8495. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #140

140. WORLD TO COME

Roundabout these days I

take no real exception to

gay people. And it wasn't

much different fifty years

ago. As far as I knew

anyway  -  it was all much

more invisible and left

unspoken. The seminary

guys had any number of

gay priests and brothers.

We didn't even have a

word for it, except maybe

'cute' or something. The

entire ethos of Catholicism,

especially this sort of

cloistered, strange effort

at 'priest' and 'brother'

was all kind of same-sex

oriented anyway  -  placing

complete trust in other

men and their slightly

skewed viewpoints. No

matter, life went on. I, for

myself, knew what I was

in the middle of, but

remained unaffected.

Nowadays, with supposed

equalities having been

agreed upon and terms

reached, about them, it's

different. In fact, it's

everywhere and it's of

no importance at all

except that the factor

of gayness has reached

the colloquial level, so,

once invisible and unseen,

it's now everywhere

and cannot be commented

upon. Strange switch, in

that now the tables are

changed and we have to

be subjected at all times

to their caterwauling.

Entertainment. Advertising.

Theater. Song. Architecture.

The Antiques Industry.

Cooking and Restaurant/Chef

stuff. I just shrug and watch

all the fluffiness in some sort

of awe. Entertainment. Funny

stuff, almost a parody of self.

-

Back in 1967, I wasn't even

aware of any of this  - there

were one or two flamers in

my last high school year, two

anyway come right to mind,

and it never bothered me  -

and then getting to New York,

yes, I began seeing them,

putting two and two together,

and realizing what was up.

The thing that really gave it

away for me was literature :

I suddenly realized what it

was about some of the

characters and situations

I'd be reading. Older men,

young boys, the pick-ups

and hangabouts. One time,

along the street, some black

guy tried picking me up, as

I passed one of those

eat-outdoor sandwich

places. He was sitting

there, and called out.

I went over, he offered

a chair, bought me (hungry

me) a sandwich, and next

thing I knew, incredibly,

I was walking back to his

apartment with him. All

that ensued was what

you'd imagine, except that

I walked out. He'd taken

'it' out, and that was my

cue. He called me naive.

-

Being called naive was, really,

something I could live with.

So it didn't matter. Better for

him that I left anyway. Less I

knew about that crap, the better

off both he and I would be. And

only then did the light go on.

Christoper Street, Stonewall,

all that stuff now known as

LGBT, or Q, or whatever.

The 'SAAB drivers of the

world unite!' thing. Sex was

second-class with me anyway.

It had been done to death.

How many times to you

have to pump the handle

to know what water is?

Know what I mean? Let's

just say I wasn't lonely, nor

without. The real force-field

of all this was reading James

Baldwin. 'Giovanni's Room',

for starters. It was all about

everything combined  -  anger,

sensitivity, longing, need, love

and lust, companionship,

maleness, memory, and more.

'An intellectual compassion for

the world,' I liked to put it. Yes,

sometimes I wished I was a

reviewer with a real platform

to get points across and have

a say. It's still like that too.

Baldwin took sex out of

category, and put it more

where it belonged : Heart.

Soul. Fire. Anger. Stuff I

could live with. If he had

a sister, I'd have taken her.

I met him once, actually.

A cold Winter's night,

dark, about 6pm, maybe

just about Winter,

Thanksgiving time.

He was walking along

at the Lincoln Center

campus of Fordham

University. He was utterly

recognizable, from the

book jackets  -  the big

pop-eyes, the cigarettes,

that face-look. I just, as

we passed each other, said,

'Hey. James Baldwin.'

He smiled, more laughed,

with that gravelly voice

effect he had, and said,

'well that much is true.

How about you?' Which

didn't sound so dumb as

it may read now. That was

it. Nothing more. Sublime

to the ridiculous, I guess.
Among the parameters of the
literary and artistic world,
gayness, and dual-sex too, 
had always been present. All
through history, in fact, if you
delve, it's surprising to see 
who was what. The great 
unspoken. It's all category
anyway, definition and almost
style. Hardly matters now  -  
but there are a lot of people 
who'd be really surprised 
about things if they ever 
started to dig under the 
'covers' of history. 

