RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,356
(buy a book and shut your face)
On the outskirts of Ithaca, back
then, coming in from the south,
there was this rambling old place
like a mansion from 40 years before.
Its current use then - maybe 1974 -
was as a Zen Buddhist retreat and
rehab center. I forget the name and
the designated titles and stuff, but it
was apparently run by a few Buddhist
monk kind of guys, in the Hare
Krishna mold. I never knew if these
two schemes of people mixed or
mingled, but that's way they looked
like. 'Airport Baldies' I called them.
And I called those in the home 'inmates.'
You had to be there; those are 1970's
jokes, for sure. Anyway, the rehabbing
inmates were kept busy - apparently -
doing stupid thing as like making soaps,
floral things and flower holders, metal
kitchen implements for stove and cook,
and mending and cleaning for resale
used clothing. Their biggest sellers were
baked goods, which they also made -
cupcakes, breads, brownies, and varied
loaves of other unknown things. Kathy
knew all the stuff, I didn't. I mostly kept
away from the pastries. Our young son,
of course, always knew what he wanted:
probably 'one of everything' sums it up.
They sold most everything there, except
books, which kept me suspicious. Seems
like a real oversight. I always had a
marginal set of problems in thinking
of rehab and enforced seclusion; mainly
since I never understood what the end
goal was: To be 'normal' once again made
no sense, since that's what got them in
their predicament in the first place. To
become 'enlightened' or wise, or even
'saved' in any religious sense, that too
seemed senseless by the concept it was
done with. Separation is never really a
solution to anything. Like a prison, it's
all just a prison of another sort, and
you never hear of anyone breaking
INTO prison. Or do you? I'd rather
just be cloistered with 100 books.
-
Up here, where we live now, it's a pretty
fortunate book scene. Which is good.
There's library over in Hawley, with the
prices of yesteryear - .50 cents on
Paperbacks, and a dollar on hardcovers.
Just yesterday I scored, 'I Claudius' and
a huge book of American Short Stories,
for a buck fifty, total. This selection of
books is all separated out and shelved,
and there are lots of good things. The
Honesdale Library does the same thing,
but it's a much smaller selection, and
last August all the prices were raised
(double those of Hawley). In Monticello,
NY, a few miles off, there's a massive
Goodwill Support Shop bookstore, or
whatever they call it - the entire building,
and a zillion books, two dollars tops.
A real treasure trove. Plenty of things
abound, you just have to know where
to look. It's hit and miss, and then
sometimes one just gets lucky.
-
I don't think people read much anyway;
these days real literature, as it once was,
has been consigned to the dust bin of
literary history. Too tedious and time
consuming, by whatever means. Using
e-books and kindles is just another way
of showing others what you're doing, even
if it is not up to scale. It's a mere pretense.
A book demands two hands, a light source,
and a certain stillness on the reader's part.
Each of those things are the underpinnings
of a settled Humanity. There are, as there
used to be with old '78's, and other once
valued things, a passage of time that is
trying to tell us something : we are no
longer nomads, travelers on the move.
Except for the blitzkrieg itinerant on
7-day rapid tours of Cambodia and
Ankor Wat, or viewing the Danube,
or seeing Marseille and then Rome, all
in the same 6 days, everything has been
devalued and rationalized out of any
existence. If it doesn't turn coin, it's
of no value to the nitwit brigades.
That's why all these fine books are
but a dollar - used now as loss leaders
for fund-raising stacks that start out
at zero with turned-in books, or all
Dad's and Grandad's old libraries from
their glory days, for free, and they
get turned into a buck or two in such
places as I've described.
-
Gone from me now are inklings of
the present. I live in the past. It's a
far better place for me to be. I know
I can be criticized for being another
version of a Luddite, or even some
nitwit at present with a Masada
complex. All or nothing, Retreat or
Hell. I no longer care. The million
little pieces of my old life amount to
my own castle, and if no one else
gets it, I'll just keep explaining
until I do, and I can probably run
circles around any one of today's
rude hipsters. Have you ever seen
those two guys who sing (sing?)
'Blackest In the Room'? It's a real
example of where we're at today.
It works, but then it doesn't work.
It's representation is slavish.
Buy a book and shut your face.
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