12,163. RUDIMENTS, pt. 828

RUDIMENTS, pt. 828

(nothing just 'happens')

One year I showed in the

NY Studio School Alumni

Show. I can't remember,

stupidly, what year it was;

early 90's? I'd never before

even entertained the thought,

but that year, when the mailer

came to me with the entry form

and all that, I filled it out and

went willingly. I remember

computers were new, for me,

and I wasn't even sure how to

properly show the images,

all that 'jpg' stuff or whatever

it was. I wasn't even sure what

I felt right about submitting

but I finally did choose one;

fairly uncharacteristic for me.

There had always been a certain

'Studio School' style, and this

was not it. Nonetheless, I

braved on and they accepted!

then I had to do the rest  - 

wire it for hanging, decide

for framing (or not), even

an asking price, if desired.

I titled it, did all the things

needed, and one day just

strolled in to there and

dropped it off. Like a pro,

as if to say, 'Oh, yes, this

sort of thing goes on all

the time with me, dropping

paintings off for exhibit.

Ho-hum; I'm so jaded.'

It was, in its own way, quite

funny  -  as were they and

their reactions within the

school office  -  accepting

paintings, a few questions 

each, how to hang, storage, 

to arrange pickup, etc. And,

then, so typical of me, the

opening night occurred, the

usual cocktails and finger food,

again, and I chickened out.

The entire duration of the show,

maybe a three-week hang, I

managed to slip in one day,

just to see where I was hanging,

among what others, etc. And I

went right back out. All was

good, I was pleased. My own

personal reticence, however,

 had killed the whole thing for

me. After the conclusion of

the show, some time later, I

strolled in and picked it all

up. Not a word was said.

-

It all got me to thinking about

exposure, procedure, the ways

and means of getting one's name

about, etc. I realized I  was nowhere

bound; the good ship Lollipop?

When Woody Guthrie wrote and

entitled his book 'Bound For

Glory,' he sure had one way up

on me. I could hardly talk to those

people; everything was always

in character, part of plan, in line

with the expected outlook. How

in the world was anyone to break 

away when caught up young in

any of that. I thought I'd just

left all of it, and was determined

to keep it that way. Vainglory is

as vainglory does. That was never

a saying, no, but it could have

worked as one. Actually, I knew

I was missing the old times I'd

never lived; I was off by probably

three or four decades. Everything

in what was around me then, in

1967, was pomp and froth. I

just couldn't make it work. I

wanted desperately to find the

rock or the doorway where,

behind, or under, 1924 was. It

seemed a much better time for 

me to enter. There were currents

and things on then that bore

a far finer fidelity to my own 

ways and thinking. The streets

and buildings, the languages and

odors, were still more raw and 

stronger; definitions were up for

grabs. I was stuck, fairly so,

in a time not of my making, nor

of my inclination  -  motorcars

over streets, rents and rules,

regulations everywhere, lights

and whimsy. I so badly wanted

the old. I think it was at the

time, facing that crossing, that

I really did become very strange

and aloof. Segmented in my

alliances, I went about seeking

entry to places that no longer

existed. It was the sort of

decision old wise men made,

ancient seers, shamans and

shape-shifters. I'd tapped into

some real feel.

-

My friends and those around me

knew nothing of this. To them

I think I came across as just a

young kid with a foot in two or

more worlds, not yet sure of

himself or of the worlds. It

wasn't bitter, but it wasn't

sweet either  -  and, oddly

enough, 'bittersweet' didn't

work either. More than 

anything else, sunrise to 

sunset, day after day, I

was 'displaced.' And as sad

as it is, there's also a hell of

a lot of freedom in being

displaced. I think those pop

jerks trying saying something

like that with 'When you ain't

got nothin', you got nothin'

to lose,' As ungracious as it

all may have sounded.

