12,066. RUDIMENTS, pt. 797

RUDIMENTS, pt. 797

(I called them bastards)

It took some getting used to

no lights in the sky. Nothing.

Except stars, and of those

there were plenty. But there

were no lamps, streetpoles,

floodlights or any of that.

The farmyards here and there

had their own lampposts

for the barnyard to be lit up,

but mostly they were on

switches and not just plain

'on' all the time. You don't

know pitch dark until you've

been experienced with it.

When I first got to my

property, there were two

lamp-poles I'd not known

about, regular street lights

that came on at darkness. I

had the fixtures immediately

removed, once I realized they

were coming on nightly and

blinding me. I was calling the 

power company for the new 

account set-up anyway. Those

two lamps came to $103 monthly,

and I knew I didn't need to be

paying that, and I really didn't

want that extra light at $52 each.

I wanted darkness, thanks.

They left the poles in place,

they came and took the lighting

arms away. I used to go out at

night, deep night, like 2am, just

to fixatedly observe the sky. It

was dark, and riddled with

thousands of stars  -  (dare I say 
tens of thousands? Numbers fail
for this grasp)  -  bright, not

so bright, dim, wavering, and

even varied in color some.

What amazed me, I think the

most, were two items that

astounded. First was how

much movement there was

in the deep night sky  -  things

moving around, in their silence.

I'd figured for what the blinks

were; satellites and various of

Mankind's orbital things. Yet,

beyond them there was an

almost constant movement,

somewhere, at any time, of

streaking  -  comets, asteroids

whatever. I wasn't a science

type who would get sky maps

and tracking charts and all

that  -  to me it was all more

thrilling and cosmic, and I

wished for it to stay that way.

My thoughts were usually as

wandering as some of those 

stars anyway. The second

aspect of this which astounded

me  - and this is a little difficult

to get across  -  was the pure

dimensionality of deep space.

As I stared and studied what 

I saw, there was a constant

three-dimensional effect; the

stars are layers of depth, the

aspect of 3-D startles. The

miserable, industrial sky of

Jersey and Avenel with which

I'd grown as a flat, 'dispossibly'

disconcerting, nay boring,

artifice; Sky. Something that

once may have been important.

To someone. To others, in the

past. I'd see all those star

charts and diagrams of the

horoscope sky, and the old,

ancient, supposedly mythical

images of ancient man, who, it

was said, somehow sat around 
and got the outlines of Gods and 
their legends from all that, to 
formulate by : place, and time,
portraits and images from the

sky, of archers and rams and

buckets and fountains. That

crap always baffled me, and 

it seemed like a real load of 

it too. The night sky now,

however, that I was viewing,

there in Pennsylvania's distant

high lands, bore more the

resemblance of gauze. A web,

an entire panoply of stars and

celestial objects NOT in any

flat pattern, but one so awesome

and deep and rich that the varied

depths, the very deepness of

the night and the astronomical

world above, could be seen as

in the equivalent of some real,

heavenly, divine, cosmic

ViewMaster. I'd never before

experienced it  -  it was hot to

the touch, enrapturing, and it

all captivated me totally. I 

never wanted for daylight 

again. I'd found my element,

my own 'dark' matter, which

wasn't dark at all.

-

I knew I'd hit onto something:

The world was never anything

of what people say it was. I

sensed that counting eggs! 

Each egg was another life 

and another world; limited 

in its scale, yes, and only 

little like ours, but farmers 

viewed each as an installment 

of money, a designated, tiny

and incremental part of a 

much-larger packet of the

egg-production, and milk, 

and corn, and everything

else by 'commodity,' they

lived. You'd think, being 

around all that life, they'd 

value something of it. But

that never happened  -  oh

sure, they got cute around the

bunnies and foals and chicks

when the children were near,

doing all that dumb adult

stuff that parents and adults

do around kids; but none of

it was true. Each was a 

commodity, saleable by 

volume, and valued as that 

only. Besides, all over the land

round them, if something

could be shot, hunted or

otherwise killed as wild, it

would be. Nature got little

regard except as business.

Over time that really gnawed 

at me, galled me, and pretty

much turned me against what

I was seeing.

