8707. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #195

195. HELP ME!

Vince Murphy was a local

Elmira TV personality; the

broadcast weatherman actually.

Each night. His day job was 

as the bus driver for the 

Elmira-Binghamton bus 

run. Maybe two trips, 

back and forth a day,

something like 80 miles

each way. He was a goof,

mispronouncing words all

the time. But he was fun to

watch because he was so

unshcooled  -  a map and a

pointer and a big bunch of

stupid weather stuff to try

and say. He never got 

through it correctly, ever.

After the big Hurricane Agnes

storm, in June '72, he was

suspended for going on the

air talking abut how, in the

clouds, during the storm, he

saw  -  I guess while driving

the bus  -  Jesus in the clouds,

and he knew everything would

turn out OK, eventually. He

sort of gave a homily of this

nature on the TV-weather cast,

and then was suspended and, 

I think, lost the job. The TV

job, not the bus driving It was

easy, the drive,  -  in a 

straight line, on Route 17, 

called now, 35 years later, 

the Southern Tier Expressway. 

I hate when they do that. 

It's Rt.17. 

-

The Elmira Bus Station was

one of my favorite things. I'd

see Vince there at 7:30 most 

mornings, boarding up his 

bus for a 7:55 takeoff; something

like that. He wore a cool blue 

driver's uniform, with a little 

cap and all. Had a little cigar

going, usually. He looked like

anybody's Uncle Vince, all 

rough and without polish. I'd

get there about 7:30, and there

wasn't much else open  -  there

was a Dunkin Donuts down by

the hospital about 8 blocks

away, but I never liked it. The

bus station coffee was some

terrible stuff, but it was like 

27 cents, in a gross Styrofoam

cup. The white room always 

had three or four castaways 

in it, a real dump. Folding chairs,

some ancient magazines, and

some bus company propaganda

sheets and travel mags too. 

A little later they got this bank

of six or so plastic, connected

seats  -  real junk  -  and the 

arm on each one had a TV

built into it, small but a TV.

You got like a half-hour for

a quarter, I think it was. Of

course, any of the lunatic 

town bums with a quarter 

would monopolize, sitting 

there forever and taking up 

these seats 3 or 4 at a time, 

watching TV, watching

stupid morning shows 

and stuff like it was 

Educational TV. Man,

what a crummy life  - 

paper bags, old sandwiches, 

horrible coffees  and 

cigarettes, the same crap 

each morning until 

the rest of the town 

started opening up. 

Then they'd hit the

streets like a posse, 

bums  on the move  

-  to the wienie stands, 

Texas Red Hots, M&M 

Red Hots, (Elmira had 

a bunch of chili  and 

soup places for whatever 

reason). Then to the

newsstands and even 

the porno store. It let

them hang around out 

front. Bank plazas, all 

that. The bus station was

grubby, which is why I 

liked it  -  no pretension, 

just tension. Across the 

street, from the old days, 

was this monstrous, and

incongruous granite post 

office, nearly a block long. 

(It's still there now, for 

rent  -  with maybe one

or two law offices in the

lower rooms on one end. 

For Chemung County 

business. The Post Office,

much smaller, has a new

building by the re-built

bus-terminal, as now called.

Back when that older post

office was built they really 

took grandiosity to another 

level, plus they were real 

serious about their 'Federal'

buildings and postal service 

things. Across the street, 

by comparison, this bus 

station looked like a

grease-pit car shack with 

some people huddling 

around. Especially in the

Winter  -  which it almost

always was, in Elmira. 

Vince Murphy had it 

easy, really all  he had 

to say for nine months

of the year was 'Incoming 

darkness and chance of 

snow' and he'd have it 

all correct. Forget that

Jesus in the Cumulus clouds

business. I never minded 

the guy bums, a nod and 

a shuffle. You knew they

were beat, already shot to 

hell. Once or twice though, 

there'd be a girl, or a female 

bum. That always hurt. I'm 

a soft-touch for others in 

need anyway, always wanting 

people to be right, feel good. I 

take up their causes, and really

feel for those I meet. The girl

bums bothered me  -  always 

dirty, with stained pants, old 

shirts. It was a little about sex, 

and I knew it, but it was a

sad scene for me nonetheless.

Girls are wonderful creatures,

gracious things, with plenty of

special features and feelings. It

would hurt me to think about

them, (I'm going to say it all,

so go away for a minute if 

not cool), blood-stained 

clothing, pants, having to 

worry about that, bras and 

stuff -  the kinds of things

that women usually get all 

dainty about, these girls couldn't. 

