11,445. RUDIMENTS, pt. 554

RUDIMENTS, pt. 554

('look back in anger?')

I could say this this country

has gone to the dogs, but I

wouldn't want to denigrate 

my dog, and the place she

inhabits is far too good for

the likes of what I'm saying.

All my life it's been a sliding

scale of loss and decay, the

things we've given away; 

and I believe it starts with 

Hollywood. And you know 

the rest. Fitzberg.

-

I was able to see a  lot of 

this as I settled in to NYC. 

In 1967, weird as it may 

now seem, in a day and 

time when this is not

any longer heard, the 

big problem in New York 

was Puerto Ricans. They 

seemed everywhere; they 

embodied the idea of people

living in slums, nasty, rotten,

slick and dumpy. And the 

wise-ass Puerto-Rican punk 

was a type. Chino pants. 

Diminutive stature, pumping 

himself up as if to be what 

he could not be except by a

punky aspiration. The Puerto

Rican babe became another 

small and simple sexual 

stereotype. And then it all 

disappeared. I don't know

what happened. One day

there just was no longer a 

'Spic' scene, as the rash

colloquialism had it  -  the

busboys, cooks, sweepers,

and countermen had all 

changed over to something 

else. It's very cool how that

turnover occurs, and I began

wondering, or watching for,

how many other times it 

happened, or some like scene.

Like any other beleaguered

ethnic group, Puerto Ricans

were basically treated badly.

What was known as San Juan

Hill, their own particular

housing area, was razed for 

Lincoln Center, in the early 

'60s. They were seen as as

expendable and useless, an

unrefined culture, and the

culture crowd  -  an American

version of the John Lennon's

'Just rattle your jewelry' crowd - 

needed the precious space 'they'

were wasting, for their operas

and plays and ballet and

recitals. They were gone and

little heard from again; Rita

Moreno, take that. My friend 

Juanita Elefante went through 

all of this with her own family,

 of which, in fact, only half 

was Puerto Rican. I recall the

other half as Filipino.

-

Funny world, how we end 

things up. Blacks and Negroes

there always were. They had 

Harlem  and jazz and zoot suits 

and flash, at least, to run along 

with their poverty  -  but the 

same abject disdain was 

prevalent. I got there in

time to see a lot of it still 

running; the curtain hadn't 

yet fallen on that stuff. Has 

it yet? Probably not; it's just

covered better.

-

I think Silence should have a

capital 'S'  -  at all times and

in every usage. The Silence

of ignoring injustice, or of 

turning away from a slight.

We live with a million things

around us always, people

getting taken advantage of, 

cheated, ignored, or faulted.

One time I was in the middle 

of Grand Central Station with 

a guy from California. It was

about 1972; this guy was

generally nice enough about

everything, with a lot of the

then-prevalent California fervor

about hands-off, let others be,

and all that. That was quite

'Californian' compared to

anything then here. I made

the point to him that 'this, 

being New York,' it could 

possibly present to him,

during the course of his

visit, many things he wasn't 

used to, and that he should

just remain cool. No sooner

were the words out of my my 

mouth when some black guy 

sidles up to us, a bit aggressively,

yes, but, after all, it was

1972, and starts his harangue

for money, aid, assistance.

Oh, boy! My friend then

immediately cracks! Some

very personal sense of space

had, for him, been invaded, and

he goes right back at the guy, in

his face, loudly, 'Get away from

me! I don't want to talk to you, I

don't want to hear you! You

come one step nearer and you'll

be sorry...' Holy Graham Crackers,

Batman, pipe down! You'll start

a freaking race-riot right here!

I spoke up, getting between them,

moving the beggar-guy off, and

dragging my Cali-Burger friend

off in another direction.

-

Nothing bad came of this except

for my own surprise at the lethal

quality of the otherwise laid-back

Joe I thought I had with me. What

was he reacting to? I tried to figure

it out  -  Race? Color? Attitude?

Approach? The 'asking' for money?

In New York City, and in those

years, and in such public space

as these, things like that were

on at all times  -  you basically

gave the schmuck a quarter or

reacted not at all. The ignorance

of ignoring others, balanced 

always by the realization that 

you cannot, simply cannot, be

everyone's savior and/or everyone's

free banker. You just shrug, and

move on. The streets were filled

with the dead, and the idea was 

to not become one of same.

