we performed on

stage, but it was merely as 'understudy'

and 'in case' to John Banko, the main

guy. He died in prison later, as a priest. 

For 'vandalizing' young boys! Now

there's a tune you can hum!!