11,038. RUDIMENTS pt. 396

RUDIMENTS pt. 396

Making Cars

The seminary stuff, and church

stuff in general, was pretty weird.

Like that whole thing about ladies

having to have their heads covered,

or, well, something on their heads,

to enter church. In each of the years

I was at the seminary, except for

visit days and special events (rare)

I never saw a female present. Not

even a nun. Not one. So that entire

stricture was pretty much out the

window. I couldn't ever figure it

out, on those special days, as I

mentioned, when females were

present. What was the big deal?

Some men still wore hats, and they

had to come off? What the heck

was that about? Medieval levels

of personal rank? Servitude? Who

cared, least of all God? If it was

a Mankind thing, OK, then get

over it. The whole thing seemed

so petty and stupid. The same God

who watches the birds of the air,

fish of the sea, and counted the hairs

on your head, he watched the human

hat situation too? Busy guy.

-

The other thing that really annoyed

me, and it was pretty slimy and

sickening too, was when these

stupid-ass priests and brothers would

take to the pulpit there in the little

chapel thing we had, which was

our 'church' for all the three times

a day stuff we had to do, and go

on about 'Holy Mother the church

was the Bride of Christ...' What

the hell? What were they, freaking

nut-cases all? Shut-in too long in

their cork-lined male confraternity?

I'd learned about allegory, metaphor,

analogy, and like simile too (joke)

but I guess they'd left out 'cockamamie

bullshit.' Made up concepts. Diatribes

of un-needed precision and logic.

And anyway, I found that anytime,

in the Gospels, that they came across

Jesus being a little strange, talking

weird  -  something that, in reality,

didn't fit the picture too well  -

they'd brush it off by saying, 'oh,

well, he was speaking in allegories

and parables,' and then they'd start

bashing his peasantry-audience for

being a bunch of stupid Aramaic

slobs and dumb fisherman who

didn't know any better and who

could only grasp stories and

parables. How were they any

different than the Sunday

morning fools back in Avenel

at St. Andrew's, I wanted to

know? Wasn't that a bit of

dis-respect and condescencion

to all those people you were

supposedly dependent upon for

Sunday-morning's collections

baskets?

-

Back up in that 9th line, at the

beginning of this chapter, I got

a chuckle  -  I wondered if any

of those priests and brothers,

who pretended to know it all

about sex and love and marriage,

had even an inkling of what the

female 'present' even was.

Gift-giving never had it

so good?

-

Everything took some getting

used to. Parts of my mind were

still stuck back in Avenel, right

along Inman Avenue where I

could still remember vividly

the cold, snowy Winter of '61

when the street had been covered

with a mantle of snow that was

pretty much never tended to and

did eventually melt and refreeze,

a few times, into a nice, solid

snow-pack of two or three inches

that remained for at least a week

in the cold. As kids, it became

day after day of solid snow-fun

on an ice and snow covered

street. The slow melting that

did take place began at the

manhole covers and sewer areas,

and ever-so-slowly, over the

course of a few days, spread out.

I can't remember cars at all, except

for the few, noisy, chain-tired cars

that occasionally slapped along.

That was all back when it seemed

that Time would never end, or that

it had was of just getting stuck

in an endless present. And it 

was all so strange as, later on, 

in talking, that that was the same

cold and snowy January that

one Bob Dylan arrived in NYC

with his cartload of fictions and

made-up stuff, or that it was the

same time as all those Maynard 

J. Krebs versions of beatnik

dopplegangers were wildy fading

and the scene was passing to

folkies, and that another scene

entire was a'borning. The times

they were far-ranging. I was 11,

and at the end of my kidhood 

days. All that change crap
was already in the air. People
were convincing each other, or
trying to anyway, that the big
'difference' was coming.
I had to be ready too.

-

I'd never had a scared-space, like

I learned, later on, many others had.

That took some money and privilege;

things I never possessed. Being poor

has its advantages, if you can manage

to step back and look away  -  just

gleaning and lessons and the values.

The rest of life is just mopping up.

