13,974. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,234

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,234 

(in one life, and out the other)

There's never an end to 

banishment; when you're 

banished, it's as if you're

banished forever. Yes. It's

from everything  -  life,

emotions, even regrets.

I watched that old lady

bleeding on the sidewalk. 

Nothing I could do; not

my problem. I realized I

had not the connection to

impart the emotion.

-

That Eckleburg guy had

been telling me his views

of the country, and I was

already tired of that too. No

clue where he was talking

from, but it didn't affect me

any. He may have been from

another world  -  all about

how welcoming others in was

OK but now, more than that,

we give away the shop too.

I wanted to say 'so what, and

where were your grandparents

from anyway?' But I didn't. I

just stirred my coffee, thinking

of the color. I met a guy much

like him, years later too, in

NYC. Far more mysterious, 

and the scene was all different.

He called himself Marleybourne

Fishbein, and said he was a

'Negotiator for Extra-Terrestrials.'

It was all very thrilling, and was

another one of those guys who

claimed to have picked me out

with their discerning eye. If any

of that was ever true, I never

found out; but Fishbein was

other-worldly and showed me

a clear connection to the cosmos,

via him, and my place in it. I

thought he was going to spirit 

me away, but we just sat there 

and got drunk. The weird thing

was, he never paid a cent, the

money of the table just kept

growing, and the glasses never

really emptied either. All I ever

did, most of my life, was meet

weirdos.

-

My friend from NYC and I,

we were, back then, way into

Hart Crane. The Bridge; White

Cities; Porphyry in Akron; The

Broke Tower; For the Marriage

of Faustus and Helen. Yeah, it

was all crazy. That led to Harry

Crosby, and his wife, Caresse,

and to the Black Sun Press, and

literary suicides and all those

1920's tales of intrigue and

space-cadet stuff but with a 

pen. Yep, people sure did once

know how to live.

-

One thing about living (but only

if looked at in a certain way) -

You never have to pay rent?

-

I always mixed up Eliza Doolittle

and that lady who wrote The New

Colossus, or whatever the poem

thing is on the Statue of Liberty.

It sure would have been funny

if she'd written that. But, alas

it was Emma Lazarus.

-

It used to spit me up into red

fire (I was once a card-carrying

member of the Socialist Worker's 

Party too, out of some lame

address in the W20's, NYC), 

whenever I'd read all that praise

and glory about Thomas Edison, 

nd Henry Ford, Harvey Firestone,

John Burroughs, and even John 

Muir, the supposed, great, naturalist. 

Just look at those names and wonder. 

You have to. The first three of the

names are the men most responsible

for the destruction of the world as

we may have ever known it. And

they are praised and revered?

-

When you come right down to it,

as I did, you realize that the complete

ignorance of America revels in these

sorts of moments. The five men most

publicly representing the natural

destruction of the land they claimed

saving (NO, that's not true either.

Not one of these guys, outside of the

most ignorant and base schemes of

approach, had a creative or elated

moment among them), used to tour

and camp together (in very early,

open-air auto caravans) and praise

the goodness of all they say. Bastards

are made, I guess, never just born.

-

The first Mrs. Edison, that Stilwell 

lady? She's buried deep in an old

and eerie cemetery in Newark, NJ,

just of Rt. 1, which roars by her

head. Along with her is buried the

son she bore with Thomas Edison.

A marker attests to all this, with

little editorializing. Back in 

Llewellyn Park, at the Edison

Mansion, in West Orange, curiously

enough, Thomas Edison and his

other wife, Myna or somesuch,

are buried right in their yard! Just

off the rear steps of the house, you

can walk right up to the two graves.

-

I never cared pas a certain point

about any of this, all these years.

But now, all of a sudden, here it 

comes pouring out of me, with 

a slant and a bias, by me, against

the modern day, which I see only

as the evolved development of the

caterwauling indecencies of the

whole mess of them  -  Tesla, Ford,

Edison, Graham Bell, and the whole,

entire hell-bent load of them. We

live now amongst their shades of

death. Given once as 'gifts' to

the world, perhaps, but now foul,

rank, and accursed too.