Their faces were early-haggard, 

sad and scared. Their hair was

horrid, teeth, eyes. Boy it hurt,

constantly felt for them. They

should be at home, where they'd

come from and where, hopefully,

someone could give them love 

and care. But, that's the way it 

was. They'd hang around there,

some of them just as coarse as

any of the guys. I hated that.

And then, people came and

went, small-time travelers

with bags and a case. Cheap 

suits. You could tell they

were definitely like 4th-class

travelers  -  like me when I'd 

take the NYC bus. Off-the-cuff

riders, on a dare.

-

Elmira, you see, kind of 

had nothing. All the industry 

was, mostly anyway, gone. 

What was hanging on  -  

Hilliard  Co., Kennedy

Valve, American LaFrance, 

were already troubled 

businesses. If you weren't 

set up right in little, old 

Elmira, there was nothing

but farms around it, and if 

you'd been bounced from 

any farm-family connection 

or inheritance  -  often by 

an older brother or two, a

family problem, whatever 

 -  you could easily end 

up here, a vagrant, lost,

in the Elmira bus station, 

just waiting for a break.

Back then there wasn't that

kind of social-net as exists

now, with assistance and

money and shelters. You

just took out, and made 

friends quickly, with 

the dirt. I saw it near

every morning.

8706. LOCATION

LOCATION

There's a natural falls where

I fell over the cliff; head

first down, just to splatter.

I got back up, brushed myself

off, looked and and said,

'What's the matter?' All

the way down I had known

there was candle lit already,

and it had been burning,

the whole time, for me.

8704. MY THEORY OF RICKENBACKER

MY THEORY OF 

RICKENBACKER

If the horse has a saddle and

the gun has a holster, then what,

Mr. Cowboy-Gunslinger, have I?

-

The terrible onslaught where we

slaughtered the Sioux is still ringing

in my mind : all that nose and bustle.

-

When the stage finally came it had 

to run through a river of blood. By

such means, we made a nation.

8703. NIGHT SHIFT AGAIN

NIGHT SHIFT AGAIN

Damn, I got the night shift again.

I'm sitting here in a dinner-jacket

seething. My pencils are all in a 

heap and sometimes, I swear I 

just nervously sweat over nothing 

at all. There's no sound within

the meaning; like Faulkner's

Sound and Fury one must not

go without the other.

-

Here's a lethal heap upon the floor:

Oh, it's just the dog, a'sleeping.

8701. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #194

194. ENEMIES LIST

The big picture (there isn't one,

life is all made up of detail,but

I'll pretend), is that all my life

I've always had trouble with

authority. I knew it and there

was no sense in even trying to

tell me differently. Even as a

kid, parents talking to children

was always, to me, a form of

discourse I was not in with.

Conceptually, it was the

concurrence of both poor

assumptions and demands,

or beliefs and representations.

My mother would go on talking

on the phone. I'd say, 'What

phone? What do you mean

by that? There's no phone;

you've made that up.' Of

course, she'd be baffled. And

then (she was a hypochondriac,

always sick or suffering from

one imagined ailment or the

other), I'd crumple and fall

over dead. Play dead. Or

pretend some zombie-like,

jittery trance on the floor.

She'd freak, in her usual

'mother-freaking-out' way.

Then I'd get up and laugh

it off  and walk away. She

always drank cold coffee,

old stuff in a cup like for

hours, she'd be walking

 around with it. I'd leave

her there holding her

dumb, cold cup. She say

something like, 'Oh, you

burn me up. I don't know

what I'm going to do with

you.' Great fun  -  but, even

at age 11 it was indicative

of how I felt about things  -

all facetious, everything a

goof, nothing real at all;

a laughable fantasy. Way

ahead of my time, I was a

hipster, an ironist, and an

absurdist all before I was

12. Antonin Artuad had

nothing on me.

-

Authority was a joke, cruel,

bad, stupid, you name it. I'd

look at people and just shudder.

There was a 5th grade teacher,

Mr. Raisley. To me the guy

looked exactly like Barney

Rubble, on the 1960 Flintstones,

short, floppy, almost dumb

approach to everything. I

couldn't take anything he

said seriously. In the same

way as my mother  -  who

most certainly should have

caught on to this whole

stupidity shtick I did

about collapsing and dying

-  you'd think  -  after maybe

the second or third time,

but feigned a real surprise

 each time, perhaps

she was acting and I was

being played  -  so too did

Mr. Raisley manifest repeat

behavior at all times. The

same oddball perplexity.