-

It was the same with that

night sky  -  I was lost in

an almost Nirvanic reverie

each time  -  yet these oafs 

all around me saw nothing 

and cared little of it. They'd 

rather have haircuts and 

their damned apple jack. I'd

be lost in Orion's Belt, on

my own in the deep, deep sky,

and all they wanted was another

belt of their booze to try. All

things had gotten twisted up,

and I began seeing how there,

yes, even there, people were

living misrepresented lives,

getting things wrong; ignoring 

the best, a thriving on the wrong.

Taking sustenance, as it were

from bad cattle-feed of the

mind. A lethal mind. My

wife had a Siamese cat; a

real nice one, expensive too.

We brought it with us, having

bought down in Laurence Harbor,

NJ a year or so back, in some

miserable pet store that's now

a store-front post office next

to a naked bar that opens daily

at 4pm and is now BYOB after

years of NO alcohol allowed.

Things change, I guess, and I

end up wondering how I know

this stuff anyway. Farm boys

ran the cat down, it having been

strolling around out the broad

yard; for a bit of the air  -  got off 

near the road, and these yokels

ran it down under the pretense

that they'd 'thought it was a

raccoon.' Well, at least they

told us about it later. Another

time, I had a dog, a crazy-ass

black Lab, about three years old,

full of God's own graces and

pep and energy too. They one

day long-distance shot it. For

what they said was 'chasing

deer. I called them 'bastards'

on that case.

12,065. IN SOME WAYS

IN SOME WAYS

Some days I do nothing at all.

It's easy; all this writing and

turmoil brings a self-respite,

and I can still run away. To

sit about : peanut-butter walls

and a butterscotch ceiling too.

I might read a hundred books

of nothing this day, and yet, on

another, one massive great tome. 

And walk away satisified and 

beseeched. And. Never.

Leave. Home.

12,064. WHEN THE SLEAZEBALL GENTRY ARRIVE

WHEN THE SLEAZEBALL 

GENTRY ARRIVE

They'll be led, I assume, by the most

ordinary scum : in groups like Manta

Rays or Nancy Mairrones. Apple

mouth princes, slobs of the moment.

No one at home to turn over the keys.

-

We shan't be looking, mind you, not

for that. Their tracks will be sealed 

and easy to trace in blood marked with

icicles, lathered with these foremost

icons of dejection. Those who do the

biddings of others because they're too

decrepit to do their own.

-

I built a house once on the railroad

tracks; and I let the trains run right

through it. My porters and conductors

carried their own books, with all the

clues written down : we knew who'd

killed the last Mayor, we know who'd

installed now the clown.

12,063. ARRIVAL

ARRIVAL

Hart Crane and his words.

Van Gogh and his brushes.

Arshile Gorky and his bent

turmoil. Freda Kahlo and

all that pain. They've all

gotten there already.

12,062. CAFE LIFE

CAFE LIFE

In one instant moment, as

quick as a hoodlum's wink,

the shallow shoals of constancy

were gone. Everything tipped;

new delegations of the swarm

began talking their junk. I was

watched the violet light refracted

along the ceiling, thinking it would

only last a moment as I sat  - and

as the sun moves, and the time

of days re-adjusts all things,

as the noise subsides.

12,061. LAMBASTE THIS CATERWAUL

LAMBASTE THIS CATERWAUL

Watching the man with the hatchet

fall down, I awoke. And then he said

he knew me when. How was any

sense to come of that? 'Dimwoodey

and Carrington, Arborists' is what

the side of their green truck read. I

thought little of that, while they cut

with a hack. I said to myself tht it

sounded more like a faux-British

soap company than anything else.

Cleanse the world! Clean up this 

landscape! I say, old chap!

12,060. RUDIMENTS, pt. 796

RUDIMENTS, pt. 796

(not magic; just magical)

Tucked away in my little

corner of nowhere, there at

RD 2 Columbia Crossroads,

PA, on some nameless dirt

road at the time (I kept

naming it, changing the

every two weeks at will,

all meaningless and making

reference to no one), I did

manage well enough. Half

the adventures I can remember

are fully untold, and the ones

I've told are half remembered.