13,973. A SMALL PIECE OF CLOTH

A SMALL PIECE OF CLOTH

How I keep content? Odd thoughts

now mostly  -  figments to keep the

parlor lamps lit. Life being mostly

blemish, a small piece of cloth will

suffice. Tiny-sized, to cover over

the brains of mice.

-

It is said now the homeless need

shows and underwear most. I would

not know. I see they all have phones,

which makes me wonder. From where

and how? They can talk to each other,

maybe, about their dire straits?

-

The problem with that is the structure

of a sentence. The small cloth again  -  

they'd need first to learn to talk, and

make a sense of what they are trying

to say. That's nearly impossible today.

-

So, I harbor no fugitives here in this

parlor light  -  except myself. Letting

no others in suits me fine enough. And, 

without even a phone, I need nothing 

else, not even shoes nor underwear. A

small piece of cloth, perhaps, to cover

the brain of the mouse who lives

in this house?

13,972. PAPPICANO'S

PAPPICANO'S

My dinner plate has folded and

gone home. The lady smoking

her cigarette outside the roadside

diner said 'OK' when I asked her

how it was going. She asked me

who I was and what I was doing

there. I realized I had no answer,

and so said, instead, that I was on

my way to Pappicano's and that

I was the guy who delivered their

potatoes. Then I went inside and

grabbed a local paper, and said:

'Look, right here. It says 'Eat at

Pappicano's; our fine potato 

recipes will make you drool.' 

13,971. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,233

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,233 

(progressively befuddled)

I had a lot of those Jersey

towns all mixed up in my

head; many of them being

almost the same, and my

head a mixed travel-rubble

as well. I'd by this time 

been through all of deep

rural PA, Vermont, and

some places of New York

State as well, in addition to

most every cavalier pit-stop

and hell-hole NYC offered. 

On the trail here, of Thomas

Edison, through the Oranges,

from Menlo Park, and more,

I got progressively befuddled.

He used to take, by wagon,

back then, (I think maybe it's

Valley Road now) daily

work trips to an old northern

mining town called Ogdensburg,

NJ, where he had an encampment

investigating various plants and

fibers for 'filaments' for the new

electronic lightbulbs. Most of

what he'd come up with always 

burned out too quickly, and his

madman quest of that time

was for some other fiber or 

something that would last; so

he used his iron-mine there for

that purpose too. Like I said,

madman.

-

It's hard to imagine how both

he  -  and Henry Ford  -  changed

our world, probably stupidly and

unwittingly. Somehow, they've

both been regaled as heroes. 

Edison also took many trips

to Florida  -  plantation-stuff,

seeking plants and ferns and

artificial rubber sources, etc.,

for many of his inventions. I

never understood how he did

tht either  -  travel was difficult.

There were no 'highways; not

even cars. I guess maybe trains?

Horses and wagons? Back and

forth to Florida sure puts back

and forth to Ogdensburg to 

shame, yes. That mine, by the

way, in Ogdensburg  -  in the

Summer months it's open for

visitors; you can visit, and go

inside, and even descend to 

the underworld (as it were),

the wet caves and subterranean

sections. It used to be said

that, like some sorcerer, Mr.

Edison ruled all that. 

-

"A scientific hermit, shut up

in a cavern in a small New 

Jersey village, holding little 

or no intercourse with the

outside world, working like an

alchemist of old in the dead of

the night, with musty books and

curious chemicals, and having

for his immediate companions

persons as weird and mysterious

as himself. Invisible agents are

at his beck and call. He dwells

in a cave, and around it are skulls

and skeletons, and strange phials

filled with mystic fluids whereof

he gives the inquirer to drink. He

has a furnace and a caldron, and  

above him as he sits swings a

quaint old silver lamp that lights

up the deep-lined and inscrutable

face of the Wizard of Menlo

Park. The furnace glows, and

small, eerie, sprits dance among

the flames." Yes, that was Menlo

Park. I grew up right near there.

