RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,298
(here come the human cue-ballers, pt. ONE)
I guess it was about 1972 that was
the first time I really felt myself crazy.
That was a long time ago, and at that time
we were at Columbia Crossroads, PA, on
12 acres left over from a farm that had
been broken up so that I could buy, for
this story at least three times here, in
the last 10 years or more, so I'm not
going to belabor it. In a few more
years, we were in Elmira, NY, in a
nice little house I'd bought at the
college (one block in). All was cool,
and the human mix of place and
people suited me fine. The transition
was easy, and the young son was 4.
His name was Jaime, but he wouldn't
answer to it. Believe that? He didn't
like the name - simply made everyone
call him Jay. OK, fine. I changed it to
Jay-son, and then, when South Asians
began coming in, I simply started
calling him Sonjay. Ha. Even when
he started school, we'd get calls from
the teachers to come in because he
would not recognize his name. I said,
'Look, for pity's sake, just call him 'Jay
and be done with it. He'll answer.' The
problem was solved. None of it mattered
anyway. Actually, I liked Sonjay, and
thought it was a cool name, in his case.
-
There was a certain kind of madness
I had easily entered into. The problem
with this - of course - is that when
you're faced with someone telling you
how crazy-mad he was/is, it's good to
proof-positive he wasn't, and isn't. In
the same way a suicide who keeps
blabbing about committing suicide
will never do it. Caveat here : in my
few experiences with suicides there
was one guy who talked about it for
like twenty-five years, as his right,
and his choice, to take control of
his own life. It wasn't very pretty
when he actually followed through.
-
Anyhow, all about this time things were
loosely falling off the table for me. My
cares and concerns seemed different.
The wife and child concerns, though I
always took care of everything, had
partially become secondary. Nothing
at that level really computed for me
any longer. Kathy had somehow and
once again gotten connected up with
the usual run of Presbyterian fidgets.
As in Columbia Crossroads, but those
fidgets were Baptist. The Presbyterians
here were more organized, and held to
sterner matters. I never once entered the
church quarters. She was being called
a 'Pillar of the Community', while my
friends Nelson and Chris were laughing
at the very thought. I never knew what
was going on, nor what in the world
they were getting involved in there.
Funny, but this was back in the day,
(1974ish) when many of the farm folk
and Elmira locals still drove curiously
interesting 10 or 12 year old cars. They'd
be inside doing their church stuff, and
I'd take my dog for a walk just to see
the cool spread of '54 Fords and '56
Buicks and such they were parking
and walking away from. I could have
stole a hundred cool cars a month
probably, and those googlers would
have just started praying harder for
a new car, probably. I never met a
one of them, and never wished to
either.
-
Those were the days of Gandy Brodie
as 'Artist-In-Residence' at Elmira College.
He had a Sunday morning dog-walk thing
going too, with his dog. We became friends,
of a Sunday and art sort anyway. And during
his time I was often to his studio in the Art
Building. It was going real nice, and then
he died! Just like that! He had been an old
line Beatnik artist type through the NYC
1950's, and had lots of friends and stories
from them. Being solo, he brought no
family and no connections with him
but for the dog, and I never knew what
happened to anything. One of his NY
friends, poet Kenneth Koch, who
often-enough visited, maybe took the
dog and Gandy's stuff too. There was a
wife around somewhere, I later learned,
but I'd never met her nor seen her. Nor
even heard of her. It was only later when
I learned what a 'beard' was that it made
a little sense. Back in those days, having
a 'wife' on paper anyway, was a means
for gay guys to pass as straight. Yes, it
was all that weird. So many women
(probably lesbians themselves?) married
themselves off for money or whatever,
and - SHAZAM - the guy had a wife,
so he couldn't be gay. Right?
-
I didn't know much of what else was ever
going on - there were two biker bars in
town, but I stayed away from them. The
upstate New York '70's biker guys all
seemed way too out there for me, like
'Eat a Peach' Allman Brothers types,
with attitude. I didn't know what side
anyone was on, and I didn't want to -
nor did I wish for them to know
anything much about me. Biker girls?
Up there they all seemed pretty much
as nothing but Biker-Fuck-Fodder.
-
More later on my sense of being' crazy,
but I was in the later/mid '70's for keeps,
and there weren't no way out.
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