All the time. The others

too, it wasn't just him, as

a 'teacher', but they pretty

much were all the same way.

As predictable as rain-spouts.

One thing I always disliked is

what I called 'repeat behavior'.

Totally dull, predictable actions.

Repeated into infinity; because

no one thinks, no one has an

original idea about anything.

Boy, did that annoy me.

-

I used to try an imagine the

railroads, when they first

came. Travel on fixed rails

- no alteration or variation

permitted - or possible. What

a surprise that must have

been for people used to

recalcitrant cattle and horses,

to wandering, to wagon drivers

who'd get sidetracked, or the

bar sots who'd get and stay

drunk long enough to get

them passably through

the fears of Injun country,

or wherever. Road ruffians,

pillagers, and wagon-thieves.

The trains came and everything

was set into place. People

began moving about by

clocks and time, schedules.

Routes and destinations all

of a sudden mattered. No

more fun. No more sidetracks

into the woods. No more

short-cuts or roundabout

journeys either. Repeat

behaviors, all of a sudden,

everywhere. Life for me

couldn't be like that.

I'd figure the when and

how and where and why

of what I was going to do,

as I pleased, and whenever.

I just couldn't stand authority

stepping in; and it's still

like that today.

-

So, lots of times I just

studied things, stayed to

myself. I couldn't take

much else, everyone gave

me the heebie-jeebies.

I'd be reading all sorts

of weird stuff, things I

really didn't know about

except for what I read  -

as I said all that Theater

of the Absurd, Theater

of Cruelty, stuff, Artaud,

Brecht, the crumbling,

destroyed edifice of old

Europe, and the huge

new void, with all the

ruins still smoldering,

of the cities and peoples

torched and destroyed,

those who fought and

who surrendered, bastards

and losers, winners and

the dead. It was everywhere,

like air  -  existential angst

and the re-branding of all

things. I had few dreams,

but plenty of nightmares.

Tennessee Williams, the

playwright, used to say

that writers and artists

had several homes : There

was the biological place

of birth; the home in

which one grew up, bore

witness, fell apart. There

was also the place where

the 'epiphanies' began  -

a school, a church, perhaps

a bed. Rockets were launched

and an identity began to be

set. There was the physical

location where a writer sat

each day and scribbled and

hunted and pecked and

dreamed, drank or cursed

his or her way into

something. But  -  and most

importantly  -  there was the

emotional, invisible, often

self-invented place where

work began. The mental

theater where the characters

played. That was home; and

he always wanted to get home.

"If you're a writer, you write.

If you don't, you're dead."

I'd have to say there's a lot

of reality there. Stuff I could

bite into. I was kind of in a

half-world wherever I went:

seminary, Elmira, Ithaca,

Columbia Crossroads,

NYC, and the rest after

that. Always searching

and striving, singularly.

BUT...One thing that came

from this, of equal importance,

was the idea of 'alone'. The

artist as 'Alone.' He made

a really good point, with

all of this, something to do

with loneliness, with the idea

of the writer feeling, at the

least, that somebody was

listening, that he 'mattered.'

I guess it had to do with a

sense of audience : "I needed

to know that I mattered, that

I was of some value. I needed

a 'witness'  -  Here is the

importance of bearing

witness. We do not grow

alone, talents do not

prosper in the hothouse

of ambition and neglect

and hungry anger; love

does not arrive by horseback

or prayer or good intentions.

We need the eyes, the arms,

and the witness of others

to grow, to know that we

have existed, that we have

mattered, that we have

made our mark. And

each of us has a distinct

mark that colors our

surroundings, that

flavors the recipe of

'experience' in which

we find ourselves; but

we remain blind, without

identity, until someone

witnesses us."

-

Now, that may all be

a bit dramatic, or juvenile

or needy or something of

those, but it strikes hard,

and with an authentic blow.

Take it from me, one lost

in the wilderness for a

very long time. When I

was 14, I really could have

used words such as those.

They would have been

like an electric shock

to my system.