-

Edison and his first wife bombed;

they divorced early on. The name

was Stilwell, and, in Iselin, I used

to drink with a guy named Mark 

Stilwell, who bore some lineage 

to all that but was mostly just a

sot with too much booze in him

to realize. In fact, in those days,

late 1980's and early 90's, most

of my drinking buddies were 

local lost souls, many of whom

came from those very laboratory

streets where Edison once lived

and worked (Monmouth Street,

Christie, Philip Street, Dellwood,

etc.). Those places didn't exist

for Edison, but after he'd moved 

to West Orange with his works,

the area was developed by houses

and streets. The only reason any

of this existed anyway was because

of the 'countryside' of 1880, and

the small rail-access station that

at-once attracted Thomas Edison

to the bucolic isolation and

nothingness of  -  whatever it

was all eventually called: Edison,

Iselin, Menlo Park. The place

itself was utterly so useless that

naming it was seen as a task, and

after Thomas Edison, honoring

it was even worse : a large boulder

at the side of the highway, when it

was country, still, and an almost

monument to place, person, and

time  -  managing to say and to

honor nothing much anyway. 

A prophet is not without honor,

except in his own home. As Jesus

put it. Now there's someone who

knew about carrying fire, and

wizardry too. Edison be damned.

-

Most of Humankind lives its days

under the commands of false respect.

I could never get past the damages

of that : things presented wrongly,

conclusions used for entrapment.

n fact, everything about this world

is just like that  -  'things presented

wrongly,' etc. Government. Church.

School. Family. It's wonder we can't

get things straight.

-

New Jersey's weird too, in other ways:

The only President from NJ, Grover

Cleveland? You can't find a thing about

him anywhere (he's buried in Princeton);

there's his little boyhood home, up along

that Valley Road area somewhere. Edison

probably passed it 500 times, but nothing

else. There's no town named Cleveland,

or Grover, or any of that. A pure cloak

of invisibility.

-

I have more to go on here, and will be

continuing this, BUT, that same day

as we were leaving Montclair  -  after

that Eckelburg guy and the rest  -  we

were walking. Having turned the corner

from the main shopping street into a

small plaza-like area  -  cafe, gift shops,

small storefronts, and a department

store front  -  (there was a Rolls Royce

dealership too, for some reason, and

oddly)  -  we came upon a scene of

sadness. A woman, perhaps 80, had 

fallen to the ground; her head was

bleeding and she was dazed, propped 

up in her daughter's arms, apparently.

The daughter was hysterical, calling

for help, crying. People were scurrying

about, and both a Santa and a store

guard were present, waiting for cops

or an ambulance. The ladies forehead

was split, and blood was streaming

down her face. It was a very sad scene.

And an improper ending, I thought, to

an otherwise mostly auspicious day

in a land far from home and a distance

away from my usual thinking.

13970.THE FARTHEST CHAIR

THE FARTHEST CHAIR

Maybe it was always my way, but I've

always sat in the farthest chair from

anything. So far that museum guards

would chide me for distance and sight

lines, and the country priests would

complain about what I could possibly

hear at such distance. I never cared.

-

Bawling babies and flatulent fathers?

Illustrated maps of Neanderthal sites

with dotted markings of some tribes

movement? What's any of that to me?

-

At 18 I stole a car and drove away,

never returning home until the twelfth

of never had been a song for years. I 

sat in the rear of my yard, in a very

distant chair which had been there for

years, and no one ever noticed my

return, nor my presence.

-

You can learn a lot from seeing afar.

13,969. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,232

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,232

(montclair)

In late December, 1980  -  

very late, with about 3 days 

left in the year  -  I was sitting

in a coffee-stop/diner sort of

place, in Montclair, NJ. My

10-year old son, and my wife

were with me. It was maybe

2 in the afternoon, already

drawing towards dusk. We'd

been slumming all day, in some

little car I had at the time  -  it

wasn't much but it got us about;

gas was yet cheap, by today's

standards. As I recall, we'd been

to West Orange to visit the

Edison Laboratory, and then

to Llewellyn Park nearby, which

is the closed, private and once

exclusive community where the

Thomas Edison Mansion is. He

lived there and went each day 

the mile or two to the Edson 

Laboratory where he worked, 

conducted experiments, kept

kept a massive library, and a

cot and sleeping quarters too.

