242 Philadelphia

RUDIMENTS, pt. 242 --Philadelphia Story

I was pretty fast, fast at most everything I did. In one of my first jobs, NJ Appellate, the guy, Ron, told me to slow down. Flat out, just like that. He said 'Working fast is good, but good's not worth it if the accuracy's gone.' By which he'd meant to say, take a deep breath and watch what you're doing. I took his advice, and from then on rather enjoyed my own, set, pace. It was rather funny though, in light of the fact that this was the same guy who would hand me the keys to his new Ford and tell me to get down to the Courthouse docket room in Philadelphia's City Hall before it closed in forty-five minutes. (The material had to be time and date stamped for arrivals, and most things just made it or were 'paid for' to be back-dated. Yes, business is crooked everywhere). So, behind the wheel I'd get and at breakneck speed I'd terrorize my way all the way to 'Philly.' It was OK to be fast sometimes. By the way, in the same way that the locals in San Francisco never say 'Frisco' and detest those who do, in Philadelphia no one ever says 'Philly' - even if the cream cheese people say it in their advertising, and the Philly Cheese-Steak people do in theirs. It's usually enough to get you bopped upside the head. I began thinking about all this as I drove. It occurred to me that in my own home environment - being lower class, with Dad a laborer and a guy who just 'produced' endlessly, I'd never been brought up on 'quality.' In that sense, working at my first job like that the only idea I had was to please the boss, and that pleasing, to my thought, or my non-thought, simply meant giving as much out as 'finished' as possible, forgetting the accuracy or quality. It was 'quantity, not quality,' for sure. It was pretty simple, and stark, but it was the only way I'd been brought up. Now it seems so obvious as to look stupid. A peon, a slave, only wants to please, and if pleasing comes from giving more and more, at breakneck speed, so be it. The erroneous idea was that the more you did, the better notice you'd elicit. Not so. Accuracy and quality were more important; but I'd never been shown or taught that. It would have taken my father a bit of self-reflection to grasp that and turn it along to me. But, he was never that kind of guy anyway and I just don't think he did those sorts of things. My aunt almost always refused to drive in any car of which he was the driver, because, as she'd put it, 'Andy, you drive like a cowboy.'  I'd joke with her, later on, 'Hey, Aunt Mae, you should drive some day with my mother, over train tracks; that's fun too.' (Referring to the train wreck). Whenever my father would build anything -  although it got done and worked  and all that, whether a closet he'd build into a corner, or a  doorway he'd install, or molding  or whatever, it was always  over-sized, heavy-looking, too large, and just never quite  exact. Never a thing of beauty,  just of a ham-handed, large and heavy, function. To this day I dislike large, bulky objects.
-
In some ways, I think that's why, early-on I took a turn  for the cerebral, with Art, writing, thought, poetry, reading and philosophy and all that stuff. Stuff which made him cringe - but he'd exposed to me the 'wrongness,' for myself, of the physical. I was no good  with 'objects,' had no feel or finesse for 'things' and wasn't concerned with the time it took to properly measure, scale, cut and plane. He also needed noise, and the social, and other people around. I hated all that. I would revel in solitude, sitting at the big, empty, night kitchen table, drawing or reading, or whatever. He'd come in from watching TV, where the others were, completely befuddled by my acts. Why I would do these things, why wasn't I in the other room, watching Bonanza, or Rawhide or Wagon Train, whatever it was. To me that was all large, stupid stuff, bounded by logic and law. To me, all this other stuff, the small points of my life, were without boundaries, and open.
-
By the time I was 10 or 11, I already knew I wasn't much for  this world. I shared little of it, understood less, and had interest in even less than that. My terms of words and poetry, by 9 years old already, were the strange and obscure names I'd see on baseball cards. People (I thought they were 'old' then, now I see they were piddling kids) with names such as Clayton, Derek, Cletus, Elston, Marv, and  more. That was a whole, other, poetic world of possibility to me. Faraway farm boys, hokey, and from other places for sure. Add to that the multi-layered enticements of National Geographic Magazine, which back in those days was everywhere - lobby, waiting room, office, wherever. It's a little difficult to imagine now how that was, once, the only gateway out to the rest of the  world to someone who was not versed in other, far-off places, or the distant lands of global travel. For kids such as myself, that glimpse of things was mostly all we got. The way the world goes today, kids watching whatever they want, on phones while in trains, buses or cars, it twists my mind just to think of what world-view they must carry around. 'Every distance is not real,' as it has been put. If distance, like quantity, grows large and bulky, and attainable and everywhere with ease, what happens to the small, local stuff of 'quality?'