-

I had no idea what had gotten

into my friend  -  (same guy who

blew his brains out 30 years later)  -

but I should have sensed something

was amiss. It's a touchy world,

(dog eat dog, to overuse that

canine metaphor aspect again?),

and people are always getting

hurt, abused, or shunted aside.

Walk gently through that night,

my friends, and with nary

a hesitant step.

11,444. THE HILLS ARE ALIVE

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE

The heat that turns the

fire-post gray will bring 

down this house of cards

as well : forested hills that

burn to the ground. It is

here that reporters converge

 to tell there stories and speak

their reports : 'Three families

that refused to leave; we have

reports of six deaths and that

count may be changing at any

time; with me is Lester Shebang

of the Hollister Hills Fire Dept.,

'Lester, what can you tell us 

about what's going on.?' 

-

'Well, we know little now that

we didn't know before. This isn't

Osage County, and Marin Boulevard

now seems threatened, but the cave

of the Sermon Bears still seems safe

and you know we wouldn't want to 

lose that. So much depends on the

little red wheelbarrow, I think

I've heard said.'

-

'Thank you, Lester, for that 

informative report. We'll have more 

on this breaking story at eleven. I'm 

Nicki Savage, reporting again from

Agoura Hills. Back to you, Jacob.'

11,443. AT THE NICKLEODEON

AT THE NICKELODEON

'Twas there I met John Marchak

and Mickey O'Jay, two fine

fellows from Kinnelon way.

The sea was deep Winter, and

the sky was turning gray.

-

('Let us read this idea of mind;

like those prisoners in Plato's cave.

Seeing illusion, and believing 

in nothing else').

11,442. RUDIMENTS, pt 553

RUDIMENTS, pt. 553
('god us forbid')
As an artist, God wrote

the folio of this world and

wrote it badly. Hmmm?

Another good one; this

time, James Joyce. I've

never (yet) been one to

presume to write about

the ways of God, (though

I suppose I have come close

enough. But what matters

that now?)...

-

It used to be you could walk

up or down Bleecker Street

and always find something

to catch your attention. If

you wished for something a

bit better-classed, a simple

left down MacDougal or

Sullivan would get you that.

Chess clubs, a little less nose,

not as much honking in the

street. Alcohol could be had

most anywhere; no code word

or any further lies needed.

If you went into the park,

any of ten black guys would

immediately come at you with

their weirdly whispered chants

of marijuana to buy. Mr. Furtive.

They all had the same name.

Washington Square, though

'neated-out' much differently

than Tompkins Square, pretty

much served much the same

purpose, though a bit more

nice about. It was very funny,

all the protocols of finesse and

the differences that went into

the park trades. Guys and

girls  -  make your choice

please. Reefer or whatever.

The mad fellows at the chess

boards; back then they were

a different sort, not like now.

These were old guys, slow and

deliberate, playing and staring

down at the boards, probably

in their old suits and hats too.

Now they play speed chess,

timed by the move, running the

clock, and they all act and move

like some speed-freak Kramer

wiped out on caffeine. It was

all a different world, not at all

slap-stick, though that's almost

the feeling you got. Remember

Joan Baez, singing that song

about, 'that crummy old hotel

over Washington'Square.'

-

One time, when I had a car,

I was cruising up Route One,

by the airport, on my way in  -

Holland Tunnel bound.

Somewhere between the

airport and the skyway I

saw two hitchhikers. They

caught my eye immediately

because  -  I've got to say  -

it was Summer, and she was

eye-catching. (Ok, I'm a jerk).

Even back then, whatever it

was, 1969, hitchhiking was

fading away  -  considered

unsafe, unsavory, whatever.

I couldn't have cared less.

These two were French, and

they were traveling the USA.

I'd seen it all a thousand times

at the Studio School, where

there was an American Youth

Hostel right next store. Euro-kids

everywhere  -  exotic fabrics and

footwear, clothing, even faces

and habits. French cigarettes

thick like baseball bats. German

guys at 6"2', with German girls,

at 6'1". The most fantastic people

you'd ever imagine  -  all about

the same age as I was, give or

take, and all out for the grand

pleasure of their walk or bicycle

tour of whatever Province of

'Amerika' they'd get to  -  the

mix of cross-country plans,

New England, the South, or

Texas, or D.C. Who cared?

