10,365. RUDIMENTS, pt.184

RUDIMENTS, pt. 184

Making Cars

'Dereliction of duty.' I did

always like the sound of that 

phrase. Or the look of it, I guess,

since most things to me were seen

in writing form, sign form. It just

always came across well. Unlike

A.W.O.L., which I could never

figure out. I always figured, in the

military, to go anywhere you had

to get 'Leave' first, so that it meant,

'Absent Without Leave.' Meaning 

you've left the premises without 

being allowed to. And then, some 

years later, I learned it actually was 

'Absent Without Official Leave.'

Meaning you could leave, I guess,

but you had to leave 'officially.'

Someone first had to OK it. 

Typical military stuff, as if there 

were degrees of absence  -  you 

could NOT be there, the right way 

or the wrong way. No sense at all, 

and things of that nature always 

confused me. It was like a form

or predetermination. The human 

condition; were you not possessed

of a free will to make your own

selections? Then later, studying the

make-up and premise of militarism

in all its forms, I came across their

rather illogical rendering of the 

concept of the military 'unit' taking 

precedence, and that in order to 

maintain the needed cohesion (to 

be an effective 'fight-force' at but

a moment's notice), the member's

Freedom, in fighting for Freedom (?)

had first to be surrendered to a strict

code of faceless adhesion to rules 

and command, which is almost 

biblically correct by its ranking and 

naming of levels and positions, ranks 

and command. Every incremental step 

along the way had a designated title 

and locus, so as to provide an instant 

identification of where, along that

scale, the person's surrendering of

personal Liberty had brought them.

It actually made little sense in the

end, as the same bullet that kills 

PFC Clarkson could just as well 

kill Lieutenant Colonel Ambutson,

except that when you reach that rank 

and level, a certain portion, very 

small, but certain, of your 'Freedom' 

has been recouped enough  -  so that 

you are free NOT to stand in the 

line of fire, and thereby have PFC 

Clarkson take that hit for you, his

low-boy rank signifying him, 

essentially, as dead-meat, or at 

least an easy candidate for same.

That's the military argument, and 

the other one about all men being 

equal, or born equal, or whatever, 

only holds charge in the outside 

world, for in the military world 

you are judged and held to the 

mainstays of differing standards. 

I found that all very uncomfortable.  

And I found myself to be a 

charitable-enough man so that 

I'd not allow or wish to allow 

for having anyone to 'fall' in 

my stead. The military mind, 

however, cannot operate like

that. I'd rather NO ONE fell; 

they'd not blink if both fell. For 

some silly, indeterminate, cause 

deciphered over indirect and 

imprecise forms. After all, the 

game-plan here was that no 

one is free and ALL is 

pre-determined, or what's 

an army for? Fighting each 

for their IDEA of their own 

predestination. To hell with

Freedom, whatever that means.

-

In that way, I guess, in the 

world of brute boys and men, 

I'd be described as 'too good 

for this world'  -  a degenerate 

weakling. That would bother 

me, I guess, but only for about 

ten seconds. I hate to keep 

harping on 'control,' but that's 

about all I ever saw in anything. 

Every concept, every tenet of 

anything, seemed to have no 

merit except a kind of made-up 

fantastic-certainty by which 

someone could 'be over' someone 

else  - superior rank, a Cardinal 

over a priest, an Archbishop 

under the Cardinal but over the 

Bishop; the Pro over the Amateur, 

and, again, the Lieutenant Colonel, 

certainly, over the lame PFC. 

Marine over Army but Army 

over Navy. It's all crazy. 