-

Well, what else are you

going to do? Back in the

seminary, there was also

a black father or brother,

obviously gay. The gay 

one. He drove around in

a new Ford, in and out of

campus, always seeming 

busy and very amused. 

These things were all 

signals to me of some or

another odd thing in the 

world I hadn't yet dealt

with, or even really knew

it existed. What a world

to come, what a world 

to come.

8494. A PIPED-IN LEONARD COHEN

A PIPED-IN 

LEONARD COHEN

I'll know we've reached the

apocalypse when I cannot turn

this off. I can't, so there we are.

Leonard Cohen, in the elevator.

8493. HISTORY MUSEUM

HISTORY MUSEUM

When the ending comes, it will be

wearing my hat. The train will be

just pulling in to Rahway  -  a few

fat black guys will be strolling on,

and some miserable lady with loud

flowers. 'Headed up t'Lizabeth. Gots

to by me some food.' Yes, that's the

way they talk if you let them.

-

Outside the window, some quarry

of industrial death rolls along. Every

factory that ever was is now in ruins

or taken down for a song : we only

build the new, we cannot build the 

old again. I notice they leave the

old chimneys up often  -  great 

heights of brick to prove what

has beeN. It's a history museum

in the making, but nothing's

made any more.

8492. LAST SUPPER

LAST SUPPER

Don't denigrate my upper room,

for it is where I live. Having had

already my last dining in, I await

the betrayer, who has just now left.

I can choke on this morsel, I guess,

or I can wait for that cross I must 

carry.  Either way, this distance 

before me must yet be traversed, 

so I am ready for travel anew.

Do not tarry.

8491. MIRROR IMAGE

MIRROR IMAGE

I've got ten more of these to do

before I puke my brains out in

your heart and hold you close.

Nothing here is easy  - there's 

a braying horse where the car 

should be, and three tons of 

coal I need to shovel. Damn. 

Everything old is old again. 

How'd this ever happen to me?

8490. CAROLINA

CAROLINA

Last January second I was

driving through the Carolinas

hell-bent for fury seeking

anything out  -  the old 

Winter cottonfields laid

sullenly down. There was

no rain or bad weather, just

a decent chill. The fields 

went by as we caught up

to them  -  pulled off to 

some uncontained dirt road.

No one even around, nor 

cared. The stuff was everywhere,

and we took what we dared;

just there for the pictures 

and the taking too. Had a

guy rode by with a horse

and a rake, I'd a rode with

him to forever. It's like that.

My language is beef and steer

though I eat no meat and can

steer you clear  -  of the things

that will kill you, of the water

that's foul and the dreams that

hurt and come to nothing after

while. I claim the next white

sharecropper's shack I see. I'm

going back, and you won't see me.

8489. A HABIT

A HABIT

Of great moment, does a habit have

a habit of doing these things? The

Edison Pond nearby has a new sign.

Somehow the Parks Service now has

their grubby mitts on it. Like they own

the story of illumination, the creeps.

They'll take Edison away next, just

like they did Tesla  -  contort the

story some more and fill it with

lies. And the Edison LieHouse 

will soon charge admission 

for that.

8488. BIG SKY, OPEN OCEAN

BIG SKY, OPEN OCEAN

I will wave to you like

a leaf waves to the wind.

I will be riding the crest,

the foam that froths, on this

deep blue sea. Nearing shore,

I already see things I didn't

see before  - as the eye opens

skywards and the Heavens

open up.