Avenel had certainly never provided

me anything like that  -  in all respects

a rather one-dimensional, humdrum

place, made up  -  perhaps  -  of a few

characters amid two-thousand ordinary

stiffs. Growing up, it was all rather

tame, lame, and ordinary. Dreaming

of becoming a spy? They don't hire

out of Avenel. Once I lost it, whatever

it was  -  control, command, awareness  -

over my own life and my own being,

I'd just end up as one of them. And I

knew I'd sworn off, against any and

all, of that. Where I was going, I
was never sure. I knew where I was,
and stupidly I realized that 'where
I was' wasn't where I wanted to 
remain. The whole calculus had
to begin spinning once more,
turning things around and
over, re-negogiating what was
fact, what was real, and
what was false.

11,037. EXCORIATE THE MAGISTRATE

EXCORIATE THE MAGISTRATE

Wonderful impediments, all these things,

and how alike we are. It seems, anyway,

that we breath the same air. You stand

there; I stand here. Sumo wrestlers

never had it so good.

-

Look, look, I brought a wren to show

and tell, and all you've got is a photo

of some lame community garden.

11,036. TO WHOM

TO WHOM

I think I owe my allegiance

to a greater concept of Time.

A greater 'Being' to be sure,

using our comfortable term.

Yet it's not that at all  -  it's a

traveling circumference of

a sense of presence that comes

back, and wants to come back,

to twirl over itself again and

renew the world. This is a

circular spin, an energy in a 

deep space, or sense, of Time,

which is all we'll be judged by

really. What we've made of our

beings. I am called to bring forth

my record of what has been, for

long days future, all that 'day's

journey into night,' idea but far 

expanded past that here.

11,035. RUDIMENTS, pt. 395

RUDIMENTS, pt. 395

(the art of avenel)

The seminary had a tiny art

department  (that's funny. I

don't mean to say they made

miniatures) - oddly enough

mostly manned by Mike

Bartholomew, once again. 

(influential) front and center.
Art, I'd have to admit, at 11 was 
a new idea to me, brought to me
by Mike. The compact work area
and art section was little used,
except by him. There were a few
cans with brushes in them, that 
wonderful smell of turpentine
and linseed oil (same smell which
later permeated every life-breath
at the Studio School. It's one of
those floating aromas that soak
to the spirit and soul of the artist
within those who have that set
of antennae to pick it up). I can't
remember what he painted, nor
a 'style' he perhaps was messing
with, but it was 'Art' to me, and
the idea had introduced itself,
never to leave. All new too. I
never did thank him for all this
stuff  -  the jazz, the theater, the
black coffee hipsterism, and the
paint, but God-damned if I
hadn't finally found a new key
to unlock my way out of Hell.
-
All of this, fortunately, became 
the background scrim of the 
play of my life, a bit of leitmotif
at the rear wall of reference. It's
pretty much what I stayed with,
long after the seminary was
gone down the drain for me. 
The idea of the background of

a painting having resonance
always rang within. By the

artworld of those later 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 from. 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-Freudian

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). I also realize that
what's 'before' and what's
'behind' depends on where
you're standing. And then,

only a little later, if you push

the envelope, you get to

both Hieronymus Bosch

and Pieter Brueghel, 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 that 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 that was. And

the crazy world of Arthur

Brown. 'Fire' or 'You're

Gonna' Burn', something

like 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.

11,034. RUDIMENTS, pt. 394

RUDIMENTS, pt. 394

(TV time somewhere)

I always figured there were

a lot of destitute channels

everywhere and I was glad

to have never met up with

any of that. The surprising

thing, all those years, was

the media silence I lived

amidst. Except for 'tragedies'

like Kennedy's Dallas killing

and all the funeral and things

of the rites and processions

and all, which we got to see,

(this included the surpises

too, like Jack Ruby killing

Oswald on live TV like that),

there was also (curiously)

the death of Malcom X. But,

anyway, I see now there's an

entire raft of things  - from like

the Munsters to Green Acres to

Beverly Hillbillies to Mr. Ed,

and a hundred more  -  that I

never got to see and no 'cultural'