-

And then I got sick;  I mean

really sick  -  exposure, lousy

food, deprivation, cold, bacteria,

whatever. You can probably name

a hundred things. I just collapsed,

like you see dead people do. I

was living, as I've gone over

in these chapters numerous

times, right then in the 

basement of the Studio School,

a sort of nice, half apartment,

studio-sized, and workshop

which they'd extended to me

for being there as a sort of

night watchman guy. Sixteen

bucks a week, keeping on eye

on things, making sure doors 

were closed and locked, no 

one lurking, etc. I had made

myself a little wooden sleeping

platform in the fire part of an

old fireplace in the room, and

that's where I stayed, probably for
a day or two, sick  -  no one really

even checked. When someone 

did, they were aghast, calling in

help and treatment. I did recover

but probably lost 20 pounds

more  -  resembling a skeleton.

It was still a long dead Winter.

But I made it through. It was

part of what made it all so

amazing, those 20 years later,

to find myself in the Alumni

Show. A truly retrograde element

of regression to not much, but

something. Heck, I impressed

myself if no one else.

-

Magical thinking will tell you that

things just happen : the big break,

the lucky situation, the great

timing. It's not true at all.

Lighting never strikes, and

if it does, it hits a tree. All

things need to be worked at,

arranged for, and put in place

by sequence. It's just the nature

of life. When you hear differently,

that something happened by

grace, or felicity, serendipitously  -

don't believe it. It's all part

of the machine that made what

happened happen. Even if they

say differently. I refused
to enter the machine.

12,162. MY ERRANT WAYS

MY ERRANT WAYS

I think I first went bad the day

I put that guy's hand in the juicer.

Ouch? Do you remember that?

The little rooming house in

Cleveland where we stayed, for

sure it wasn't much, but just down

the street, Dyckman's Bar & Grille,

that guy had it coming.  I told him

I'd turn his hand to rubber without

bones, but he wouldn't listen. That

was the end of that night out.

-

Then I sinned in that saddle with

Mary Forge Mellie. That at least was

fun  -  I can't remember where you

were, but when we talked about it

later all I could remember was

how much Mary enjoyed herself.

I've always liked girls who can do

it with a smile and some laughter.

-

Later, the strange guy with the chalkboard

face  -  maybe you remember him  -  he'd

faked his ID from some census board and

wore it on a lanyard around his neck.

Going from house to house, knocking

on doors, checking on places while he

talked, and then stealing what he could.

The police finally caught him, and that

was good; the whole neighborhood

area sighed relief. I never told you,

and I never got caught, but I was

acting all along as his fence.

12,161. INDUS VALLEY RANKAY

INDUS VALLEY RANKAY

Forgetful not. In America the

florist will sell you forget-me-nots;

for there is no memory left. Five

lanes of car-pooling for effect,

three turn-offs, and 4 lights later.

Now you're getting somewhere.

-

I noticed they've moved the 

cemetery to make a right-of-way 

for the extension of Rt. 621. Gee.

I always wondered about that stuff.

What a really strange thing to do.

12,160. RUDIMENTS, pt. 827

RUDIMENTS, pt.827

(they really need that drug)

One time after I'd done

some work with Polygram 

Records  -  the second

album, a gatefold record

set with about 14 printed

pieces of art as inserts  -

we had an opening at the

old Norah Haime Gallery.

The usual gallery show

opening stuff, finger

foods for the cocktail

and art-fart crowd, with

everyone voraciously

eyeing everyone else up

for possible gain, profit,

or protection. None of it

particularly edifying, but

quite fun nonetheless. I'd

brought my son along,

and two of his friends, each

at this time about age 16.

To my (and their) surprise,

we look up and there before

us is Joe Strummer, of the

Clash. Any of you young

tykes not knowing who the

Clash were  -  look it up.

It wasn't even the Clash that

mattered to me, more the

fact of Joe Strummer being

there. Bad English teeth and

all. I said my best, 'Hey, Joe,

what's up?' and got back some

wildly garbled and syntactically

unmentionable mouthful of

British locution amounting to

a sort of, 'Hey OK Whadda

fuck to you going nice this is

pretty good happy to be here.'

We hung out a little, saying

less  -  but Joe was very good

company, and later, some ten

years, after old Joe bit the

dust, someone had painted

up a really good wall mural

of him, down at 7th street and

First Ave. Something like that.

