14,061. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,245

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,245

(excelsior the gloriana)

All my life I've been stuck on 

words. Never having a solution

to that paradox. Going back in

subject matter to Iselin Junior

High School, I can remember,

the one year I was there, having

a Science teacher  -  name, of

Miss Hardy, or Mrs., I recall

but that's all  -  and as she was

turning the class over to 'new'

subject matter, introducing to

us that we were to be studying

'Weather' for the next four or

five weeks, my elation at the

idea (realization) that it was

Weather...finally, and without

the 'h' as in the 'other' word,

'whether.' It was so stupid, but

that infused me with enthusiasm

enough that I wanted to stand

up  -  in front of the entire class,

and teacher  -  and expound

upon this. I did not, of course,

thinking they'd find me absolutely

and ingloriously 'nuts.' Any 7th

grader getting a wild-streak over

the spelling of, and inclusion or

removal of an 'h' in a word would

immediately be classed as a true

non-desirable in a tribe of hatchet

wielding troglodytes such as that

which was around me. Perhaps

even the thick-headed teacher

would have exiled me.

-

There were lots of things like that;

weird words like 'Doula' and 'charisma,

which stuck in my head. Halcyon too;

that word seemed to closed to a form

of electric stuff or whatever, 'halogen'

I guess I meant (headlights); a 'Doula'

I was surprised to learn, was a Midwife;

but one with very strict configurations

of duty  -  in that she could NOT give

medical care, nor deliver a baby.

All a Doula (Alladoula itself sounds

quite funny), was allowed to do was

give emotional and psychological

support to a mother, before, during,

and after childbirth  -  for the various

ills and crises of pregnancy. It's called

'emotional, physical, and informational

support during pregnancy.' A Midwife,

on the other hand, can deliver and give

medical care. Anyway, in today's world

it's all called 'post-partum' stuff, but back 

then in the days of DDT and synthetic

concoctions of all sorts, a 'Doula' was

not a word in common currency.

-

So, how many other crazy kids have

you known who exercised no restraint 

over words, at 12? That was the same 

year, too, that  -  upon arriving at 7th 

grade History class  -  the rear bulletin

board had been tacked up with all

sorts of magazine references and

photos to the Civil War, (American)

Centennial. It was there too that

an entire array of cool place-names

and other words, captivated me  -

Manassas, Antietam, Wilderness,

Ball's Bluff, Belmont, Philippi,

Shiloh, Seven Pines, Malvern Hill.

All of that blew me away (to make a

sort of Civil War ballistics reference).

Combined with that was, in my own,

further, readings (all this; none of it

was actually 'taught' to us in that

school, more rather just done up, and

silently, as a cheap, bulletin-board

display of tacked-up finery, with so

little explanation as to be useless), 

was all the amazing names I'd see,

of the dead  -  biblical and archaic

names like I'd never seen before:

Jedediah, Hiram, Juball, Lasalle,

and  -  a great one for sure  -  

'Pleasant Unthank.' Sure was

some amazing stuff.

-

My Inman Avenue friend Ken,

with whom I went to that school,

had a 7th-grade momentary-crush

girlfriend. Nothing big-deal, no

swarming or petting, just a nice

desire to be with her. In order to

make that happen, so he could

meet her and spend time with her,

he and I would set out, about 6pm

or so, many nights that Winter, to

attend basketball games in that

school's ridiculously-designed

gymnasium. It was school-against-

school stuff, or maybe sometimes

intermural too. I hated basketball,

and still do  -  men in dumb-looking

shorts and clothing, running back

and forth 'dribbling' and 'shooting'

with a large, bouncing ball, never

did much for me. Besides, the

gym itself stunk, and I hated the

noise-quality too  -  the sliding

squeak of sneakers on varnished

wood, or whatever. The echo

and resonance of shouts, screams,

cheers, and whistles never much

floated my boat either. But, Ken

and this girl would get time

together, and that was the point.

