8473. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #134

134. LOVE SEAT

In my family, growing up,

there was a lot of fabric  -

my father for most of his

life  -  was an upholsterer

so I heard a lot about it,

always talking fabric. I

always kind of liked it

anyway, I guess from

all that upbringing. He

had these large fabric

swatch books  -  each

entire page, probably

like a 14 inch square,

with some text, on these

large, metal-spool-top

pages, so the viewer,

selecting fabric could

just flip around easily.

A big square of the

fabric itself, in the

center, with pricing by

the yard, durability and

cleaning factors and info,

etc. All the various colors

and pattern schemes. It

was a little crazy  -  much

like on the Internet today,

he'd, for instance, order

12 yards, or 22 yards,

whatever, for the

needed coverage,

each chair, for the

job, and it would

come, in a few days,

in these large tubes,

delivered by UPS.

-

There was. about 1965,

the start of a synthetic

fabric movement, or wave,

that my father detested. I

actually forget the name

of the fabric, a fake name

they made up for it, same

as 'naugahyde' for fake

leather. Probably the same

idiots doing the name-work.

People actually began buying

this stuff, liking it. It was

Scotch-Guarded (meant to be

'cleaned' by a simple rub, and

water resistant, for spills and

stains and all). All that stuff,

silly now, was a big-deal back

then. Fake fabric. My father,

as I noted, hated it  -  he'd say

it was nothing but oil and

water, some sort of odd

chemical mix made up and

into thread. No real organic

basis, and thus no 'substance.'

I was confused at first, and

checked into what was being

brought forth. My father was

pretty much correct. It was a

chemistry of suspension, a

spun fabric made of the

froth of the oil/water mix

(which is what I guess he

meant) and formed into

pliable threads. What

really irked him was

that it had no staying

power, and no durability.

The 'airiness' (his word) of

the mix, with no real 'fiber'

base at all, meant it just

wore away quickly. It held

stronger colors, yes (also

1960's important, with

all  that flaming, pop-art,

colored furniture and

stuff), but disappeared

fast. Arm areas wore

out, (you can't even

really say 'got threadbare',

because that would be a

misnomer.) Any heavy

use just wrecked it up

good. Which, I suppose,

an upholsterer could

consider 'good for

business', but he did

not. So, you see, I always

loved that stuff; that point

of view, that 'awareness'

of what was being put

over. Disgruntlement,

for sure. it all grew

on me.

-

As I grew,  he was always

after me to 'learn the trade'.

Take up upholstery he meant,

even if I never 'used' it, he

said every man should have 

a trade to fall back on if times

get tough, things break down, 

or he really needs a job. I maybe

thought about it a few times, as

artisanal-quality work, thinking

if perhaps I could custom-craft 

something cool out of it  -  

even car seats or stuff like that. 

He advised against that  -  as 

the most difficult and annoying 

things (car seats) to do  -  the

tufts and decorative buttons and

edge-seams beads and all. No

money in it, they never want to

pay anyway, these customizer

guys. I just always decided

against it  -  doing what he did.

I could already tell I hated it.

Slavery at a mechanical set

of sewing machines, a little

frame and carpentry work,

stretching fabric, dealing 

with dumb-ass people trying 

to 'redecorate' their dump 

and make everything look 

expensive although done 

cheaply. Fighting with 

people over the most simple

things  -  mark-up, your time 

at the job, they don't want 

to pay, don't have the entire

amount, etc. You end up 

being their freaking bankers 

too. I'd gone out on enough

deliveries, and jobs, and

pick-ups, with him to see

what he had to put up with.

Strange-ass old single women,

or cranky widowers, in places

like Linden, Roselle, Rahway,

and even farther afield, wherever

he'd get a job from  -  Staten

Island, Jersey City, Bayonne,

Monmouth. You name it, it 

was all the same. Married 

people too, the bigger-money 

power couples out of Westfield 

and Scotch Plains. They treated 

him like a peon, he had to put 

up with it, servile-fashion-

like, and he knew it. 

Kow-towing to their

stupid whims and tastes,

answering pointed questions

and their superior-ass stares.

When he brought me along,

it was always the same  -  the

goody ladies would usually

start acting up  -   offering

soda or cake or some crap,

making 'what a nice boy'

chump small talk, acting

all of a sudden super-nice

to my father  -  their fake

jewelry hanging between 

their rising bosoms and all

that fake chicanery. By the

time we left they were

already probably breathing

heavy. I always wished I

was some big, brawny tattoo'd

up Puerto-Rican dude slinging

the furniture for them, giving 

a show, muscles, tight pants

with a bulge. Morons. Female

morons anyway  -  what's that

called, Moronettes?