10,597. HIGH-FLYING BIRD

HIGH-FLYING BIRD

Friendship and water. 

Richie Havens' things.

The new vest I was wearing.

Which I'd bought for the

hearing. I decided to wear

it lightly. And I even shaved.

Deputy Carldstet thought

it would make a better

impression. I didn't tell

him about the razor in

my new vest pocket.

-

He unlocked the circular 

door and let me out. I ran

like hell to be that high-flying

bird. BUT! They caught me

that quickly and tied me

down. A few other inmates

looked over as they watched

me drawn back in.

-

Those second and third-tier

guys, they had the life. Looking 

down from their heights like that

high-flying bird.

10,596. RUDIMENTS, pt. 242

RUDIMENTS, pt. 242

Making Cars

I was pretty fast, fast at most

everything I did. In one of my

first jobs, NJ Appellate, the guy,

Ron, told me to slow down.

Flat out, just like that. He said

'Working fast is good, but good's

not worth it if the accuracy's gone.'

By which he'd meant to say, take

a deep breath and watch what

you're doing. I took his advice,

and from then on rather enjoyed

my own, set, pace.  It was rather

funny though, in light of the fact

that this was the same guy who

would hand me the keys to his

new Ford and tell me to get down

to the Courthouse docket room in

Philadelphia's City Hall before

it closed in forty-five minutes.

(The material had to be time and

date stamped for arrivals, and

most things just made it or were

'paid for' to be back-dated. Yes,

business is crooked everywhere).

So, behind the wheel I'd get and

at breakneck speed I'd terrorize

my way all the way to 'Philly.'

It was OK to be fast sometimes.

By the way, in the same way

that the locals in San Francisco

never say 'Frisco' and detest those

who do, in Philadelphia no one

ever says 'Philly'  - even if the

cream cheese people say it in

their advertising, and the Philly

Cheese-Steak people do in theirs.

It's usually enough to get you

bopped upside the head. I began

thinking about all this as I drove.

It occurred to me that in my own

home environment  -  being lower

class, with Dad a laborer and a guy

who just 'produced' endlessly, I'd

never been brought up on 'quality.'

In that sense, working at my first

job like that the only idea I had

was to please the boss, and that

pleasing, to my thought, or my

non-thought, simply meant giving

as much out as 'finished' as

possible, forgetting the accuracy

or quality. It was 'quantity, not

quality,' for sure. It was pretty

simple, and stark, but it was

the only way I'd been brought

up. Now it seems so obvious

as to look stupid. A peon, a

slave, only wants to please,

and if pleasing comes from

giving more and more, at

breakneck speed, so be it.

The erroneous idea was that

the more you did, the better

notice you'd elicit. Not so.

Accuracy and quality were

more important; but I'd

never been shown or taught

that. It would have taken my

father a bit of self-reflection

to grasp that and turn it along

to me. But, he was never that

kind of guy anyway and I just

don't think he did those sorts

of things. My aunt almost

always refused to drive in

any car of which he was the

driver, because, as she'd put it,

'Andy, you drive like a cowboy.' 