Actually, it was an easy walk for

us, and we looked forward to it.

We'd set out towards Avenel Park

and Hudson Boulevard and then

cut across the grassy grounds of

what used to be a Costa Ice Cream

plant or factory or whatever places

are called where ice cream is made;

(Factory? It just doesn't sound

right). Then we'd cross Route One,

back then still a simple highway,

low-key and without the center

dividers like it has now. That would

put us into some large cemetery,

one without gravestones  -  all it had

were those flat rectangle things

flush with the ground. I never liked

cemeteries like that  -  anyway, a

quick dash across all that expanse

would get us to the houses  -  much

like those in our own block, but even

more of them  -  and then we'd get

to the school. It was by itself then,

though now they've built some

big-ass High School right next to 

it. We'd go in and Ken and that

girl would meet (Note: I didn't say

'hook up'; today's lingo distorts all

that). I'd wander off, checking out

the people, the other kids and girls,

the game, or anything else I could

do to use up time. Then, when it

was all done, Ken and I would re-do

our mad dash to back home, getting

there maybe about 9pm. Once or twice

I can recall my father coming to pick

us up in a car. I guess maybe those

were extra-cold nights and I'd called,

maybe. Can't remember.

- 

I suppose Ken's and my parents just

figured we had a new interest in the

sport of basketball. I never delved, nor

was it ever talked about. By the start

of March, or mid-March anyway, it

was all over. Nonetheless that silly

school has always stayed in my mind.

Just the other day someone said

something that brought it all up to

me again  -  to the degree that I felt,

in a Proustian way  -   that every

sensation, sound, and memory of those

days came flooding back. Someone was

telling me about their trip somewhere,

and about their air-travel.  They made 

mention of a stopover in Chicago,

and the person said...'It was a nice

flight, and we stopped momentarily

in Chicago.' I said, 'Really? Did they

give you enough time to get off and

then back on, at the least?'

14,060. PLEASE DON'T EVER

PLEASE DON'T EVER

Walls spattered with train-station

paste and posters, from long ago.

All the usual crud of a nightmare:

Broadway plays: The Gin Game;

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are

Dead; Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Mama's

Hung You In the Closet and 

I'm Feelin' So Bad.

-

The train would roll by all this,

on brutal Winter mornings : the

Jersey Meadows pig-farms, back

in 1967 when they were still there.

The truck dumps and garbage heaps;

broken tiles from bathrooms, and

pieces of Penn Station too, just 

then being torn down.

-

I'd just sit there, grimly watching.

Like a toadstool in a bad swamp:

Some Meadowlands paint factory,

every time, with their drainage

pipes running right into the

river. My friend said : 'Those

bastards should have to drink

that stuff.'

-

I never saw a plane have to

land in the swampy river; you'd

think doubt, and angst, and anger

would have brought one down.

14,059. JERSEYANA

 JERSEYANA

Kinnelon, little doggie, Kinnelon.

14,058. STUPID WORDS

STUPID WORDS

Hitherto and heretofore.

Whereabouts and unbeknownst.

I declare, how much I do detest,

outreaches any understanding.

And only the deflowered maiden

would understand my words.

14,057. THE LETHAL GRADIENT

THE LETHAL GRADIENT

They say that one should not

spend so much time with only

oneself. I don't know about

any of that. On the fencepost

the faded old flag is curled

with ice. The way it should

be, I suppose : the local farm

guy dispenses his potion and

posts his flags. He's running

an outpost? A distant Fort

Apache claiming land not

even his?

-

My eye grazes the horizon

and it too is trimmed in ice.

Hoarfrost? By the hour it

is all but disappeared.

14,056. ALADDIN KNOCKS

ALADDIN KNOCKS

(to everyone with a secret)

And no one comes. 

Nothing arrives. The

packages were never 

sent. The genie dissolves 

to smoke. The lantern

goes out. The head gets

rubbed. The ring gets

rubbed. Good genie.