If I knew back then that all

this would occur, I'd have

called the road 'Hold Onto

Memories Lane;' well.

perhaps. As it is, it's more

like 'Make a left at Don't

Blank Out Road.'

-

There came a time, March

1st or so (the beginning of

March has always been a

portentous, breakout, time

for me. I never know why),

whichever year it was; not

sure. I just got that feeling

again of needing to fly, start

something over. Thank God for

Ithaca. It right then became a

refuge; it was half a trip, maybe

40 miles, 21 up from Elmira

and another 20 down into

Pennsylvania. In any case,

by this time I'd gotten by

post-flood job back up in

Elmira, I'd stopped working

with Warren, and the farm

stuff, my local school job

was done; I'd kind of just

chucked everything as was

almost ready to move on.

Elmira  -  to which place

we did eventually move,

again was stopgap. It became

a fairly regular thing, that

Spring and Summer, to make

the trip to Ithaca  -  it was,

all of a sudden, like making

up for lost time. The Johnson

Art Museum had just opened,

and it was pretty much a showcase

of Art, or at least a place, a real

place, where I could dip back

in. At the time, the building

and its architecture was

considered groundbreaking,

even though now it comes

off as dated and little much,

for its 'modernity'  -  like a

bad rocket ship or something.

Looking at it now, all that

poured concrete leaves me

cold. No matter, because

I'm not there.

-

Ithaca had a bottom section  -

a regular town, stores, shops,

sidewalks. All the usual. And

then, after a long incline, as

one drove or walked the old

clusters of hill hugging homes

and streets, frat houses, rooming

houses, and the two colleges

(Ithaca College, and Cornell

University, much larger). It

was a place unto itself, down

and dirty, ramps and paths, not

all paved; shortcuts between

homes, things were still hippie

like, the remnants of the takeover

and black-power turmoil and all

the campus fighting and Vietnam

War stuff, was all yet around.

Smoke had not yet cleared, and

it was as if the words still hung

in the air. Talk about sanctuary

cities, this place was one even

way back then. There was little

rule. Suicides off the cliffs were

not uncommon, at exam time,

during the long course or Winter

and school, whatever. (It's all

been netted off now and is held

in place by chained and secured

mesh nets, over and along the

gorges an rocks and ledges.

Stupid to look at, but, I guess,

needed too. Personally? I think

it could be argued either way.

Let 'em jump. As Scrooge said,

reduce the excess population).

Anyway, what's the use of letting

people hang on who want to use

their free will? I never got that

stuff at all, the idea that people

talk out of both sides of their

mouth is obvious; which is why

there's a high, and a low. That

kind of dichotomy is part of

Life's make-up. We praise our

freedoms and freedom of

choice, but actually allow

so little of it.

-

All I ever mostly did at this

point was study. I was a bit

crazy over that. Maybe some

people are born mad, but I

certainly was developing in

that direction  -  not having

been born like that : Mad in

the sense of one, undying

devotion to a single task.

On the other hand, that

doesn't ever make for a

well-rounded or complete

life. Believe it or not, by

letters at first, later in

person, I became friends

with an older guy attached

to Cornell, doing some sort

of work. Raul Manglapus. It

was a letter to the editor, by

him, in the NYTimes, to which

I responded to his Cornell

address, and he answered. It

then went back and forth a

few times, and we finally met.

Interesting stuff. Marcos, about

1972, had exiled him, so he

was running, as it were, an

opposition movement for a

government-in-exile, against

the Marcos family regime and

kleptocracy. Maybe you remember

Imelda Marcos, with her 6,000

pairs of shoes. His family had

a long struggle to sneak out of

the Philippines and also get to

America. Manglapus thus tended

to be a little furtive, figuring, as

he did, that probably someone

was out to get him. Shoot him

poison him, etc. He stayed very

active in his national political

issues. But what was cool about

him, was that he was also pretty

hip; like a jazz-music guy, a

writer and a musician. He had

some music of his own he

wrote and worked with too.

Once Marcos was gone,

Corazin Aquino, I think it

was, got him back into the

country and into the government,

maybe even back into his old

foreign minister position. I

forget, and I never heard

from him again  -  until I

later heard when he died  - 

regular death, disease or

cancer. No foul play.