-

Problems abounded. All

these wacky playwright guys,

like Tennessee Williams, they

were always writing up bizarre

and overstrung characters as 

their women. Nobody was sane

or settled. Blanche Dubois was

a complete wreck, the scene and

occurences of Streetcar were

overwrought and bizarre. It was

obvious, I thought, as a 'reading'

of a prevalent problem : many

or most of these guys were gay,

and they were still working

things out, personal Mom and

Dad issues, even when they 

were 55 years old. That's the

main reason I did eventually

move off from all that  -  plays

ended up boring me; all those

directions and fussy sorts of

information and scenery-settings.

I sought the rip-snorting, and 

the 'real', and the 'violence' of

the accidental.

-

Another perplexing conflict :

what's a playwright, or an 

author, except another 

'Authority' figure? They 

(I guess I like to say 'we'

here too), set everything up,

demand fealty to our scene,

tolerate no exceptions, and 

just keep churning out

absolutes. I couldn't get

to what any of that meant

or from where it came, but it

was pretty apparent to me.

I had to somehow become

my own worst enemy?

8700. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #193

193. NOTHING

I used to really dig reading

Oswald Spengler's 'Decline

Of the West.' I'd read it in

'Super Duper', walking the

aisles while my wife and kid

did groceries. Can you picture

that scene? When a gallon of

milk was maybe eighty-nine

cents, and a dozen eggs were

a quarter. 'Super Duper' was

the grocery chain's name. Like

'Piggly-Wiggly' down south,

or 'Food Circus' up Syracuse

way. This was Elmira, say

1972, Nixon in the White

House and the world a'zoom.

It was about how, in a very

natural progression, all things

rise and fall, this book by

Spengler was, kind of, like

Hegel's philosophical view

of things too. The West was

doomed as it had had its day.

I guess, OK. Then I'd come

to the little toy-cars, in a rack

by the check-out. Sixty-cents,

and you were supposed to buy

one, on impulse, in line, while

your kid screamed, to shut

him up. I don't think they had

things there for girls, but I

don't remember. It was a

quite different world, with

all that separation, and maybe

they just figured girls didn't

scream out. The cars, upon

inspection (and I found this

endlessly intriguing) were

'Made in Israel', and called

'Sabra' (brand name) cars.

A 'Sabra' is (this is the

definition, not my words) -

"A Jew born in Israel, or

before 1948, in Palestine."

Man, that used to wipe me

out. Just seeing that stuff, 

in words, with the world 

as a running theater. The

whole idea of Oswald 

Spengler's worldview, and

Hegel's too, was organic  -

as natural as any hayseed

framer's field thereabouts;

things rise in growth, 

blossom, and then wither 

and die. Any of these 

farmer-wives strolling

through the aisles here 

would know that, I 

figured. But just

not by those terms or 

by reading Spengler or 

by understanding

what a Sabra was. And

anyway, I'd wonder, 

wasn't it all redeemable 

by work? Like any 

blossom or plant, the

key was to harvest it

at the right time and use 

the resultant fruit or 

vegetable. A good farmer

knows that  -  when the

right moment comes. The

word 'redeemable' I sensed

wouldn't work  -  all they'd

think of was coupons.

-

We used to buy the cheapest

of whatever we could find.

Subsistence grocery-shopping.

Mac/cheese, dated fruits and

vegetables  -  the little withers

and blemishes found. A deli

counter, where the guy takes 

care and fine-slices your cuts,

all that was unquestionably

out of the question. If this

wasn't a Hooverville, it was

certainly down-times and I

was living inside my own 

Depression. Anyway, I had

to save money for that damn

bus-trip to NYC again. All

the way out past Binghamton,

headed east  -  75 miles just

for that; and then, from 

Binghamton, another 160.

Worse trips in the world, those

stuffed-in-a-bus jaunts. Five 

people at most, leaving Elmira,

and then maybe another 10 or 

so picked up in Binghamton :

some sleaze with his guitar,

a punk chewing gum, a stash

for sure in his case; a single 

mother with a kid in tow, 

dragging it by the arm while 

wailing something about full

price for kids. Probably 

pawn-shop bound, to trade

the kid in for a ukulele and

some cash; some teenage

lickabout, a girl, spaced on

karma and looking for love.

Not mine. Too bad. I always

figured, in so many ways, if

I was a girl I'd'a been a whore.

It's a good deal  - like carrying

all your work supplies, your

freaking factory, around with

you all the time, generating 

cash, setting your own hours

and conditions. No, no, only

kidding  -  I'd sit there thinking

of comedy lines instead of

working the streets.

-

Back in Super-Duper, the 

ladies were clawing the meats : 

checking out the cuts, talking

to each other about little things,

mentioning names, wondering

about school and kids and shoes.