-

If people don't, apparently, find 

their own footing among stuff like 

that, they feel things are out of 

control  - so there's saluting the 

flag, and rifle salutes and laws 

and proclamations; business leaders 

or just poor businessmen. Everything 

on the crawl to be slobbering over 

someone else. I always figured that 

if we gave others the benefit of the 

doubt like we gave ourselves, we 

might rise to be less demanding 

and rotten about crawling over 

others. We'd find peace. In my

time, from the bottom up, instead

of the top down, (rich dudes miss 

a lot, and garner bad habits), I saw

a lot of people, real human people,

going about their meager lives, with

those around them at the same level

and, mostly, just as perplexed. What

I saw there was a character action,

a helpful (and  healthful) interaction 

among peers. The guy lifting and 

hauling, the waitress cleaning up 

the counter between orders, the

frustrated driver trying to park.

People are always imperfect, and

at fault too, for something. But 

again, giving everyone the 

benefit of the doubt (same as 

to oneself ), the human that is 

managing, just coping, needs for

us, I think, to worry less about 

being in control, or who is, and

instead just going easier on each 

other. After all, really, what's any

of it worth? In the long run, as

John Maynard Keynes said, we're

all dead. Maybe it's far better that

we be as understanding with others

as we are  -  or ought to be  -  

with ourselves. So, don't shirk.

Do your duty, and  -  by the way  -

pass me that bowl of compassion

you're hoarding for yourself.

10,364. TARRAGON

TARRAGON

I have a devil of a time with names.

I have a devil of a time with money.

I have a devil of a time, it seems, with

everything normal. But that's just me;

I neither makes rules for others, nor

abide by any. Sometimes I can recall

things as if they were yesterday, and

other times it's just a fog. Savannah,

Georgia, and St. Augustine, Florida,

two good examples : in each place I just

ended up to wander and found wandering

to be the end I wanted. I can still recall

each bit and shading. And then, last

week right here, I saw something but

cannot remember where I saw it, or

hardly even what it was. Ain't fair.

-

Down there, obviously, in those two

places, it had to do with the architecture.

Not so much the people  -  they were 

all the same, mostly, and just traveling, 

like me. In Savannah, some perfectly

gorgeous tour guide was telling a small

group of  -  it seemed, perfectly disinterested  -

tourists about some nearby courthouse in a

central square. I wanted to scream at the

jerks to pay her some mind. But I stayed

quiet, and just went along my way.

-

But, my point still being, I can remember

so perfectly what is receding away; what's 

here, by contrast, I have to fight to recall.

So near...and yet so far away.

10,362. LONG LINES AND MANY WORDS

LONG LINES AND 

MANY WORDS

An old bluesman trick is this: on a long

line, you sing all the first words quickly,

and then slow it down  -  that leaves you

time to fool around with the last words,

slow them down, twist and fumble the 

sounds, in unexpected ways. People

will think you've got a speech 

impediment.  That keeps up

their attention to you.

Nothing fades.

10,361. STEADFAST HUMORS OF THE DARDANELLES

STEADFAST HUMORS 

OF THE DARDANELLES

This door goes to the Netherworld and

the other brings you back : there's a special

lining for this jacket you must wear.

-

A broad glass of deep red wine will catch

you; coming back, especially. Like a rich

gem, a ruby, we'll be sitting near the fire 

as you find yourself returning. 

-

Wake up now, and go.

10,360. RUDIMENTS, pt. 183

RUDIMENTS, pt.183

Making Cars

This one gets off on a

different footing  -  and it's

only because this recent

occurrence which I wish to

relate fits in so well with some

of my points. As follow: I've

been around enough now to

see lots of things  -  the things

that got away, things I didn't

notice as they happened, only

later, and things that have changed

so drastically, and socially, that

I can't make heads or tails from

anyhow. There's a far and full

moon shining in right now as I

write, and a big, fat dog is

soundly sleeping at my feet,

as is her nightly habit. I assume

then that God is in (His) Heaven

and all is right with the world?

-

I have retained all of my old ways.

I am a usual sourpuss about many

things. BUT, in all this I have kept

up, somehow, with what goes on :

the daily political machinations, the

shifting ship of the way things are.