-

I did used to think how cool

it was, and by whatever

accidental means it had

occurred, that I had made

that connection. It was, of

course a purely symbolic

one  -  I was nothing to him,

in his political and exile scheme

of things; I represented no great

'part' of America, of which his

music and writing used to parody

or sort of poke fun at too. But,

I'd broken through some sort

of personal barrier, and I was

proud of that, in my way  -  in

the same manner, and almost

exactly, as the way I'd become

friendly, at Elmira College,

with Gandy Brody, the artist,

before he died. It was all a

little strangely-magical, because,

by rights, all of what I'd been

doing should have had no

paths-crossing with these

guys. It was weird, because they

each represented something I'd

just previously been involved

with. Gandy Brody, along with

his visiting friend once or twice,

poet Kenneth Koch, brought to

me the living, breathing remnants

of 1950's beat-bohemia in ways

that I'd otherwise only read about;

and Manglapus, and his jazzy

music-set stuff, along with his

famed political role and situation,

became like, to me, a living

History icon and the living

representative of deeds and

actions in that sphere.

-

Rather than running mad and

blindly out of control, I was

managing to make each little

chit of my time and learning

fit a format of the living

panorama of all that was

around me. Much the same

as, about 2010, when I picked

up the phone and there was

Joyce Maynard on the other

end, wondering if I'd show

my house to her son, who'd

be in NYC from California.

I did, we met, he came over
to the house, and the rest, 

well, maybe I'll write about 

sometime too.

12,059. WHAT WILL YOU DO?

WHAT WILL YOU DO?

What will you do when Hong Kong

comes here? You will do nothing; do

not sneer. You've already turned over

the keys to your kingdom, to the 

sleazeball marauders and the clenches

of death; the men who wear cleats in

their teeth and who lie where they stand.

Those who will stop at nothing (you've

already let them) to despoil your land.

12,058. A NATURAL DELIRIUM

A NATURAL DELIRIUM

To run from stars and cakes alike,

as if no difference existed, would

make no sense to me. In the light

of any day  -  all things must be

examined. The realm of sameness

is a quite different place.

-

To be told the Earth is an orb

constantly turning, is, in my

mind, conjecture. A heedless,

or perhaps natural delirium.

That's all. For it cannot be :

the cosmos is interpretation, 

that alone. I opine? A cosmos 

of being wherein we have a 

part, like an endless nerve 

running the spine, or the heart.

12,057. RUDIMENTS, pt. 795

RUDIMENTS, pt. 795

(designs for your porch?)

Rather than distance myself

from things, I always felt

there was a message built

into everything; so I dug
in instead.  This put me at

odds, with the 'Pure-God'

crowd, whose view of God

was of a pure and distant

presence, prime mover of

all things, which were

inherent and then made

self-evident by the aloof

'distance' of this far-off

God concept. My viewpoint

was the other way (as it

turned out, a total failure

and a bust, by whatever,

and by whose terms

anyway?)...for I held

faith in the active and

present work of a verb-God,

one whose activities and

consciousness as it were, of

and within all things, kept

this world going and, as

well, stepped in to alter 

and to influence its acts, 

occurrences, and those

agents of these acts too;

namely, US, as Humans.

What happens when one's

premise and base for living

turn out to be only false and

conjectural? Well, just look

at me. I missed the mark.

Aristotle had said 'God' was

pure reason and far too

exalted to descend to the

knowledge of such ignoble,

particular beings as men (all

beings/ Humankind) and its

doings. On the other hand,

the God of revelation was

the active agent, able to

know all things and to be

present and active in the

creative order. The two

instances here diverge, yes,

and greatly. Pure God, and

aloof, contemplating only

itself and not the petty affairs

of men and their cosmos;

set against that Revelation,

acting-force, determinate,

God. I had placed my early

bet on the active, force-bound

agent one, and had, apparently

bet wrongly. (Aristotle also

said, somewhat stupidly, I felt,

relating to that aloof God

of reason, and its 'Creation'

of which he paid no attention,

that 'There are some things

which it is better not to see

than too see.'