8487. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #139

139. WITHIN

Back in seminary school,

the early 60's, maybe 1964,

one thing that always stuck

in my brain  -  formative

time stuff, like being 12

or 13  -  was men's

deodorant. I could never

figure that stuff out  -  not

so much the why of it, that

was plausible if not silly,

but the concept itself and

how anyone would ever

come up with the idea,

and the names. Yes, I

know all this reads now

as strange and silly, but

look at it from my own

young perspective  -  world

opening up, adults and

parents and the stuff they

worry about. It caught

me up in numerous fields

too, which you'd never

think of: language, words,

science, social assumptions.

And the whole idea, back

then, of society  -  what

exactly were we aiming at,

what sort of society was

all this meant to bring us?

First off, after I checked into

it, 'aluminum sulfate' or

somesuch was the effective

ingredient  -  the skin and

body reacts so severely to

it that your body, in the

affected area, actually

recoils  - the sweat glands

pinch themselves shut for

five or 6 hours  - so,

whoopee, your underarms

don't sweat! Wow that's

great. If I cut my nose off,

my nose won't run either.

What monstrous edifice

of clang-gangling thought

ever came up with that

concept? And then they

name it Right Guard?

What's that supposed

to mean? Or suggest?

Is there a 'wrong' guard

here being superseded?

I think not. And then, in

an even weirder use of

word and concept, a

competing product to

this is called 'Arid'.

Arid? As in dry? No

moisture? Like a

desert? And then, that's

not enough, they run

a product next to it, a

bit stronger, I guess,

for the extra-sweaty

types, or maybe just

for liars, who sweat

anyway, called 'Arid

Extra Dri', yes, using

that spelling. I had to

gasp as I sat back and

to figure out the theme

of all this new living

-  America was for sure

headed somewhere; some

fantasy dream-scape of

the ad-man's imaginings,

millions of people being

led by their noses to the

edge of some sort of as

yet unknown cliff. And

everyone sure seemed to

be enjoying the ride :

in station wagons with

panoramic glass roofs

and George Jetson parking

garages taking the place

of Fred Flinstone rock-yards

and stone quarries. It all

fit to a tee.

-
I knew it probably didn't 
really matter much, but the 
formula and the equation of 
the situation, to a kid like me, 
had some real meaning, and 
was not superfluous in any way. 
It was as if all this was so obvious 
I was unable to believe no one 
else saw or reacted to it. It just
seemed wrong. The seminary
had a little store, for stuff like
that, and everyone was always
so fussy about it all. It was
already queerly female : all
that cleanliness stuff, showers,
and worrying about your clothing
and odors. This was a seminary,
for Christ's sake, (no pun 
intended), I'd think to myself,  
not a finishing school. My own 
little Eton or something, all
those starchy, queer boys. It was
a struggle for me, at all times to
clarify the situation, for myself,
make it straight, make it right.
I tried to read my way out.
-

I read Heart of Darkness,

by Joseph Conrad, in about

9th grade  -  on my own. It

wasn't a seminary-mandated

course read in any way, but

they had it in their library. I

was voracious in my reading

habits. I got all caught up in

that book, especially after

learning that Conrad had

some specific ideas in the

writing of it : his own native

language was Polish, but he

wrote the book in English,

and it was published in

Blackwood's Magazine,

serialized in three parts,

and then as a book, by

Blackwood Publishing.

The seminary just so

happened to be in

Blackwood, NJ, so

that conjunction of t

hings made it special too.

And then I learned that,

to mimic the dense of

the jungle and all

that hacking away

through the thick growth,

he used himself a very

difficult and 'dense'

form of language

and structure. The

book portrays an Africa,

wild and primitive in

its ways, and seen and

explained through white,

colonialist eyes, etc. Not

that I myself noticed any

of that or was affected by

it  - I just liked the very

senseness of time and place

of which I was just writing  -

but in 1975 an African

writer caused a big furor

over  book for just that

reason, saying it should

not be considered great

at all and should, in fact,

be dropped from the

reference lists about

African continental

writings. "Can nobody

see the preposterous and

perverse arrogance in

thus reducing Africa to

the role of props for

the breakup of the

European mind?"