reference to later when people

back at home started talking

about all that crap. The James

Bond movies, say, or Star

Trek. All these high school

idiots, back in Woodbridge, at

lunch and all, would be talking

Star Trek crap, constantly. I

was aghast at the moronic

lengths people would go to

in order to flavor or favor

(both) any of these strictly

TV characters. It all baffled

me. I was therefore always a

little out of the mix, even long

after. In the years around 1972,

in Pennsylvania when I had as

one of my small jobs the taking

care of the local schoolhouse

(it's since become a junkyard,

yes, and my old school house

is used for office area, cashier,

and parts-bins), the welfare

department for a while sent

me this older man  -  probably

45 to my 27, to use for handiwork

and mopping and all. I had

no choice in the matter; he

was kind of a local cracker,

no education to speak of, had

done Army time, in Korea as

I recall, and jabbered on about

all that, and he came from

Conshohocken, PA, which is

like a suburb of Philadelphia,

nothing to do with the high,

rural country we were in at

Columbia Crossroads. He

insisted always on saying

'Connieshohawkin' instead

of Conshohocken. Not that

it mattered, but it drove me

nuts because I didn't know

if he knew he was doing that

or if it was just a quirk. No

mind. He talked a lot about

guns, and girls, and all the

rudest things about girls

you'd want to know. Oh,

yeah, a real earful he was.

Lucky he wasn't a filmmaker,

because they'd have been

some real burners. Anyway,

as it turned out, he was a

bum loafer, and I never really

bothered him over it. All he

wanted to do (it was Summer,

no school) was watch daytime

TV  -  which ranged from

everyday, and I mean every day,

Beverly Hillbilies, some

Perry Mason, and whatever

other ass-wipe re-runs they'd

play. He'd set up a TV on the

cafeteria table. The piano on

the stage was quite nearby, and

his constant TV time shut down

by piano time, which also was

annoying. (We didn't get much

work done that Summer  -

stripping and waxing the

floors mostly, by me, mostly,

and fixing some window glass,

and moldings). I filled out the

welfare paperwork with the

usual exaggerations and lies,

and I guess he got his pay or

whatever he got. No one ever

checked on him. He drove a big
old 'Cheevrolet,' (which is as

he pronounced it), that was

mountain-running on like 3

cylinders, I swear. So, my

non-exposure in those 

seminary years, by the 

time of my sojourn to

Pennsylvania almost 

turned into over-exposure 

to American idiot stuff  -  

but I just turned away.

-

What I was meaning to say  - 

before that digression  - was

that there was no 'media' in 

the seminary. No one used a

radio, the TV's were used

sparingly, at least in the

circles I ran. Perhaps I am

wrong just because I did

frequent the rooms and

lounges where they were.

All I really remember was

theater area, and my friend,

Mike Bartholomew. I don't

know much about him; he was

a year or two ahead of me; tall,

direct, smart, and punchy. He

had a record player, and a fine

collection of jazz  -  be-bop

stuff and modern 50's and 60's

jazz. He drank great, large mugs

of black coffee. Pretty much, to

me he was a beatnik of the past

but in the future, if you can sort

of get that. I fell right in  -  John

Coltrane, Miles Davis, Theolonius

Monk, Modern Jazz Quartet, 

Dave Brubeck, on and on, you 

name it we had it. I even got

into the coffee thing, but I

hated it black, and milk, 

though plentiful, meant still

another trip to the food section.

So I played at black coffee some.

You have to understand, there

was no store, nothing for us to

do but those vending machines.

The thing about Mike was, he

played guitar, electric. And he

had a small group of two or three

other guys and they had this little

band. They called themseves

'Laissez Faire'  -  it's a French

economics term really, meaning

'Hands Off' or 'Leave Us Alone'  -

in the economic realm it refers to

rules and controls and taxation and

all that business stuff; but for us,

and his little group (I wasn't a part

of the band thing) it just meant

us. Paradoxically, actually, and

stupidly, since we were willingly

engaged into a Christian concentration

camp setting, but willingly, and of

our own choosing. Whatever. The

Thing with this band was, under

Mike's tutelage, they could take

any song, and I say ANY, meaning

commercial ditty or Christmas

carol too, and turn it into basic,

three-chord rock and roll and 

you'd still know what it was. 

It was crazy cool, for junk-band, 

garage band kind of trash.

There was never any exalted

jazz attempted, mainly because

of respect for it  -  cheesy guitars

and drums would have just been

a dis-service. Priests of the

future? Us? No, fact of the

matter was were all all just 

hiding out  -  from something,

from whatever. None of 

us made it through.