-

A sort of personal renown is

one thing, but 'presence' is

another. I'm not sure Joe Strummer,

in isolation, had that, but there

was something about him that

stood out. The whole idea of

the Clash was sort of a

communal politico-action

movement, within music and

within the bounds of a small,

moving troupe of like-minded

performers. In isolation, he

shouldn't have been very much,

nor stood out  -  by the rules

he played. Yet, he did.

-

It wasn't even, anyway, strictly

an art-world thing, this record

album. It was music, by 'artists'

accompanied by the graphics

and art they selected and/or did.

Somewhere out on the periphery

of that concept Joe Strummer

found a place to hang his hat.

He just sort of stood around,

looking at the walls, and

listening to the projected

sounds. I was unsure what

he was actually after or

seeking  -  something of

interest to him or some other

idea for use or inclusion. I

never did find out, and that

was the extent of our contact.

This gallery opening, on the

east side, overlapped with the

grid-lock factor of the yearly

United Nations opening sessions;

lots of clogged streets, diplomats,

police and security. So it was a

really special sight, about as

urban-rich as they come.

-

So maybe I'd not known really

what was going on around me.

I was still a novice, by a large

margin, lost amidst conglomerations

of way-worldlier people than me.

My very localized upbringing

had prepared me for none of this.

Everything I'd ever known was of

small-time morality and very

localized reference. Going to

Perth Amboy was considered a

trip. Going to Elizabeth was a

trek. The world had its tiny

confines, the likes of a daily

local-newspaper comic strip

making one laugh. That doesn't

happen any longer. We've

somehow been gelled to sleep 

-   those 'confines' may now be

wider and more broad than

ever before, with the entire

universe now at peoples'

point and click fingertips but

people still act oblivious to

most anything except their

next meal. As if they were

voraciously hungry scavengers

trolling the Serengeti. As if

it mattered mightily that they

next eat with lust, in style. The

same people who wear stylish

shirts. Or what they think, 

perhaps, is stylish. What a 

crazy world  -  while hunger

stalks some, supermarkets are

crazy-jammed with chemical

foods, and people elsewhere

are staving to death, turning

to bones before our eyes. No

one can clearly explain any

of this, although many try.

-

The art crowd bore its own burdens:

Joe Strummer wasn't one of them.

He was already borderline when 

he got within three blocks of the

place. Those inside, except for the

bottom tier, and below (me) had

no way of even knowing who he

was or what he did  -  yet I'd bet

that, had he been on that record

and had some scribble showing,

hanging on the wall, he'd have

had an instant and nodding renown

and acknowledgment. It wouldn't

matter what he'd done  -  he could

have outlined Siberia in yak dung  -  

and he still would have reached the

'success' that those in the room

demanded. Their own knowledge

of him. Nothing else mattered.

-

A sense of moral superiority floats

a lot of boats : it's smug, boastful,

and filled with empty pride, all at

the same time. You can sense it

right way  -  a 'stance' for the same

of stance, a conformity with a

movement, so as to be able to

excuse thinking on one's own 

part. I see it all the time. Thieves 

and judges have it. Mayors and

Council people too. Here where

I live, they send the snakes 

through the mail, and get 

away  with it. A sort of smug 

matriculation of the ill-informed, 

from pillar to post, as it were, 

all the time  hoping that no one

gets too inquisitive,  or begins 

asking for the fine print. They

boast their accolades, which

amount to lies and, yes, boasts. It's

the sort of thing an overachiever

psychotic does to confirm the 

moral superiority of pulling the 

wool over 'your' eyes as his enabler. 

His, and her's, lies and cheating 

and chicanery need the smooth

validification of ignorance. First,

by your ignoring it so they can

continue to control the psycho-show,

and, second, simply by it being

'ignorant.' They really need

that drug.

-

The art-world, the music-world,

and the world of politics and theft,

they really have little to do with

each other, except when they do.

Accumulating, each, their own

pastiches of object and feint,

they eventually do become so

broadly entwined that you end

up with fake 'Arts Districts,'

horse-ass gallery shows, and

local small-politicians showing

up at these things to talk their way

through newly mangled sleaze.