Heady stuff. "Offensive 

and deplorable; blinkered 

with xenophobia." Chinua

Achebe, from Nigeria. I

admit, back then, to never

even giving a thought as I

read the book to the sort

of viewpoint Achebe was

putting forth. To me, it
wasn't anything about nations
or colonialism  -  and I guess if
that's the level at which Achebe
took it, or the only way he could 
'read', as an African, as he was, 
that was his dealing. Not for me.
It was some grand psychological
symbolism to me, a novel, from
another mind and another
language and way of thought 
entire, and ti spoke to me of the
dark forces within each of us, or
within me anyway, and those dark, 
advancing powers that try to tame 
and overtake the individual who 
possessed it  -  a real heart of 
darkness, a stark struggle within.
Say what you will about Conrad, and
about Heart of Darkness, and all the
rest. That was it for me.

-

From all that, five years 

later I'm sitting in some 

weird basement on 8th Street 

still reading. There was a

bookstore right up the street,

and another around the corner.

My world was made, and set.

Back in the old days, English

aristocrats used to take the

Grand Tour' of the continent 

to experience all of the supposed

antiquity of Italy and Greece.

I did the same fr myself by

rutting down in New York City.

It was all I ever wanted, and all

I'd ever dreamed about  -  the 

doing and the being there. 

It was mine. My own dark,

African continent of the mind

turned real and tangible. They

all faced abroad. I faced within.

8486. ROPE HANDLE

ROPE HANDLE

Men who built this garage

left traces : scrawl lines and

marks of concrete and hammer.

All like things left behind, these

lines. Now it's all just a memory

of what may have been said : I

was only 8 years old, but who's 

counting? They left an old suitcase

in the section of loft that was old

from before, maybe 1922. I looked

at the newspaper  -   Al Smith this,

Al Smith that. He was a New York

Governor or something, running for

something else. I didn't much care

and am never too affected by that

sort of tired news. What caught my

attention much better was the old

rope handle someone had woven to

hold together this broken valise.

If that's the word  -  suitcase, travel-

case, footlocker, who knows? We

opened it up, my father and I, 

and inside was a box of ivory 

dominoes and an old saxophone.

I loved that right off  -  the tarnish

on the sax was so bad it was 

almost black/green, in a shade I'd

never seen. Now, only now, I

look back, or think back, to what 

all this was and I can hardly 

remember a thing. Not even

exactly when or where it was.

Hard to understand all those bends

of time and circumstance. Al Smith?

I guess I can get a year from that, 

but that tells nothing  -  old papers 

were already old at the moment 

I'm speaking of. Or near. Nothing 

more to figure out, just the most

curious rope handle, as if

sent from above for

safekeeping, here.

8485. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #138

138. ROVER

Living in Manhattan without

a car of any sort meant there

was a limit to what I could

do  -  I mean the normal stuff

I'd grown up with. Getting in

a car and going somewhere.

At first I didn't even think

about it, because I'd never

had a car of my own back

in NJ anyway (didn't get

one until later, when I

salvaged some Avenel Street

guy's Renault about to be

hauled off to the junkyard.

It was sitting out front of

92 or 94 Avenel Street with

no plates or anything, and

some sort of note on it said

it was waiting for the tow

truck to be taking it away.

The junkyards were just

down the street  -  I put

my own info on a piece

of paper on the window,

telling the guy that if he

was junking it I'd take it.

He called me up a little

later, and I got it. It's not

often you get a halfway

decent car for free). As I

was saying, not having a

car in NYCity never bothered

me at all, and I never really

even thought about it until

I realized how cool it was,

time after time, to see Philip

Guston, famous artist and

all, pulling up again to the

rear of the Studio School

to pick up a few things,

with his family and dog

already in the car (a Rover

2000, British car; nothing

to do with the dog or

dog name, but funny in

context), for their pretty

often and usual trek up to

Woodstock, where they

had a house and studio.