-

Montclair is a number of miles

off from West Orange, and quite

a separate place, though in that

NJ fashion of old, abandoned,

industrial towns  -  in the 1970's

and 80's anyway  -  they all bore

the same attributes of 'scratch

and get by'  -  long before the

age of mass condo-conversion

and head-strong communitarian

developments for middle-class

and subsidized housing. It was

all interesting, if you liked that

sort of old, faded bricks and

mortar, almost Victorian, 

landscapes. Newark was the

same way, once all visible 

from the trains; all gone now. 

I never understood, and still

don't, why old, working, America

would have allowed itself to

self-destruct as it did, except for

the ideals of Capitalism, which

in a truly Marxist sense, are 

nothing but self-consuming, 

and which thrive only on 

consumption and self-destruction,

based on the constant need for 

new product, new junk, and

a formulated process of false

need and appeal. Capitalism

can never achieve peace because,

once attained, any goal cannot 

be settled and rested, as greed

and profit then demand something

new again that everyone must be

convinced they need. Rapacious

destruction ensues. Nothing can

ever be appreciated. Even the

ides of God and Religion can 

become nothing more than a 

frenzied nervousness, based 

again  on new 'product', money, 

and awkward claims of 'success',

both spiritual and otherwise. 

Any God, in Capitalism, is 

truly in the employ of Mammon, 

and Moloch too. Even bookstores

will claim to sell you wise 

enlightenment through their

serene and enlightened staff,

but first you must turn over

money, for the newest tome

awaits. At the top of every

heap there's someone with

their dirty hand out.

-

One of our reasons for the

Montclair stop was, yes, a

bookstore. Off along the side

of the retail district there had

always been a large, totally

haphazard and messy, used

book emporium (they liked

words like that back then. It

itself being an old, Victoriana

sort of word), which, besides

endless used books of every 

description, encompassed

also magic, games, jewelry,

runes, and other esoterica,

hippie-oriented or not. It was

run by a curiously aloof guy

of about 35, and was adjacent

to the coffee-shop in question.

-

We were having our food  -

usually coffee, a toasted corn

muffin, maybe a tuna-sandwich,

and my son (off-school I guess

for Christmas week), was having

whatever he'd ordered. Paging

through our books and pamphlets,

we looked up and, addressing us

and sitting nearby, was this odd

fellow in a great-coat. The expensive

kind of a coat and hat I'd only

come across in tales and stories.

He nodded to me and began to

speak: "Hello. I couldn't help

noticing your charming little

family in the bookstore there;

you really caught my eye. I feel

I must say this to you: I am Jack

Eckleberg, of late a no-one here

but once a staff philosopher at the

local university. So be it. I need

to tell you this, at the belly-end

of the years as it is, for I have

been a great-chooser of men and

can pick-out destiny quite easy

and when I see it. Never become

unsettled, for I can sense you are

made for great things, and this

new year will soon, to you, 

become a great boon and a 

blessing. Tread with care, and 

let not the opportunities pass 

you by. It is written in the stars."

With that, he gave me 25 cents, 

saying, 'Keep this,' and then he 

told the guy at the counter that

our bill was to be on his tab. 

-

I said, "Wait? Eckleburg? Like

the doctor in Gatsby, with the

eyeglass billboard over the ash

heap in Queens?" He nodded, 

"Why, yes, in fact, that is so."

-

Nothing ever came of this, lest

you mistake my story for glory.

It's was probably nothing but

the faded glimmerings of a little

man lost in his own space. My

son asked for a quarter and got

one too. I told the guy I'd had

two friends in my youth in Avenel'

Jerry Eck, and Jimmy Eck. I

asked might they be related, with

a shortened version of the same

name. He didn't know, but said 

the name had been toyed with

over the years and families. 

And then he was gone.  By

the it was about 4:o0, and

darkening quickly. Leaving

the diner, I looked up, to

where some glade-bird was

trying to sing Panis Angelicus

on a department store step.

13,968. DISGRUNTLED UNCLE

DISGRUNTLED UNCLE

Prometheus stole fire and gave

it to Man. From the Gods to 

humans in one fell swoop.

Nothing any different that

that occurred until the Human

dragged its way across the fens.

Then, we began to see results.