I'd joke with her, later on, 'Hey,

Aunt Mae, you should drive some

day with my mother, over train

tracks; that's fun too.' (Referring

to the train wreck). Whenever my

father would build anything  - 

although it got done and worked 

and all that, whether a closet 

he'd build into a corner, or a 

doorway he'd install, or molding 

or whatever, it was always 

over-sized, heavy-looking,

too large, and just never quite 

exact. Never a thing of beauty, 

just of a ham-handed, large and

heavy, function. To this day I

dislike large, bulky objects.

-

In some ways, I think that's 

why, early-on I took a turn 

for the cerebral, with Art,

writing, thought, poetry, 

reading and philosophy and 

all that stuff. Stuff which made

him cringe  -  but he'd exposed to

me the 'wrongness,' for myself', 

of the physical. I was no good 

with 'objects,' had no feel or 

finesse for 'things' and wasn't 

concerned with the time it took

to properly measure, scale, cut 

and plane. He also needed noise,

and the social, and other people

around. I hated all that. I would

revel in solitude, sitting at the

big, empty, night kitchen table,

drawing or reading, or whatever.

He'd come in from watching TV,

where the others were, completely

befuddled by my acts. Why I would

do these things, why wasn't I in

the other room, watching Bonanza,

or Rawhide or, whatever it was.

To me that was all large, stupid

stuff, bounded by logic and law.

To me, all this other stuff, the 

small points of my life, were

without boundaries, and open.

-

By the time I was 10 or 11, I

already knew I wasn't much for 

this world. I shared little of it,

understood less, and had interest 

in even less than that. My terms

of words and poetry, by 9 years

old already, were the strange

and obscure names I'd see on

baseball cards. People (I thought

they were 'old' then, now I see 

they were piddling kids) with 

names such as  Clayton, Derek,

Cletus, Elston, Marv, and 

more. That  was a whole, other,

poetic word of possibility to me.

Faraway farm boys, hokey, and

from other places for sure. Add to

that the multi-layered enticements

of National Geographic Magazine,

which back in those days was

everywhere  -  lobby, waiting 

room, office, wherever. It's a

little difficult to imagine now

how that was, once, the only

gateway out to the rest of the 

world to someone who versed

in either other, far-off places,

or the distant lands of global

travel. For kids such as myself,

that glimpse of things was 

mostly all we got. The way

the world goes today, kids 

watching whatever they want,

on phones while in trains, buses

or cars, it twists my mined just

to think of what world-view

they must carry around. 'Every

distance is not real,' as it has 

been put. If distance, like

quantity, grows large and

bulky, and attainable and

everywhere with ease, what

happens to the small,

local stuff of 'quality?'

10,595. ON OVER THE SOUTH SIDE, WE ALL LOVE HIM

ON OVER THE SOUTH SIDE, 

WE ALL LOVE HIM

Funniest flicker-bait nigra' we ever seen.

Like a ton and keep it coming : No concern

at the Elks Hall neither; Legion Hall lets

him in; and he was even seen in the recent

Tonka Toys Convention. Every so often

my mother makes mention of the night

he opened for Billy Graham. Man, that

must have really been a sight. Mr. Clean

on his way to yet another Heaven.

10,594. WRITTEN ON THE TANGERINE

WRITTEN ON THE TANGERINE

Days may have been mellow, but the

juice never was. Embittered as cases

of lighter fluid sent from the gorge.

Sisters and brothers I have none, 

but that man's brother is my father's

son. Who am I? I think that was a

riddle they kept using on me.

-

The very thin handyman was nailing

the closet doors shut. He just kept

nailing and nailing and nailing.

Eventually, the train that runs

along the river came by, rushin

on its way north, to Albany.

10,593. JUXTAPOSE

JUXTAPOSE

Juxtapose on my limit your own

space and form. See which one

of them over-extends. 

-

Let me tentatively hold your 

hand until we fully fall in love.

Come with me to the far reaches

of this farmstead, by foot.

-

Sometimes I feel myself a fool,

and other times just a rare,

heartbroken misfit.