Anyway, these two, and their

paltry bag or three had skipped

buses or mass transit or taxis

(economy move) and had

decided, like Dorothy to Oz,

that they could hoof their way

to that magic city, direct, and
from the airport. I assumed

they'd already successfully

known the difference between

the skyline of Newark ('God

us forbid!' were his words),

and that of New York City.

I guess it was doable, using the

meager side-walks and grasses

of the truck route. I don't think

one would wish to walk the

skyway, and I certainly couldn't

see, let's say, a successful fare

at the Holland Tunnel. So

unless they could walk on

water, which feat I still harbored

as being saved for me, they'd

be pretty much stranded. So

I took them on. They were

really great together; we talked

as I drove. The whole language

thing worked fine, plus, I was

driven a Renault 4CV! They

felt right at home. Entering

the city, they gave me their

destination  -  if I'd be so kind

to get them there - as the

Waverly Hotel. A cinch, I

knew it exactly, and got them

right to the front door. Said

Au Revoir, and that was that.

Never got names or places,

and all this way predates any

computer stuff. So, 2 French

people who are now too nearing

70, if you're out there and can

recall the fool who drove you
to the Waverly Hotel, that
was me. Please contact...

-

I'd never really been exposed,

back then, to the urban hotel

scene. It's quite different from

the highway 'Motel' scene. In

fact, it's fascinating. Strange

and exotic too. For me, it

always remained out of reach,

except for the few times when

I went in because whomever

I was with or visiting, was

lodging therein. Lobbies.

Thick, real armchairs and

lounges, glass pedestal ashtrays,

wood, large spaces, heavy

carpeting, rows of phones (in

the really big ones, like the

Pennsylvania Hotel at 34th,

near Penn Station - thus the

Pennsylvania Railroad name

touch). Up on Lexington

Ave, just a little above Grand

Central, was the Roger Williams

Hotel  -  totally unique and

self-identifying. But, these

village hotels, like the Waverly,

the Greenwich, or Earle, they

characterized the ambiance of

the place they represented.

(There was always the Chelsea

Hotel, (or Hotel Chelsea) but

that was another case and

completely of its own). When

you got to one of these places,

you knew where you were.

There was no gauze for the

wound. Things just developed,

and you accepted them, or 

you (please) moved on. The 

questions and categories were 

all different. That's what I used

to hate about having to explain

or answer questions, especially

to Avenel people, or Woodbridge

people (often, like, COPS),

about what I as doing, or how 

and where I was 'living' in

New York City. The questions

and the categories really were

all different, and whatever I

was 'doing' had no real way

of being explained. It was

always a very difficult moment.

People expect uplift and effort

towards their already

pre-conceived notions

of progress and success. The

assumption was/is that a person

was on their way up; working

at something to achieve a

goal. It was all such balderdash.

In much the same way as, today,

saying, 'I'm a bike messenger,'

or 'I deliver restaurant orders

to any of a million apartments,'

or, even 'I drive for Uber'  -

the conclusion is that you're

slumming, slacking off, a fool

and a goof. Get real. These

are all problems for others;

they were never mine. 'I'm

getting accosted by gay, black 

men; I'm eating out of dumpsters;

I'm stealing; I'm sleeping in

the park, or on a theater 

overhang.' Yeah, OK, try 

any of that the next time 

you're in HR speaking with

a local Human Resources

Manager. You'll go far.
-
There's maybe only ever a fine
line between expectation and reality.
These two French kids did it for me;
it was as if taking on another portion
of the outer world and holding it.
watching it along, even helping. They 
came from somewhere so different that
it immediately appeared to me that all
Americans had ever done was pantomime.
Some derivative and pale imitation of
the Old World we all so proudly heard
about. Why did we hold such reverence
for the immigrants in our past? My
grandmother used to refer to them as
'Greenhorns.' She say, in talking about
someone, 'Oh, he came here as a 
Greenhorn and moved where he could.'
Talking about the neighboring grocer
family in old Bayonne....or whatever;
it was just always her general point.
The only thing I ever made of it was
like deer, in the woods, when they 
get that  mossy coating on their new
horns, the males. For that period
of time, their 'horns' are green  - 
they are young, restless, wild.
Their future awaits.