-

Edison dropped fire into its

place and called it light. The

cities of bright and of spectacle

rose. Locomotives sundered the

distances where mountain-men 

used to slumber :  the hillside

shacks and cabins in hollows.

-

The small towns and places

then generated themselves; 

canals and churches sought

their meanings allied with the

commerce of the svelte. Every

two weeks there'd be 10 new

words for what we were doing.

Who'd ever heard of that before?

-

Politics made strange bedfellows, 

even then  -  still, a Capulet and

a Montague have never quite

kissed, yet. Fences align the

separate parts, and  -  of all a

sudden  -  it's 'Smoke and

Mirrors Day!'

-

Within the closed circle now,

we call it the modern day : not

worth anything but to get your

credit on and spend illicit monies

on illicit goods. This world has

lost its context : the leftists kiss

their own powdered faces, while

their rightists ponder the fates of

profit and death and man.

-

If anyone was still alive, they'd

have no place to go. Prometheus

stole fire from the Gods, a long,

long, time ago.

13,967. I LIKE TO THROW CLUES

I LIKE TO THROW CLUES

Well, in my way anyhow, I

like to throw clues about who

I may be, or have been. A very

general, healed, arm, in a nicely

formed cast. It's a mirror by the

lake of fond du lac? A small

description of my own true 

heart?

-

People may ask, 'How did you

get here?' I answer, 'With a wagon

load of furs, a cart-full of once

tradeable goods. Now, useless,

and worth, at most, nothing

very much at all.'

13,966. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,231

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,231

(Heaven means a tomorrow?)

Maybe it was, oh, 18 days

back, when I was rudely

interrupted by the plague.

I can't precisely say, since

one of the points which

moved was a specific

point of focus, the pinpoint

of which was mostly lost

in the frenzy. I need new

time to re-generate a life?

If that is so, I will do so;

though not to 'change' the

life I had before, but to 

better its work.

-

Quarrels are fraught with

factions, and the factions 

embroil each other into a

rollover pattern of false

progress. Shylock's Globbo

was but a servant to task.

Because no one chose to

benefit him, he was simple

to be, yet hard to exist. 

Perhaps 'manana' from 

Heaven means there will 

always be a tomorrow?

-

There's a genial chivalry

to the things we can be. 

The last scene I left, in the 

previous chapter, was the 

one of my father meeting 

a hot-dog vending chum 

under the old westside

highway. It was a scene

from another world : those

men are gone now, as is 

the very place and time 

and feelings they inhabited.

The structural apparatus of 

that world, as it existed, is

long gone now; as are the

definitions and references

once embedded within. All

scorched and scoured, that,

too, as if a Covid of its own 

time had swept its fire through,

and burned into the piled-pages

of that ancient reference book

composed, then, of war-memories,

men distorted and twisted from

their experiences, and their

frustrated shapes and dreams 

of a hard, solid world of metal 

and glass and fear. As I look

back now, I think that in my

entire childhood every one of

my friends had one of those

men for a Father. We've buried

those oldsters at our own peril,

and lost a world.

-

If I myself were to rise right now

from the dead, my apparition

would be no different than that

of a spoiled Marley, or a rotten

Scrooge  -  carrying locks and

chains, and trailing the white

dust of years through impossible

pages of the present. The small

candles glimmering everywhere

from the walls would try to lead

me through some other form of

dark. Even in this most modern

of days, the meanings and the

definitions of today's world

would entrap me  --  I'd need

to avoid all of it; the advancing

coarseness of fat people prancing

with their toys, the dance of cars

and medicine across people's faces; 

the sickening glee of false holiday

cheer, with all its attendant lying

and greed. This lion lies down

with the lamb? I'd rather die.

-

In my delirium, I learned many

things, things spoken to me, 

twice-over, from a creature in 

a raiment of words: "Scientists

speak of matter being formed

via the arrangement of molecules.

Mystics go a step further.  Letters

are powers of their own. Their

rearrangement gives us insight

into the relationship between

seemingly different words and

concepts. Their numerical

significance, their 'gematria,' 

must also be understood, for

words that share the same 

numerical total have a kinship

comparable to seemingly

unrelated items that share

hydrogen, oxygen, or other

basic elements  - it is this 

mix which gives a unity to 

the certain characteristics of 

reality, and by which we 

recognize our universe

and our places in it." 