My fair wife, on the other hand, has

managed a distinct distancing toward

some of these things, which sets her

apart. I do think that if she woke up

in the middle of the night and came

down to use the phone, she'd still,

in a deep stupor, be looking for

the rotary dial. 'Nuff said. About

a week or so ago, just before the

Christmas and New Year's week,

we were visiting a relative. I was

to be leaving with the lady of that

house, to pick up a piece of

furniture in my pick-up truck, for

her, and delivering somewhere else.

My goodly wife was staying with

the man of that house  -  which man,

over the last two years, in his mid-70's,

has developed evidences of dementia,

and the other afflictions of the aged.

In order not to leave him alone, for

whatever dangers could arise, she was

going to keep him company  -  while

he babbled, went on, imagined, etc.

She'd been told beforehand what things

he may say, do, talk about, mistake, etc.

It was all good. Anyway (and this is

where it gets very funny), her retelling

of all this  -  still rather baffling to her  -

has it that, after a hour or so he began

talking of the 'old' days, his childhood

memories, things he liked, etc. Occasionally.

she said, he'd act as if there was someone

else there, with them. At some point

the talk turned to old music and old

tunes that he liked. He mentioned how

much he used to like listening to Jimmy

Durante. An old-time singer. He asked

if she liked Jimmy Durante. He said 'Do

you want to hear some Jimmy Durante,

let's all have some Jimmy Durante.' At

which point, she says, he got up, went

to the wall, leaned his head in towards

that wall, and started sounding out  - 

'Alexa, play me some Jimmy Durante,

Alexa, I want to hear Jimmy Durante.'

A few seconds passed, and lo and behold

the sound of Jimmy Durante started

playing, a entire series of songs. She

was astounded, and truly thought she'd

had a seat in a mysterious madhouse

with a strange and powerful man who

could control the walls to play music

of his selection, through the weird and

imagined interface of 'Alexa.'

-

Poor girl. I was rolling with laughter,

mostly at the true sincerity in the

belief of what she'd witnessed, as

if some miraculous, weird occurrence.

I left it to others to tell her that 'Alexa'

was a pay-service app in that house,

with voice-control for radios, TV's, etc.

by means of a speaker and connection

at the wall, into which wall she'd thought

a madman had been speaking. Far be it

from me to break this wonderful spell.

-

My point is, I guess, how in the world

would we have prepared for this, in 

1960 or 1965? What sort of dreamworld

description would we have to had to see,

in some lame Life or Time magazine in

order to be prepared for, and envision.

old men talking at walls and creating 

sound thereby? I think, perhaps, that 

1957 Sputnik which was buzzing over 

our houses that night, and for which 

nearly the entire block's worth of 

parents, and some kids, had come out 

to crane their necks and heads skyward 

to watch this moving, blinking, silent, 

and distant Soviet light, was really

calling to us, in some strange way,

saying the Russian equivalent of :

'You ain't seen nothin' yet.'

10,359. WHO MISSES WHAT?

WHO MISSES WHAT?

The hat does miss the head, 

or the head may miss the hat; 

but the mouse which runs the 

cheese-line does not miss the cat.

10,358. EXTRA MEANING

EXTRA MEANING

We went from car to car, as if we

were blind. Archibald, you'd have

never known. The back guy was 

playing some telephone rap, a spot

of music, alone. Keep walking,

gents, just go on. 

-

Inside the Rahway station the lady

in robes was trying to settle some

guy  -  he was convinced his scratch

off ticket had won him 10-grand.

Not so fast, she tried saying, but no

one understood. Misreading waxy

numbers is a real problem. 'It

needs three; you only have two.'

-

There's a bust of Tesla out front; 

they claim him now as their own too,

saying he once had a lab along Cherry

Street. Electrifying news, if true; but

how much fame can a dump like this

claim? Not even the river stays here.