11,441. I TAKE MY LEISURE WHERE I MAY

I TAKE MY LEISURE WHERE I MAY

Jo Colonna and the parameters of world,

the fences of the baseball field? Way

too far out for me. 407, and 415. Yep,

just numbers until you try to reach. Me?

 I'd rather have buttermilk with you

at Hot Dog Johnnie's. We can watch

the stream roll by.

11,440. RUDIMENTS, pt. 552

RUDIMENTS, pt. 552

(harper's book landing)

There's a certain level of the

ordinary that just turns people

into blockheads. It's as if they

can't think, or maybe just refuse

to. People big in business and

fortune, or who claim to be,

are usually actually quite

gauche. Their pre-requisites

for most anything just become

style and visibility, the right

'tag' on their clothing, the

regular seat at some bedraggled

stag horn of a 'once-legendary,'

location, a 'barber' of the famed

with a note by name, or a sloop

which they've named after Becky.

They end up being the same

ones, these big deal CEO's,

who miraculously can spend

14 hours a day looking at a

computer screen to critique

what others have done.

-

Not surprising, then, that we

enter the realm of the dense.

There's a story by Bernard

Malamud, titled 'Man In the

Drawer,' about writers writing

in bad societies. I've always

found this here to be a very

bad societies, and, in turn,

I find this a nice point to be

noted, of writers suppressing

themselves because of idiots

who either can't properly read

them, or, once read, demand

that they be stopped. What

sort of crap is that? "To speak

frankly, I have to protest this

constant tension you've whipped

up in and around me. Nobody

in his right mind can expect a

complete stranger to pull his

chestnuts out of the fire. It's

your country that hindering

you as a writer...Love for

country, let's face it, is a

mixed bag of marbles.

Nationality isn't soul, as

I'm sure you'll agree. But

what I am saying is that there

are things in this country one

might not like that he has to

make his peace with. I'm

assuming you're not thinking

of counter-revolution. So,

if you're up against a wall

you can't climb over or dig

under, at least stop banging

your head against it, not to

mention mine. Do what you

can. It's amazing, for instance,

what can be said in a fairy tale."

-

"Now is the time for truth

without disguises. I will try

to make my peace to this

point without disguises. I

will make my peace with

this point where it interferes

with my imagination  - my

interior liberty, and then I

must stop to make my peace.

My brother-in-law has also

said to me, 'You must write

acceptable stories, others

can do it, so why cannot

you?' And I have answered

to him, 'They must be

acceptable to me.'"

-

Bernard Malamud was a

particular writer, of a particular

time and place. Maybe the mid

or later 1970's. I used to read

him a lot in Elmira, 'a lot'

being a relative term posed

against his output, which

was pretty meager. He was,

as writers go, I always thought

rater weak-need and reticent

about things, never really

having grabbed the horse,

mounted it, and rode with my

idea of writing. I needed a lot

more than he gave, but, as

it went, he filled a slot for

me. Back then there used to

be this college park-bench

guy I knew and everything

out of his mouth was Conrad!

Joseph Conrad this, Joseph

Conrad that. Heart of Darkness.

Lord Jim, Nigger of Narcissus.

I used to sit there and just

listen to him; I guess by today's

standards it's called a rant, on

and on about Conrad, Polish,

English, writing between

languages, a blow-by-blow

account of nearly each scene

the meaning of them too. I

think this guy was dedicated

nutso-crazy to this one-single

endeavor, that of 'owning'

Joseph Conrad. I don't know

what else he ever did, nor if he

did any of this professionally

somewhere, maybe even as

lecture, but he could have. He

said his name was Harper, and

I used to call his bench, sort of

in honor of Conrad and Heart

Of Darkness and all that,'

'Harper's Boat Landing.' It

was pretty amazing  -  although

all it ever did for me was drive

me deeper into my own intense

work-scrutiny. So I guess for

that it was good, and I never

grew bored of seeing him.

-

'The old man said nothing.

Nothing meant yes, or no.'