Maybe that's an art-form, a

new one, invented once by old

Joe Strummer, and stolen from 

him by the megabites who

then turn on people and prance

about as political landlords in

really bad clothing.

12,159. THE LANTERN IN THE VALLEY

THE LANTERN

IN THE VALLEY

The birds are all gone, with

singing. Not much is left now

of anything at all. There seems

a new arc, even, in the old, flat

rainbow of then.

-

I can walk around, thinking of

Eden, remembering Eve. It's a

shadow march with the dark

inklings of Time now chasing

me down  -  the same silence

as sleep, but yet different too.

12,158. RUDIMENTS, pt. 826

RUDIMENTS, pt. 826

(what's real and what's not, mogambo?)

Primitive Africans first

seeing western movies

(not 'Westerns,' I mean

rather 'movies from the

'civilized, settled, and

literate world) could not

accept various concepts

that are inherent in movie

viewing. It was cultural.

A worldview difference.

'Western' people were

already literate, at least

knowing how to read, and

use, 'sequential' process of

thinking that a 'text' gives.

Africans did not. They

were unable to carry scenes

from one to the next. A

movie assumes the viewer

will now that stuff, and

accept the illusion and fill

in the gaps. This was not

an acceptable practice to

them. When an African

saw somebody disappear

off the side of the film,

they wanted to know what

happened to that person.

A literate audience accepts

that sequence without

protest. I always thought

that was quite funny, and

it didn't take much for me

to 'grasp' or visualize the

entire scene. Which was

the point, I guess. In a

previous chapter, just recent,

about telephones, I forgot

one other thing, which I

just reminded myself of  - 

the whole notion of

'visualizing' the vapidity

of the phone call  -  the

derivation of the very

word, 'phony.' What's

that tell you? It's akin

to a real 'Unilever' moment

of the false,  the imagined,

the unseen. Much like being

in an insane asylum, we're

dealing with imaginings.

'Phony implies that  thing

so qualified has no more

substance than a conversation

with a supposed friend.'

(That, my friends, is from

the New York Evening

Telegraph, 1904. Yes!

1904!)... So, you see how

the world has been turned

over on itself a hundred

times over now, and we're

still  -  somehow  -  here;

BUT after five hundred years

of 'civilization,' and being

literate and organized, we've

brought ourselves right back

to those African tribesman

and the chimerical spirits and

ghosts, images and imaginings.

We're back to being them, and

they've spent 40 solid years

now working on being us!

Ain't no wonder the conflict

and the anguish! No wonder

they go around slicing peoples

faces and cutting off arms, hands,

and limbs. The world's a sure

and sorry place  -  while we

watch. Stuff like that I could

never touch. Mankind doesn't

advance. Mankind's an asshole.

You know the saying: 'The

higher the monkey climbs, the

more you see of its backside.'

-

I never flew a plane, doubt that

I ever will. I did have a friend

once who claimed somehow to

have been given the controls of 

some major piece of aircraft

from some proving ground out

in Northern Nevada, and he

said that he'd been given the

controls of this monstrosity

while high aloft  -  no take-off,

no landing stuff  -  just the

sheer, wild thrill of the open

flight. High aloft. all the way

down to Texas. There was a

regular pilot there, with him, and

whatever else fly-staff there'd be.

I guess. He liked to haunt these

old airplane boneyards, snoop

around, talk to people  -  a

regular sort of Area 51 ,

whatever that is out there,

with the aluminum hats and

dead extra-terrestrials. I don't

know how he swung that whole

flight deal, but I'll take his word.

(Alas, poor fellow's dead now, 

some 12 years or more). The

idea in my head is that the

visual of all that strange flight

has to have been, or would

have been for me, as striking

as any of the things those old

African cultures must have 

faced. I'd have been carting

all my old concepts around,

thinking wide-open space,

and the open borders of the

sky, when  -  really  -  it's

not that at all. It's all my own

imagined wonder. I'm my own

TV and movie act, combined.