10,357. RUDIMENTS, pt. 182

RUDIMENTS, pt.182

Making Cars

I'd have to guess that no one likes

conjecture, or things about which

they have to guess   -  they like things

nailed down and spelled out. Makes

it easier. There's a whole school of

people who teach otherwise; who

seek enigma and mysteriousness, so

that no one is quite ever sure what

they're saying or where they're

going to with something. Idea-wise,

I mean. That's what makes some of

that writing workshop stuff so creepy:

others telling you how NOT to write

clearly, so that they're covered for

themselves, having made you such a

writing wreck that nothing good will

ever come from your pen again, while

they can satisfactorily sit right where

they've always been, secure that you'll

be no threat. Leastways that's the way

it's always seemed to me. That's what

grammar is all about anyway  -  keeping

you, as the writer, in bounds. I like to

make words up, and I don't particularly

care if things are said 'right' or not.

Sometimes I like to elide over words,

or jam things together or even use

them incorrectly  -  just to make a

point, or to rattle any one of those

pointy-butts who may be reading.

If you go to writing-school, or any

of those over-generous writing-session

things, the first observation you make

is that it's a bunch of crap  - insider

type people who could be doing any

of a hundred other things in place of

'writing' and still maintaining their 

tired, old world-view and probably 

getting the same satisfaction from it.

Gardening. Bicycling. Tent-making.

There used to be news boxes all

over New York (before all this

Internet gibberish now) that always

had newsletters and brochures and

news-packets for things like the 

New York School For Writing, or

or the New York Writing Academy,

or Institute, or any of that. There

was even one called The Famous

Writers School. (I don't know or

remember what sort of apostrophe

they used). As you can see, all it 

was was a scam-industry dedicated 

to fleecing people out of six hundred

bucks every couple of months so

they could feel they were intently

writing the new Huck Finn, or

Quo Vadis, or Catcher In the Rye, 

or  'V' or Seven Days in May, or

As I Lay Dying. Let alone those 

God-forsaken every-holy tomes

like Gravity's Rainbow or The

Great Gatsby. It used to make me

laugh just to see what suckers 

people could be. Authenticity goes

right down the drain when some

blowhard starts plucking the feathers

off some real, raw talent and calling it

'excessive' or 'untrained.' Fifty years

later, of course, the next batch of

shitheads are teaching that very same

stuff, as being the 'raw, inspired talent'

of 50 years previous. It all makes 

no sense and it's a ship full of holes.

-

Most people use things as excuses to

use things, covers for what they'd like 

to be but really are not, or can't ever be.

And the reason for that is that they're

far too fastidious, worrying over every

crumpet and droplet falling away from

their hand. You've got to have a devil-

may-care attitude (not even sure what

that means, especially in this context)

to really 'write'. You need to cut right

through  -  and always be willing to cut

right through  -  anything in your way.

And usually that's not going to make 

the anal-retentives among us happy

at all. It all has to with just going forth.

It becomes OK when some nitwit outfit

like Nike, or whichever one of them

sneaker outfits do it, says 'Just Do It' -

to buy techno-sneakers, and all the

crumbums line up to get the latest.

Try it with real, American writing, 

and you first get slashed to bits  -

as if you were first in the ghetto 

playground with all those sneaker

dudes and had just gotten caught

double-dribbling. Blood on the

pavement, baby.

-

There are all different kinds of

people, for sure. I saw that, right

off the bat. Somebody with, say,

a good nose about jokes or a good

way to debate, can be a real loser 

with a bad head for facts, getting 

nothing straight and twisting

everything all up. Some can do

nothing 'good' except for following

rules, orders, and procedures, while

others have to have the cart being

constantly upturned and all those 

contents spilled. To be a good

person, a good writer anyway, you

have to watch, and sense, and 'react'

ahead of the reaction time. That's

where the best stories are. Before 

the things actually occur. What kind

of advance-scout reporting that is,

I never know; but that's the key to

writing. Whatever's coming, you

have to stay ahead of that. 