-

I knew certainly that I did not

wish to be play-acting for people

of that nature for the rest of my

days, just to make 125 bucks on

a setee. (My father always used 

that word, or often enough, I 

think for like a small couch 

or something. A 'setee'? Boy,

did I hate that word. Right

up there with Love Seat, 

which I at first thought was 

a neat chair sold in porno

shops or something, to 

fornicate in, (or on?)). It's

funny, all these years later, 

in thinking on this, to realize

two things: when I'm walking

along now, in NYC, camera,

art, whatever, I love seeing 

the foreign tourists as they 

go by  -  all those French and 

German and Italian, and the 

rest, people just passing along.

I just love gazing at their

clothing and fabrics, shoes,

belts and the like. All those

jeans and shorts and gabardines

and such, from far-flung lands

wherever. Even the denim is

remarkably different. But I've

always kept that taste for 

fabrics, eyeing them, noticing

the differences. And, in the

same vein, I realize now, still

hearing those echoing words 

of my father about something 

to fall back on, a trade, a skill,

what he was getting at. I

understand now, and I've

done it. That's what art is. Art.

My own, albeit impractical, skill,

trade, language, nuance, way of

putting things across. It's all

I've got, and all I've ever had  -

don't get me wrong, I'm a big

fan of heaving bosoms and the

rest, but Art is, instead, what

I have, and what I've made,

all by myself -  it's durable,

real, not synthetic at all, and

has a real and true basis

in the fabric of Reality.

And by it, as is said, 

'I don't need nobody.'

8472. GENERATIONS OF LOADING

GENERATIONS 

OF LOADING

Snarkfest and the general ambiance.

That would be the subtitle of my only

dissertation on logic and reasoning.

Cops on the take, mothers in the gas

chamber, everyone slumbering for

someone else's rest. What's going 

on? For the benefit of Mr. Kite,

there will be a show tonight,

at Bishop's Gate?

8471. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #133

133. FOR ANGELINE

I never measured my life

out in much of anything  -

lost spoons, tea spoons,

pennies or dollars. It

always amazed me how,

on the streets, you really

could get away with living

on very little. If you were

willing to forgo. Once you

get, of course, back out to

real-life places, or lifestyle,

that no longer happens, but

that's part of the deal, and,

hopefully, you're aware of

that before you get to that

point : bills, paychecks,

taxes, things, places; all

those recurring needs of

just being. Part of the lore

of old NY was always

the eccentrics and cranks

who got by and even made

names and reputations, by

that. The happenstance of

accident. Like 'Up In the

Old Hotel' written by

Joseph Mitchell, which

told the whole story of

Joe Gould, in 'Joe Gould's

Secret.' Mythical, farcical

-  but real-life  -  stuff. It

was pretty amazing. One

of those inveterate New

York City guys, this Joe

Gould, who always

claimed to be writing,

in his notebook, some

massive History of the

World, drinking around

and talking big, like

homeless people too

sometimes do, and who,

in reality, had really

nothing at all, just a few

pages and those were

just written over and

over anyway. Everyone

had fallen for his story,

gave him things, believed

him, watched out for him,

and it all turned out to be

drinker's fantasy malarkey

anyway. Joseph Mitchell,

in writing of all this, kind of

pulled the plug on that guy.

-

It was always like that  -  as

if two parallel worlds were

underway together, and I

was somehow stuck in

neither one of them, just

somehow floating between

the two. Which is the

complete opposite of

what I myself thought I

was doing. The fortune-

teller lady on 12th street,

she said it was all typical

Libra stuff  - a little here, a

little there, trying to keep

both, balance the two, and

commit to neither. I told

her she was bunko and

didn't know what she

was talking about, and

then, besides, I told her

I'd made up by date of

birth anyway and what'd

she think of that? And

she said, 'No, you didn't.

You can't lie because the

Spirit doesn't allow for lies

even if you do; You have

every earmark of what you

say you are and of the

date of birth you gave

to me. So stop it.' Yeah,

and she was right. Now,

right around there, on 12th

Street, is a very exclusive

antiques district, and

there used to be, even

into the 1990's, a place

called '12th Street Books'.

It was a nice, down a

few stairs, bookshop, and

to my knowledge was

probably the very last,

real, old-style NY

bookshop I went in.