10,592. HAMMERIN' HANK

HAMMERIN' HANK

This storm is strong enough that I

fully expect the power to be out

before dark. Kind of when it's

needed most. I wonder if the 

storm itself has mind enough 

to vengefully think 

in that manner.

10,591. FACISIMILE

FACSIMILE

From this height, the land stretched

out before me looks like a farmer's quilt.

Squared and angled, nothing decorative

at all  -  except those little squiggles

representing water. 'Except those

little squiggles representing water.'

What a nice sound that has.

10,590. I MAY HAVE GONE OUT

I MAY HAVE GONE OUT

I belittle the sky, I belittle the land,

I belittle those around me, I belittle

those not yet here. I draw no set

distinctions, just finding my

discontent everywhere.

-

The swimmer in the old canal

may have drowned and froze by

now. I can think I see him frozen

body in the ice. But it's not him.

Where the thin ices starts melting,

the coldness peels away. Perhaps

this death will rise again.

-

I may have gone out, like a candle,

long ago. Or it may be just that I am

not still here when you arrive. In its

way, that is having 'gone out' too.

10,589. THIS CARNIVAL, LIFE

THIS CARNIVAL LIFE

This carnival life with a critical

eye, not quiet either happy or sad.

The midway cotton candy makes

me sick and eats my teeth. The guys

at the stands look like idiots, and

I never know what to do.

-

Just by surprise tonight, I saw this

tan book again, once more, anew

since 1965. In seminary days I

honored this book, reading it for

times and times again. Now I can't

recall a think about it. They say it's

'a novel about St. Thomas Aquinas.'

-

How bloody exciting that must be.

10,588. RUDIMENTS, pt. 241

RUDIMENTS, pt. 241

Making Cars

Flat land. Land with hills

and rises. My seminary friend

Kirk used to belittle coming

'east' to Blackwood, from

Camp Hill, PA (Harrisburg),

because of how flat it was,

the big descend all the way

out. I never saw it from his

perspective. Everything was

east with me, and that was

really all I'd ever seen. It was

a difficult imagining for me.

More conceptualizing than

actually experiencing. And

then I found that to be the

case with writing too. You

can draw a flat character all

you want. It'll go nowhere.

Analogy, metaphor, comparison,

whatever you'd like to call it,

building a character can be

put on any level. I read

somewhere that what the

matter was, with the novel,

(this was British novels)

[Ford Madox Ford writing

on Joseph Conrad] was it

'went straightforward, whereas

in your gradual making

acquaintance with your

fellows you never go

straightforward.' You have

a character who seems beefy

and full of health, honest,

clear and happy  -  and then,

after some digging, you find

out he's a convicted thief, a

cheat, and a bigamist too. 'To

get such a man in fiction you

could not begin at his beginning

and work his life  -  [that would

be the 'flats']  -  chronologically

to the end. You must first get

him in with a strong impression,

and then work backwards and

forwards over his past,' [the hills].

-

Try walking headlong into that

stuff sometime. At age 13, surely,

it's enough to throw you off course.

The analysis itself isn't what

counts : it's the subtlety of the

analysis that matters. So instead

of all that careful building, after

a while I found myself skipping

words and things, grouping and

encapsulating ideas and impressions

with words that  -  instead of a

prose  -  could poetically leap over

each other, bump into each other,

and veer off wherever they chose.

To me it was a much livelier, far

less linear, means of writing, and

to better effect as well. Prose

writing people are often stuck.

They have to reflect and abide by

the real world : that butter dish

had better contain butter (unless

maybe it's a mystery and that's

where the tiny dagger goes), and

that butter had better fit the time

and mood of the character using

it  -  or will will stand out like

a bad oleo instead of butter. And,

in order to do all that, the writer

must follow suit, of the prevailing

assumptions within society  -  the

butter has a dish, it gets spread

nicely and smoothly with a butter

knife, which also has its place.