He'd come in and just

zip away in the car. I

used to wave goodbye

and just watch them pull

away  -  thinking how

free and wonderful it all

seemed. Of course, car

ownership and the rest

brings with it a hundred

other duties and details  -

insurance, license, plates,

gasoline, etc. That all takes

money too, and I had none

of that either. It's funny

how we 'pattern' our own

ways after the things we

and end up wishing for.

My entire reason for being

there was to be the very

opposite of all that, so it

struck me as a bit odd,

and, as well I was certainly

never one to be 'envy' driven.

What did I know? He was

a big-time and famous artist,

with a history and a past, he

probably had millions. Who

was I to be scoping him, and

his ways and station, out.

Any of that responsibilities

and debt and family stuff I

was watching was still a bit

off in the future for me.

All things get confusing.

-

You get going, you think

everyone's civil, the world's

all right with you. Mostly,

if you feel that way then it

probably is  -  but sometimes

things simply come out of the

blue then and just blast you.

Like disease or cancer or the

draft or a divorce or you get

run over or mugged. Any

of that stuff, in New York

City, you had to be careful

about. I'd seen enough, and

heard enough too, and soon

enough, to know that it

happens. In 1967 there was

a lot of street drama going

on. You'd go into, say,

Chinatown, and it was a

whole other place with laws

of its own and its own

enforcers of things too.

Guys with weird looks, on

the lookout. Every so often,

at the Studio School, there'd

be someone who bagged a

good, cheap rental, 2 or 3

rooms, and they'd be in

Chinatown. Mostly it just

never worked out, and

they'd be out of there in

a few months. It was all just

too foreign, even for NYC.

You had Irish guys, and

Italian guys, blacks and

the rest, but they all then

seemed somehow to 'know'

where to live and where to

keep themselves. Again, it

wasn't like today when, most

often, even the crummiest

places slowly get 'gentrified'

and the skinny, tattoo'd hipster

types start taking over and

moving in and changing the

rents and the 'ambiance'

with their clubs and movie

places and cafes. There was

none of that back then. Places

were true to their cores, and

that was that. You start to be

pushing too much 'ambiance'

and you soon-as-not end up

in an 'ambulance' because

some local would bash you.

Especially the Italian guys

or the Irish guys, who ruled

their streets like an iron hand.

You didn't mess.

-

So my mental attraction 

I had to corral a bit  -  

especially over this car 

thing. It wasn't me, yet.

But I sensed there be a 

role for all that, someday. 

I always liked cars-as-design, 

so I kept close-up to different 

models and engines and 

the rest. One of the greatest 

NYC tie-ins for me, for 

two Winters at least  -  

and it always baffled 

me  -  was this maybe 

1953 Hudson Hornet 

that just sat and sagged 

at the Fifth Avenue curb, 

on the west side of the 

street, about 10th or 

11th street, in front

of one of the two churches

churches there, 'Church 

of the Transfiguration' 

and, I think, 'Fifth 

Avenue Presbyterian.' 

I watched that car in

every weather, covered

in ice and snow, or in

sweltering heat. It never

moved, the city never took

any action about it, the

streetcleaner went around

it, and no one seemed to

ever care about it. For me, 

it was a wonder :  that was

the very same car portrayed

in Jack Kerouac's novel,

'On the Road'. Dean Moriarty,

Sal Paradiso, all those guys

running their crazed antics

back and forth across America

in Hudson Hornets and 

Cadillacs. It all seemed so 

perfect, and it all rang so 

true. It somehow connected 

me to a lifeline, a true-blue, 

real-life connection, inside,

to the writing and traveling 

and devil-may-care view of

living that I knew was there

and so wished to grasp. It 

was in my blood, this car, 

fat, bulbous, idle, abandoned,

and just there. Someday it

would all be mine.

8484. A MARGINAL LIFE

A MARGINAL LIFE

The corner here holds no 

secrets any longer. At the 

train-ticket machine, that 

ridiculous mechanical

voice keeps yapping. 

Gun controls exist, I 

realize now, to save 

such machines 

from death.