Homemade wooden

shelves, obviously built

in place and constructed

as needed. Here and

there piles of things,

unsorted. A nice jazz-tray

of record albums, cheap,

and some show-tunes and

stuff like that. Estate books,

used and old volumes,

literature and essays.

Long ago gone, and now

it's some fancy something

else or other. Across the

street from it, and still

there, is one of those little

arthouse movie theaters.

Actually now, to show how

elite they are, they're all

called film houses, not

movie theaters. Indie

productions, maybe three

or four screens, not

mass-release stuff, just

the sorts of films NYU

kids like to take dates or

whatever, to impress

enough to have breakfast

with. Over next to that

is some bizarre, fancy-ass

gym/health club thing that

runs you about 600 bucks

a minute just to stand therein 

your see-through Lululamon

tights and get gawked at

while slimming up, or

down, whichever it is,

or toning down, or up,

whichever that is. Seems

for to me that your just

shelling 'out' for a life

you're gonna' lead

either way.

-

Like any moonshiner of

old, we run, we hide out,

we do things, escape, and

run off again. I used to run

into all those words  -  wise,

sagacious, and all that  -

and wonder about them.

Who was wise? What was

'sagacious'? Did any of it

matter? I always managed

to remember what that gypsy

lady had said  -  'the spirit

doesn't allow for lies.' That

was killer, and it shut me

right down. And then, like

that knife to the heart, she

adds, 'even if you do.' My

God, I always thought

that to be life-changing.

I was hopeless, and helpless

too. Even if she did have a

daughter named Angeline,

a gypsy conundrum in all

the same ways as her mother.

However much of any of that

may be, or have been, bogus  -

the crystal ball on the table,

the Tarot Cards, the curtain

behind it all, the big Mama

in her flowing gypsy dress,

the hoop earrings  -  it didn't

matter. The essence of it 

was a belief in the 

Spiritualism of that moment. 

Which was scary. Every

moment changes, one

from the next, moment to

moment, a zillion things 

have happened, and each 

one of them instantaneously 

becomes a part of our total 

present.  You can't stop it

and it can't be stopped. 'The 

Spirit doesn't allow for that', 

as it were.The world is 

change; that's all it is,

constant, and always

going. Religions try to

explain the world as if it

were a fixed constant.

That can be argued all 

day. No such thing.  

All that's ever sought 

is 'certainty', but there 

never really is any. 

Just like time, the past 

is the past, and the

present is always 

becoming the past, 

never really is the

present. So why 

bother? The future, 

in the same way,

is simply always 

becoming the present. 

So, as it were, what

is it you want?

-

In NYCity, when you 

come right down to it, 

all I was doing was 

trying to 'worship' a

past I'd never 

experienced. It was 

never anything to me  -

maybe someone else's 

'future' once, and then 

a present. But for me, 

only and ever, was it

someone else's dumb 

past. Never my present. 

Go figure. 'The world 

is equal to the sum 

of information we

have about it.'

8470. I NEEDN'T BE THE ONE

I NEEDN'T BE THE ONE

You know, I mean it, it doesn't

have to be me. And we can get

there together. I needn't be the

one to show you. Though I would,

though I'd love to, though I want to.

It's what I'm all about  -  harbinger 

of, bringer of, light, sword-bearer

of the ancient-evers. I'd love it. 

Yes, I would.

8469. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #132

132. ARTY ART AND 

THE ART-TONES

The idea of the background

of a painting having resonance

always rang with me. In the

artworld  of those late 60's

it was, of course, difficult to

make present  -  most art had

given up on any semblance of

'picture' or of being something

even recognizable, so a scene

in the background didn't exist

anyway. But, in my mind, I'd

take that idea out to the street

with me and realize it was at

the same time the very story

of life itself. We are always,

as our own portrait, seen as in

our own foregrounds : total

psychological basket cases

of ego, egocentricity,

dominance, self-awareness,

etc. That's where our identity

-  culturally and societally  -

comes form. But it's really

the scenes behind us that

make up our activities

and beings. And they

are seen, as it were, only

behind us  - we never

really face them off out

front of us, because

it's 'out front' where

they are being made.

To really underscore

the word 'hindsight,'

I suppose.

-

You can't get all cracked

up over stuff like that,

because then you begin

'altering' it  - and it's no

longer real, or authentic,

or even vibrant. As in

Quantum Physics just the

viewing of a situation, or

the experiment, changes

the result being sought -

Things change when under

observation, and somehow

'become' no longer their own

or 'themselves'. How very odd,

I always thought. Erroneously,

in Physics, and by laymen,

this is usually called the

'Heisenberg  Uncertainty

Principle', and that name,

yes, has stuck, but really

it's the 'Observer Principle.'