-

I wrote down that years ago, 

about the same time as this 

Malamud and Conrad stuff 

was going on. I've never 

done anything with it, not

except hold it up to myself

as some sort of talismanic and

quite oddball phrasing. It sums

up for me the dilemma of a type

of 1980 writing that was part

and parcel of 1970's fondue and

pot parties, (Elmira College, yes,

was then about 10 years behind 

the times). Like a dead-end

roller-coaster that just runs into

a wall. Like broad-bottomed

pants, and the peasant blouses

of the sort girls used to wear.

Like guys still figuring out

Paisley shirts and patterns.

If you've ever kept notebooks,

you'll know how you can at

some later point stumble upon

something that you can't at first

identify (or even sometimes

read; writing in a scrawl). That

happened here, and then I

realized it was a Bernard 

Malamud line, though I'd

had it, wrongly, altered. The

actual line reads : "The old

man said nothing. Nothing

meant yes or it meant no. If

you pressed him to say which,

he wept." Obviously, completely

different. But what of the two;

in recollection, brother lines,

or one wrong and one correct? 

I never knew, and all these years

it's just sat there in the idle

notebook, waiting.

-

When I first began living on

my own, in NYC, I kept to no

boundaries. I just threw my

own stuff around, anywhere.

I look back now and realize

that, of the incidentals of

living a normal life, I had none

of the needed implements;

and in such ignorance I just

blasted ahead : no toaster,

no coffee cup(s), no plates,

and not a towel to be had.

Let alone the bed-cloths, 

bed-clothes, and, even,

just bed, needed. Living lie

that, what can be expected? 

By now  I'm so used to sleeping 

on the floor I don't even think 

of it as abhorrent behavior.

It was as if, it IS as if, I

say nothing, yes, and it

means NEITHER yes nor

no because I refuse the

commitments of either. I

would think that makes me 

a perfect debater because I

could, and probably would,

argue either side of any

argument. You need an ally?

Meet me at the rally.

-

I used to visit places, without 

much allegiance to any of it.

I'd go to galleries, yes, to view

the art, but always got stuck

awed instead  -  mentally

portraying whatever life there

was, if any, as a scene in my

mind  -  the people, the styles,

postures and attitudes, the 

viewers, the art, occasionally 

the artists too. It was all a 

wonderful, almost medieval

agglomeration of sights and

sounds. There's a Houston

football team of something

named the Oilers. One time

my wife came by with my son,

then about 6 or 8, to an art

opening where the artist was

present. Wonderful, large

slightly strange oils, but all

well-regarded and expensive.

I had been sitting around

talking with him, and my

son strolls in with a jacket

on, which on the rear had

large letters reading, 'Oilers.'

It doesn't sound like much, 

most people are sports people

and they wear, I notice, most

anything with team names, etc.

It's very suburban; it's declasse;

and in such an environment

as this was it stuck out like a

broad-beamed Heifer in a

sheepfold. I was, for a moment,

humiliated and fearing for

some wise, stupid wisecrack

from anyone. Funniest thing

in the world, the artist himself

pipes up, 'Well, at least he 

rooting for Oilers,'  -  what

turned out to be a wonderfully

perfect and a'propos art joke.

11,439. MY RAIMENT IS A BROADCLOTH

MY RAIMENT IS A BROADCLOTH

And other than that, Al, you really need

a kick in the balls. There's little difference

between a shed and a shack, and I should

know because I've lived in both. Short,

sweet, and factual. Take the streetcar

named 'Go To Hell.'

11,438. TO ENZO

TO ENZO

And so sometimes I make changes

on things along the way, like an artist

always touching up a piece. I don't

know how value goes, but I wonder

if things are not truly valued until

they're called 'finished,' or done or

complete. Is that when these art ghouls

then jump on it and auction up the price?

But here's an idea, Enzo, Take bids.

Put out the word that you've got a new

4 foot by 6 foot pieces getting started

and have people bid numbers, early on;

it's like speculation I guess, yes, but

they can a piece for 80-grand that you

otherwise bury here, and, once called

complete and finished, by you, they can

then bud it up to their heart's content

at auction. While you go on to the next,

and do it again. It seems worth a try, to

me  -  both safeguarding and making a

market for yourself. Proclaiming 'finished'

work that you'd other wise never call done.

-

It was a bold and stormy idea, just like

the day  -  the last one of the year.