-

Try telling that to a lamppost

sometime. (You might have

better luck). You can't always 

just be following rules. Sometimes

they need to be broken  -  you

have to 'engage' your situation.

When I got plucked up, for 

instance, and dragged to Whitehall,

the old induction station, then the

tag-house for processing cannon

fodder for Vietnam (thank you, NYC),

I saw immediately that the entire

place was filled with death and dead

bodies  - all these people, even the 

lowliest clerk or typist among-them,

or some ample-breasted orderly

or snickering janitor, they were as

good as dead. It was all just rules

and the processing of the rules, in 

this case that processing being the 

rounding up and distribution of

able-bodied New York boys to the

lie-based charnel-house of Vietnam.

These people never had to face-off

with some mother of a dead kid, 

or a father whose son was blown 

to smithereens by some Vietcong

sapper, shooting people off his

land, as it were. Endless laws for 

endless lies, and all these totally

non-creative types were doing 

was following orders and 

processing forms, all because 

that's what they were told to 

do and they never had to answer

for it. They were never 'ahead' of 

anything at all. There are, have

to be, ways of engaging one's own

life not just dictated by knowing

the rules, but by getting around them

because they stink. You can read a

hundred instruction manuals, each

which will tell you how to carry out

a task, but you can never interpret

them past their own last point  -  a

juncture which 'you' (that such person)

will then need the next instruction

book to tell them more. Because they

do not know how to free-float

in space. They're coarse and dumb.

I saw tons of that. Ludwig Wittengstein

put it like this: "If there has to be

anything 'behind the utterance of

the formula' it is particular circumstances

which justify me in saying I can go on

- when the formula occurs to ME." Each

one of us must have a way of knowing

what our particular situation is  -  a

different, more intuitive, way of

knowing how to sense and adapt to

each new moment. For me, it worked

that way, and still does. Heidegger here:

'The nearest kind of association is not mere

perceptual cognition, but, rather, a handling,

using, and taking care of things which 

has its own kind of 'knowledge.'

-

Yeah, and 'philosophers' don't bake cakes

either. At some point (I think) life is

maybe less thought, less following, than

it is action, making, doing. Outside that

tired, old, ordinary (Avenel) way of

being  -  by the book, quiet, passive,

and old, and dead.

10,356. FIRST NIGHT

FIRST NIGHT

Down at the end of the gorge

there was another gorge : the 

whole thing was pretty gorgeous,

but I made nothing out of nothing

and got no sense of place from what 

I saw. It was like being in Eden, that

first morning  -  after that first night,

when, of course, Adam had to say,

'Stand back, Eve, I don't know

how big this thing gets.'

10,355. RECAP : MY FELICITOUS MOMENTS

RECAP : MY FELICITOUS 

MOMENTS

And how I got them I do not know. This

baby's in its cradle now. Whoever said

'what you don't know can't hurt you,' was

obviously mad, insane, out of touch, 

unaware, far removed, distracted forever, 

stupid, plain, or scaldingly dumb. Those

are the things that kill you.

-

I took the jabbering 5:15. That's my name

for the quiet train; I call it that because,

at that early hour of the morning no one's

talking. I take the quiet 5:07 home : And

I call it that because, even though it's a quiet

car, every mortal fool headed for Newark, 

Elizabeth, Linden, and Rahway, seems to 

think they can spike their punch and

loudly talk no matter.

-

Spanish, Hindi, German, Malay, Tagalog,

bad English, good English, Mexican,

Thai, Chinese, Polish, Russian, and

Uzbecki too. I leave off Italian and the

rest for you. Little do they understand 

that I understand them too. 

-

Yes, it's a burden to have to learn that

Nairopa is impregnated now by Banju,

and Carlita wants another baby with 

Franito. Or that Ahman, finished soon

with his probabtion will probably go

to live with Salita in Port-Au-Prince.

-

Welcome to the new world, Chrsitofaro

Columbiano Anitquando Rustifaro.

And Happy Pinata to you!