-

Take this with you, and walk.

I'll be back. [The wise man

treasures life. The fool

pursues  sin, and is soon

snared by death].

13,965. STRIFE IS A COLLAR

STRIFE IS A COLLAR

My eyes are open as wide

as the moon, and my mouth

is open too. I am being filled

with a certain form of light, it

floods me, from within. Such

gloom as I've been living? I'll

let no more darkness in.

-

The patterned markings of all

Humankind  -  whatever they

be  -  lead me now to say,

at the least, that all Humans

are alike. There is no real

difference in the acclimation

of our common presentations.

-

Sun, moon, stars, fire, water,

air. The hand that holds the 

child is the hand that holds 

the hammer as well. We mark

our trails with - mostly - good

intentions. Even the beast

that savages LaLa Land has

a better name than we give it.

13,964. THE LOSSES OF WAR

THE LOSSES OF WAR

(trench warfare, 1915)

I'm wearing my pith helmet

again, and there's no foxhole

to be found. Just these war-line

ditches of mud and blood.

-

Hagerty's arm and hand, I think

I just passed; the rest of him

somewhere else. We were

trench-mates five hours ago.

-

I am forced now to be crawling

through this slime, as survivors

do. I hear Cady in pain, in a

scream from his brain. Another

man down and gone too.

-

The brass who are sending us

out, through these pissing

crevasses of nothing, know

nothing of what this is like,

nor our plight. They are bastards

all  -  if we do not return to them,

it will be alright; no matter,

no difference to make.

13,963. TIME PASSES, AND PAINT FADES

TIME PASSES, AND 

PAINT FADES

Time passes and paint fades;

we are left alone to pick the

parings : passing clouds, they

glower down. We wonder of 

a new world, nearing. 

13,962. GEOLOGY

GEOLOGY

In days of ancient cataclysm,

when the Earth was torn asunder,

what was below was driven up;

and what was above, went under.

13,961. ISOLATION

ISOLATION

I've never been bothered

by isolation; in fact I've

always enjoyed solitary

things, a sense of 'oneness'

around my own self; the

quiet, and the peace. But 

now this ridiculous new 

friend Covid has taken

me down at the knees. 

I'd stumbled, and could

not get up. After 60 years,

I was in a hospital again

for the first time. I fell 

into a different world,

indeed. No legs beneath

the knees,   no shoes on

those feet. My heart had

skipped a beat.

-

'Nine days into it', the 

doctor said, was, 'way too 

long', and I should have 

been treated earlier. I was

stretched and gusseted,

poked and probed. Handled

nicely by nurses, and then 

locked in my own 'Covid'

room  -  a 'Warning/Stop

Sign/No admittance except

for medical personnel.' I

was flushed with my first

load of medications, by 

something they called a 

'Cap Two' assortment. The

door herewas frosted glass,

except at the very bottom

12-inches or so, and same

at the top. All I could see

were feet, and carts, going

by. Some noises. Some

clatter, as people cam 

and went. At the same

time, unfortunately, the

prevailing thought seems 

to be that American Medical

Care includes the constant

idiot-barrage of TV. While

in the lobby, the TV's were

to NY news channels, and

alas, in my isolation-booth

horror-chamber it was just

me and FOX News, a fool's

chamber no better than the 

rest wherein every little 

occurrence or dotted 'i'

means something; where

the frivolous sit down with

the ludicrous and make claim

to be talking of serious matters.

It's all a headache in and of

itself.

-

The doctor eventually returned,

for another going over . He said

my vitals were perfect. Oxygen

at 99. Blood pressure fine. Lungs

clear. Bronchial OK. Head fine. 

He hung around awhile, sort of

bedside-manner interview, and

said I'd should be OK, with

rest and calm, vitamins, food

(hadn't eaten anything in a

number of days). And isolation.

-

Now that's done. I've always

liked the Winter up here, even

more than the Summer : It brings

solitude; quiet; blessed peace;

a raw and more rugged landscape;

scratches of lines, like a artist

would make, drawing a dream

I guess, then I've something.

Isolation beckons home.

I was there again, by 11pm.