Sequential attainment of the scene

within that scene would need to

have each little object playing

its preordained, and carefully

noted, role. And the varied

characters' reactions to it

all, Only the murderer would,

later, on page 281, appearing on

page 70, be described spreading

that butter on his toast with a

flathead screwdriver. But even

as a foreshadowing that would

be a bit too much. I found that

the idea of 'Poetry' (never really

liking that term at all) disallows

all that  -  that butter can do

whatever it damn-well pleases,

as can the knife and the guy

holding it. All you as 'writer'

must do is play with the words

and think. That was the crux:

THINK!

-

In the middle of all that, too, is

always the question of 'what's

next?' I've sure gone through

a lot of that in my life. I think

I've always been one of those

operating blindly. Some people

I've met have been full of purpose,

full of familial outlook, staying

within the fine tradition of their

father or uncle, mother or aunt;

whether artist, lawyer, scholar,

whatever. That's what you did.

It never held any purpose for me,

since I'd started from nothing and

was on my end-up way to that too.

What some call waste, I called Life.

Going somewhere, while always

doing something else. All those

seminary guys, they all had purpose,

though in a family sense it would

mean a dead-end. Nonetheless, it

seemed that the sacrifice was

accepted. I only found out later

that the rich guys, the ones with

fathers in Government  -  we had

any number of boys with fancy-ass

Trenton government services types,

for fathers, Commissioner of this

or that, Auditor, Director of Public

Utilities, and more, that they were

only in it for the quality 'private

school education' aspect, and of

course their families sticking the

son away somewhere  -  to stay

off the streets and all that bad

influence. Sorry to say, a lot of

that 'religion' stuff was feigned

interest. It wasn't, at first, for me,

but as I explained, soon enough it

had all gone away. I feigned

nothing, soon enough. That

too was difficult to face.

-

Looking back now, and reading

books, such as, say, Joyce's 'Portrait

Of the Artist As a Young Man,' I

see there's a lot of all things in the

beginning portion of that book.

It rings true  -  the sleeping rooms,

the cold sheets, the meek, weak

kid, the sports guys, the play,

the roughhousing, and all those

weird, sincere, obligatorily one

way pious priests and brothers. A
lot of it just becomes too precious,
and I dislike 'preciousness.'  It has a
way of distorting everything around
it, making other things look wrong.
Besides which, it's usually pretty
stilted. I'd rather, by contrast,
go for the groin, with a quick kick
or a darting jab. See what mess that
makes and then pick up the pieces
and write around the mess. People
will remember that better, far more
than some simpering fool going on
about a blanket or mother's kisses.

'Portrait' still can almost give me the

creeps. Sometimes I sit around
re-reading it, just to see what it feels
like. Sometimes better. Other times,
not so. In James Joyce's Dublin,

using the city as the school locus, a

good lot of it is displaced by the

descriptive places and occurrences,

and all that Irish nationalism and

heroes stuff. Man oh man, we had

none of that except maybe for

St. Jude, Patron Saint of

Hopeless Cases. Supposedly.

10,587. WHEN THE MADMAN MOUNTS HIS PEDESTAL

WHEN THE MADMAN 

MOUNTS HIS PEDESTAL

There's nobody there to see. Everything

becomes shadow play, a pantomime of

the most rugged conceit. Like those

big, blustery ladies on their afternoon

issue talk shows : ugly, fat, conceited

and dumb. Stage lights may someday

blister their bubbling faces. One can

hope that's not still more to come.

-

When the Madam mounts her pedestal,

again, we'll knock her off.

10,586. RUNNING IN PLACE

RUNNING IN PLACE

Dear Medicine Man : All this

running in place is like a puppet

show. Too many strings, and

'where ya' gonna go'  -  as they

say. It's not that there's malicious

intent, but's it's like the Book of

Esther where there's no mention

of God at all  -  the only Bible book

where that occurs. Esther focuses

only an the actions of man. 'We

survived, let's eat.' God then says:

'I will hide. I will really hide my

face from them.' (Deut. 31:18).

-

I can't believe I just quoted God.