The Heisenberg Principle

is actually something a

little different, but I'm

not going into it now,

you can look it up

yourselves, if sought.

-

My point was in how, as

individuals, that big,

churning scene behind

us is often unseen

as we forge straight

ahead, forming our

selves and beings.

Leonardo and those

guys, with all their

little background scenes

always in the rear of

these quite meticulously

detailed paintings and

portraits, (yes, again, like

the Mona Lisa) were  - and

without even knowing it  -

in both their very-pre-Freduian

and pre-psychological awareness

days and times  -  presaging

all of that, quite symbolically.

We only now know how to

read that language. (By the

way, this is my theory, my

own 'art' thought, and I had

not or have not actually

read that yet anywhere,

though it perhaps may so

be. I do though sincerely

and authentically, and

maybe naively too, hereby

claim it). And then, only

a little later, if you push

the envelope, you get to

both Hieronymus Bosch

and Pieter Bruegel, where

the background has become

all  - an intense screen of

total activity. All that 'Fall of

Icarus' stuff, and those weird

ground-beings and the

pastoral happenings

on every front. It was

all pretty amazing,

and quite soon. It's a

bit  -  but only a bit  -  akin

to the ephemera of today's

suck-ass 'virtual'world in

which kids get all sidetracked

chasing down imaginary

scenes and planted stuff.

As an artist, hell, that's kind

of what you're always doing

anyway  -  mostly with no one

listening.  Kids now, they're all

communally geeked-out trading

orgasms over some Mickey

Mouse in a doughnut roll

somewhere, and listening,

very unfortunately, only to

themselves. once more the

background has become the

foreground, but for no good

reason at all except for the

nice scrim of ephemeral junk

it provides. Just because they

fall for it, doesn't mean it's any

good  -  and just because I can

look up your address on any

web-search, and find out

where you live, doesn't mean

I want to go there and visit.

Crazy world.

-

Speaking of which (crazy world),

just about hat same time a few

weird things were happening  -

sorts of real, defining things.

As viewed then anyway. One

was a song that was eventually

'banned' or at least pulled

from the playlists of WMCA

and WABC, I think, entitled

something like 'They're

Coming To Take Me Away,

Ha Ha....' to the funny farm, etc.

It was sort of spoken over some

repeated drum motif, and with

also some distorted voice play

too, I think, about some guys's

mental state after a breakup,

and then it sort of ends up

with him talking to his dog.

Jerry Samuels, and the

crazy world of Arthur

Brown. 'Fire' or 'You're

Gonna' Burn', something

lie that. Both of them were

pretty useless, 'industry' 

songs, put out in spite of 

all the counter-cultural 

ferment going on. Absolutely

no content or gravitas, just

a dumb slap-in-the-face to

the real street issues underway.

Like bad art, like Happenings

and all that high-society fake 

art cocktail party stuff that 

was just beginning  -  all 

an affront. To top it off, 

when the 'industry' really 

got hip  -  in its own mind  -  

and really felt ready to hit

back, what did they give us?

You guessed it : Strawberry

Alarm Clock, with something 

crappy called 'Incense and

Peppermint, Curse of Mankind.'

If I could have ripped their 

scalps, off, I would have.

8468. A DEEP RUNNING RIVER THAT BRINGS ME TO HELL

A DEEP RUNNING RIVER

THAT BRINGS ME TO HELL

The trains are running again, and it's

after midnight now. I just heard

another at the station.  Bells.

Whistles. Silence. It's like

that where people dwell.

This deep running river....

-

(You can finish the rest).

8467. BY AND FAR

BY AND FAR

By and far this is going too 

distant, I am heading for 

Mars once again. There is 

water on this locked planet,

and I know that I have been 

here too. But anyway, and 

if it is so, what's the 

difference? Is there 

language for this

sort of thing? 

-

By and far, this table you

offer me I accept. I shall

just sit here for years.

Maybe this, maybe that,

you know. I'll play at

being French, and get

away with all this

loitering. I'm deep.

-

By and far, this table is 

too distant. But I accept it 

nonetheless, your offer  -  to 

loiter at, as if I was French. 

And deep. And, if this water 

is really from Mars, please draw 

me another glass. Do you know

the language for which I now 

search? (I want to change my 

name, and be Hidalgo).