-

So, anyway, I almost should

have realized, but the traveling

cross-country girlfriend who 

was with us a complete fan

of, alas, The Flower District,

in NYC  -  and one of her goals

was to see and visit it, at the

5:30 AM start-up and prep

time that it operates by. She

wanted to see the incoming

trucks of flowers, cuttings and

such, witness the distribution

and trimming and cutting, and

display, of the entire gamut of

flower-district activities. Quite

dedicated. In addition, she was

an architect....of porches. Go

figure! I never even knew there

were such things  -  porches and

overhangs, balconies and the like.
Talk about craft specialization!
So, in addition to the flower

district wanderings, our time

took in her sketching and 

drawing, in not artistic, but 

rather architectural renderings, 

of all these things she'd see.

Overhangs. Grandiose entryways,

mid-level dormers and such  -

all of the rich and varied parts

of so many old buildings. It

was a bit tedious, yet I enjoyed

it; fortunately the weather was

good, we were able to eat, etc.

Plenty of dawn activities, and

many places were open to serve

that early crowd. The scurrying

ants of commercial New York

were everywhere.

-

So, no interdiction was due me;

I had failed, had bet wrongly, 

and my definitive enterprises

therefore needed some newer

reconstituting. Which is where

my life - centered around an aloof

yet rampaging creativity - came in,

and was sourced from. Other than

that, I'd lost all meaning; not such

a bad thing, as I learned; because,

to put it frankly I can take, and

I can argue either side of any 

issue. And can do it well. What

that actually makes me, I don't 

know. (But what it does for me

is show me how inconsequential

the fallen world actually is, that

I can argue any point and scoff

at its opposite, from any angle,

and how deadly serious and for

more vital and important the

unchanging and fierce world

of cosmic creativity is by

contrast. You can have your

silly old 'Earth' stuff).

- 

Jamming into NYC from that

last leg of the journey, from

Binghamton east, was a real

blast. Probably punch-drunk

from two long, dumb, days

of incessant travel, dogs, talk,

sights, scenes and sounds, I

felt positively Keruoac-ean.

My head was ablaze, and my

running mind was kept reeling.

Possibilities abounded; each 

and all seen in the light of the

long arc of all I'd ever done

before : books, quotes, learning,

writing, wants, and needs too.

By contrast, I am an old man

now, with a much clearer and

sharpened delineation of

character and selfhood. Many

of the things I was concerned

with or cared about then, I

would no longer spend a penny

on. The long years wasted and

drained my life  -  to the point

where I realize no there are no

meanings or definitions worth

doing anything about. It's all

an ever-changing bowl of soup,

but presented to us somehow

on a sloppy platter, instead of in

a bowl. Keeping it all together

and from dripping all over the

floor is our human task.

-

And too bad for all that!

-

There was a certain strangeness

to these people who were our

traveling companions. I'd never

quite seen it before. It kind of

concerned me, but at the same

time was none of my business.

'She' was the passive partner

here; almost abusively so  -

taking refuge, I found, in these

quirky dedications to sketching

entries, porches, and overhangs.

The guy in this mix was a total,

demand/control figure, wielding

that heavily over her head. It

wasn't often that I could read a

power-dynamic so clearly, but

this one was easy. The same 

weird drive, the same personality

intensity and madness that took 

us in a two day period from

one westerly NY State point,

across to NYC, and then back a

abit to New Jersey too (and also
back to Elmira again!), almost

without ceasing, was the same

sort of push-drive-command

over others he wielded, or

tried to anyway. I noticed he

controlled the style of her

hair; she'd commented she

wished for it to be cut back

some, but he'd allow no

tampering. I wasn't sure what

any of this represented, but I

could feel the chafing in the

air; something there was 

about them that was gong 

on too far forward. It wasn't

computing for me. Fondly, I

found her appreciation for things

for more comforting than his

drive. I'd never been trained

for this sort of situation. They

didn't last. Within the year, after

they'd gone back to California,

the relationship failed, they went

their separate ways, after some

real quarreling. I lost track of

her  -  his fifth relationship in

maybe 10 years  -  and he later

died. It was all as over as that.

If you see any porch designers

named Sherie, it might be her.