All the world, probably much

the same   -  the talky patter

of village and town. One 

thousand feet away, on the 

old church lawn, the statues -

of Henry Ward Beecher, one

of those abolitionist guys, 

the preacher, and across the

street the Civil War obelisk

and all that  -  statues and 

memorials to wars and the 

dead. Large, overwhelming

stuff. Super-Duper indeed.

No one noticed and no 

one ever cared. Snow used

to fall in foot-long buckets

and cover everything here,

days and weeks on end, it

all disappeared. And then

would come slowly back. A

long thaw like awakening from

a dream, all this hidden stuff

again exposed. Technicolor

nightmare? No. More just

bass and copper and gray.

The world had different

colors in those older days;

people weren't as garish

or gross. Elmira was a

cubicle, and I was a cube.

-

Right across the way, too, was

that shoe-store I had in mind.

Not a real shoe-store, just a

jumble-heap of bargain shoes,

discontinueds, seconds  - tied

by laces and heaped, a rising,

huge, mad jumble of dollar

ninety nines. What did they

name, back then, things like

that? Shoe World? Universe

of Shoes? Sole Survivors?

Tongue in Cheap? I forget.

-

Everywhere were little

park-like lawns. Useless as

all get-out, but a town center 

with a bench or two every 

hundred and fifty feet. No

transportation to speak of,

you were on your own  -  

though there's a jitney service

of some sort now - municipal

stuff, some fat, retired guy

driving a bus shaped like a

duck. Man oh man. All those

dead colonials in the cemetery

behind Sears  -  what used to

be Sears, now it's 'Aaarons

Used Appliance Store (and

Furniture Too!)'. Yeah, three

A's, to be first in the phone

book  -  except there aren't

really any phone books now,

even in an old cook's-town

like Elmira. Everybody's mobile,

with theirs stuck up their ass. 

The kids all I see run around

talking, that's it, and nothing 

more. Who cares about the

cemetery. Sabras? Settlers?

Dead  colonials? Sounds like 

another God-damn music fest 

coming to town. The tattooed

names of bands written

on a jester's face.

-

One thing was, I used to get

so tired of 'Nothing.' All that

nothing, going all around  -  

like a fevered plague, like 

fire, like storm. Most people 

can put up with 'Nothing', but

I can't. It just drives me nuts. 

Have you ever seen a cow, in a field, 

screwed into place, for five hours 

chewing some stupid regurgitated 

matter from another stomach, and 

just staring into space, big old

jaws and big flat teeth grinding

sideways while all the day passes 

by? And then, at some inherently 

internal and appointed hour they 

know when to get moving and  -  

still chewing  -  stream their way

back to the barn, to be stacked up 

for milking, walking their cow-walk 

through that atmosphere that,

to them, seems to seem so heavy

and thick as to hold them?

Man, for me, I'd rather slit

my neck, once, good, than

have to deal with a

continual Nothing.

8699. THE UGLY GIRL BRINGS MY CHALICE HOME

THE UGLY GIRL BRINGS 

MY CHALICE HOME

This is all self-selected stuff, and

beauty's in the eye of the beholder.

I go far and I go near, just looking

for pieces of you. Don't call yourself

down; bring me to town, and we can

while away the hours together.

8698. LUNCH POEMS

LUNCH POEMS

I used to sit under an oil tree,

reading Frank O'Hara's 'Lunch

Poems.' They were fun, and cute,

and coy, and uniquely wordy. Just

as I wanted to be : which was a

really bad idea in retrospect.

-

Across the street was that huge, 

old church  -  Richardson or 

Renwick or one of those guys : 

architects on gospel parade, 

always designing Gilded Age 

churches. If God had a care 

for any of that, He'd have

made us of skin we could

take to the bank.

8697. PERPENDICULAR SETTING

PERPENDICULAR 

SETTING

Mr. Masher I can't see. That lights are

out everyplace I look. The darkness is

thin, but I can pierce it with my hand.

I'm certain to be OK. Bills are paid

with promises and there are stamps no

more to lick. Everything these days

is pressure sensitive. Adhesive like

my heart - sticking everywhere.

8696. DRAGGING

DRAGGING

Fetch me the kettle, bring me the

hose, I am dragging you through 

the mud again. Bring me the shovel,

get me the pail, you are dragging

me through the mud again.

-

So many coins, with so many sides.