Into the great wide-open, as

Tom Petty had it put. I'd be

all wrong, but content in that

wrongness, and I guess at 

bottom that's all this life is.

-

Another thing that came my

way as I struggled along (I

was never a catatonic type,

even though I probably 

resembled that at times,

wandering around NYC

and seemingly dazed or 

lost. But those walkabout

years were my real life and

my real education too. The

unfiltered grimace of a

real-world Willie. But I

never had the willies)....

the the thing was, I

realized, that only the

poor and the wretched,

when you come right down

to it, make interesting culture.

The kind of culture the rich

and the 'upper' class end

up valuing. I guess for

their stupid 'trade' in the

commerce of others' work.

They put a price on all that,

and make it work for them.

They've have long ago ceased

producing an interesting

culture of their own, unless

you value crap like Gloria

Vanderbilt and Hugo Bass

hi-fashion foolishness, the

cars of the rich and wealthy,

the homes and places. It's

all worn down to a sterility

that makes nothing  -  only the

poor and those way beneath

them 'produce' anything.

That sort of bugged me, and

it always made me ready to

excuse the murder and the

mayhem that usually happened

with killings, kidnapping, and

violence against the wealthy.

If they can't cover their own

useless monkey backsides, 

then they deserve what they 

get. The culture of the

organization man, and the

Organization itself, is phony.

What they DO own, however, is

irony and their self-contemptuous

arts and literature. So called.

That's the easy part; it fits

between their cocktails and

their canapes.

-

I'd guess the business of the

writer, or the filmmaker too, is

transfer the reader or viewer

from one world to another, the

one the writer or filmmaker's 

given them, or presented to

them. It happens a lot easier

for us  -  used to already, as

we are, the linear, the verbal,

etc. It's accepted subliminally

and without critical awareness.

[Let me interject here, that

it's not that way for me; I

can't abide movies and can 

never make that acceptance

leap that's needed to accept

the 'movie's' version of the

time and place, objects and

actions presented. Too much 

must be taken for granted,

and accepted, for it to make

any sense at all for me]. It's

easier for us, I was saying,

than for one of these archaic

pre-societal types I was writing

of, who still live (good for

them!) in the strange other

world of the half dark and the

pure spirit  -  without Kleenex,

Handi-Wipes, white bread and

accounting on paper too, I'd

suppose. Now that's living!

-

When you're writing a play, 

it's imperative that if you have,

let's say, 4 people on stage,

in that scene, as writer or

dramatists, you must ceaselessly

motivate or explain their being 

there at all. Try that today  -  

try that in today's world.

See what you get by way

of a viable explanation and

motivation. If you can find

anything to say what's 'real'

and what's not. Let me know

why anyone's here.

12,157. CHARLEMAGNE

CHARLEMAGNE

A pearl within the glass.

I see the depths of another

illusion : running savage 

time along the edge of a

well-honed knifeblade.

That is Charles Magnus.

-

Charlemagne, to you.

Charles the Great, it's 

been said : He eats the

meat with the gristle.

Right to the bone.

-

'They shall call this Europe,

someday.' I heard him say 

that, in the shade of the 

Brinble tree. Ancient species,

now extinct; felled, all, and

mostly for the craft of 

building seafaring ships.

12,156. TO THE ENDS OF TIME

TO THE ENDS OF TIME

Fourteen days, the guy said, since he's

last seen home. That didn't sound so 

bad to me. I said he should consider

himself lucky; some guys go to

prison for life, and die there.

12,155. YOU PUT YOUR TIE-TACK IN MY EYE!

YOU PUT YOUR 

TIE-TACK IN MY EYE!

In such an oasis as this such things

actually do mean a lot. Eyes don't

bleed, it seems, otherwise my face

would be red. The two men with

hunched shoulders are laughing.

A lot they care. My miserable

accent, the one guy said, reminds

him of Greece. I left that conversation

dangling because I didn't have a joke.

I was thinking to say  -  but I didn't

know his humor  -  'that's the same

thing your wife said when she was

down on a fours.' No matter; he

may have said 'grease' anyway.

But the joke would still work.