RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,295
(all original, all page one)
Those old guys used to sing Madrigals,
in tights. Now, no one does much of
anything except make noise. Of course
the only Kings we have, are, doddering
caricatures of Humanoids, male and/or
female (no longer a category to be
considered). The lingering stench of the
politics is all the same : the perfumes and
aromas of lies and deceit. Somewhere along
the lines, also, 'lingering' was turned into
'malingering.' Everyone has their knives out.
-
When action gets frozen into 'inaction'
because one cannot no longer 'do' anything,
I'd say that's petty much the same as any
Russian or Chinese attack upon Humanity.
We're in the same prison that any of them
are, except maybe, unlike them, unlike them
(for now) we don't yet eat bats from the
live bird and creature market. I'd say keep
an eye on Whole Foods for that, any one
of those hunky-dory 'fine-foods' markets
will sue enough have that department too.
-
It's the stench of elitism. The same stunning
elitism which we've allowed to take over our
nation. (There's a pile, over in the corner, where
the balls and testicles, already chopped off, of
Washington, Paine, Jefferson, Franklin, Adams,
Henry, Jackson, Lincoln, and the rest, have been
piled high and constantly added to, adding at the
same time, somehow, to the 'National Treasure'
of sick American wealth to which we still pay
lip-service at various booze-fest holidays).
-
I say shut down the electricity, throw out the
books, burn down the force-field, and let the
whole place rot away.
-
When I got to NYC, in August, 1967, the only
money I had was the 5 bucks my sister's boyfriend,
later husband, had given me in the car on the ride
over to Carteret, where I picked up the Turnpike
NYC bus for the run up to the Lincoln Tunnel
and Freedom. He was driving a '65, I think it was,
Chevy Chevelle, and it was pretty damn spiff.
I thanked him, and he took off. All the way TO
Carteret, he kept asking me if I knew what I was
doing, why I was doing it, what I was going to
do when I got there, and all the rest of those
most logical and pertinent questions. It was
really nothing, and at that point I cared little
for consequences; I just hated everything of
the old world, and was doing my best-gesture
Christopher Columbus push to find the new
wood and all the glories of the East Indies too.
-
I cared little for anything. Down the calendar
a little, I knew I had an art-studio space to go to,
and figured I'd set up there, once I got the lay
of the land. I ended up in Tompkins Square
Park. It was a sizzling NYC 98 degrees, day
after day, one of those kinds of days where
the bottle-caps and pennies on the street sink
into the softened tar and get walked and driven
over for the next ten years until a re-paving and
a grinding re-do the street. Where all that stuff
goes, I never know. A person could probably
get coin-rich.
-
Every girl I saw right then was soaked in sweat
and transparent in clothing. Shirts and blouses,
and any other sort of clothing attempted just
didn't last in the 1967 heat. Unlike now, air
conditioning was not yet really part of the
common currency - the air was hot and thick,
polluted and drenching too. People dripped
sweat and moisture. Inside meant little difference
from outside. Parks were supposed to provide
relief, but all they really provided was, instead,
spectacle - both proper and improper too.
None of this maybe sounds out of the ordinary
to you now in reading it but the world in
1967 was a very different world, and a
world quite constricted by contrast to that
of today. One did not 'see' breasts; wet, sweaty,
loose nor exposed. Yet, in hot and muggy
New York City, one did. Deal with that, and
take that too, you smarmy suburbs. Internal
valuation held an entire other sets of its own
values there.
-
This, from about 1740, of NYC, I always
found quite interesting. The local populations'
boorishness, as commented on by visitors,
mostly British : 'During the second quarter
of the eighteenth century, visitors and natives
too began to notice the relative boorishness of
New York's society and the vapidity of its
cultural life. When Benjamin Franklin passed
through in 1723, he was struck by the absence
of books. 'Those who loved reading were
obliged to send for their books from England.'
One Abigail Franks was apologetic about the
province when it was by outsiders. There were
just as many fools in England, she insisted, and
more pretentious ones at that. But to insiders
she complained about gaming and drinking
that lasted from Sunday night to Saturday
morning.' She lamented the lack of learned
citizens and criticized the 'ignorant Dutch,'
but also the ladies at her synagogue - 'a
stupid set of people.' A visiting Dr. Hamilton
was appalled at the crude quality of manners
and conversation he encountered in New
York. He saw a good deal of heavy drinking
by 'toapers' and 'bumper men' and found that
'to talk bawdy and have a knack at punning
passes among some there for good, sterling
wit.' He remarked particularly upon one out
who 'exceeded everything I had seen for
nastiness, impudence, and rusticity. He told
us he was troubled with the open piles [i.e
'hemmorhoids'], and with that, from his
breeches pulled out a linnen hankerchief all
stained with blood and showed it to the
company just after we had eat dinner.' --
[All spelling is his].
-
Nothing much changes, I suppose - except
maybe for the recurring sweeps of epidemics.
Back then, great droves were felled for one
after the other panics of smallpox, yellow
fever, measles, over and over. People died
in droves. People fled to 'outlying' areas (by
such was 'Greenwich Village' founded, at
the Potter's Field used for burial (now
Washington Square Park). In our own days,
I guess, one would include AIDS and Covid
as equal obstacles? I don't know; but I do
know that Tompkins Square Park, in August
1967, was no gem. More like an encampment.
Low-lives, the truly disenchanted, the drug
infested, hippies, dippies and all the violent
rest somehow coexisted. Known more to us
now as The Lower East Side, the area had
always been low-lying and fen-like, Collect
Pond, Rutgers Farm, all and any of the most
early names, lands, and places of original
New York. That is where I initially ended
up, and took my roots. All original, all
page one.
-
For sure, in the intervening 20 years the
book situation had been righted. Now there
were tons of them, and entire streets of the
'used' book trade were gathered into what
was called 'Book Row' - already by then
fading and fighting rising rents, but it was
established and strong anyway. Most of the
proprietors, and customers too, were crotchety
old men. I could just its days were closing.
(pt. 2, next)
No comments:
Post a Comment