Bad genie. All these

stupid stories from a

past that never was.

14,055. HATCHETING THE HAMMER

HATCHETING THE HAMMER

Frank O'Hara was killed on that

beach out on Fire Island. I'm

never sure what happened, but

it was late and some sort of

emergency beach-vehicle just

ran him down, to death. Or,

a beach taxi, I've also read. He

lingered, and some newspapers

howled, but no one knew what

to make of what had occurred.

-

He was so urban, all New York;

and urbane too, I'd figure. How

such things happen is far beyond 

me. They talk like of God and of

fate, but I never know. Were I, or

you, to walk out the door tomorrow

and be hit by a crashing plane,

would that be any different? Our

final, non-poetic words, 'I never

saw this coming?'

-

There's no draft by which to set 

this in, or introduce the essay for. 

It's quiet stuff, and need be said 

alone. ("Frank O'Hara is not at

home, for he's been run down,

by a beach Jeep, alone.")...

14,054. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,244

RUDIMENTS pt. 1,244

(general comments on the nature of nothing)

Long about 1960, I went to 7th

grade in a new school, then  -  one

just erected and ugly as hell. The

fashion for school architecture

at that time  -  in the best George

Jetson tradition (which is, in its

essence, a foolish contradiction),

was to build schools with 'wings' 

for each grade. What that meant

was a sort of satellite-spinner look, 

wherein each 'grade' had its own

linear section, or 'wing' which

spread out from the central and

usually 'domed' by the gym,

section housing office, principal

and the administrative offices. It

all was a sort of spanner-reach

to modernity  -  or even futurism  -

and I guess it prevailed for a while. 

That foolish-looking school building

still stands (Iselin Jr. High School,

then), and it stands out as nothing

more than the usual in-the-style

institutional-propaganda prison

mill it always was. Except now

it's got almost a comic-relief

sense of total and abstracted

isolation, as if it stood as the

equivalent of the Statue of 

Liberty at the end of 'Planet 

Of the Apes.'

-

Just the other day, by the way, 

I was reading (NY Review of 

Books), about Rod Serling 

(Twilight Zone). He wrote 

the screenplay of that film 

and it was his idea, and at 

his insistence (against the 

initial wishes of the producers, 

etc.) to have that closing scene 

with the Statue of Liberty.

-

At the school I mentioned, we 

had a music teacher  -  your 

basic lady-idiot teacher, but 

one by degree a step dumber 

than the usual  -  who in music 

class insisted, for whatever

reason, on having us sing, class 

after class, and in unison, some 

horrid song that went 'Some 

say the world is made for fun 

and frolic...and so do I!' [I think 

it maybe was from one or

another old show tunes or old

Italian songs....something or 

other]. In any case, the song 

was so blastedly upbeat and 

stupid that I truly hated it, and 

her, for trying to foist this

bastardized view of reality 

upon us. To make it worse,

she would distribute music

class tambourines, triangles

and things, with which some

of us had to 'accompany' the

class as it sang (Perhaps she

was merely weeding out those

of us who had 'terrible' voices

and who would have ruined it

for everyone else). We had, of

course, to sing along too, but

hidden then each behind our 

'instruments,' I guess it, along 

with the true foolishness of 

THAT school and that situation  

-  the orderly and psychotic 

mechanization of time and

learning by bells, beepers,

hallways and discipline, all

amassed to make me into a

true, adolescent, misanthrope

at that point. By 8th grade I

had exiled myself to 'Seminary'

school, just to shake all that

crap from me, I thought. That

transfer, with all its later and

supposed 'religious' connotations,

(a real crock, that too), had me,

at the end of age 12, already

distended into a mad, and

tribal, crazy-man. No matter,

I was able to work it all out

in my own way, yet the dim

glimmer of its shadows yet

trail me  -  all these years.

-

I sometimes wonder how we

each are affected by the things

we are grown up and hosted

amidst. Did these guys who

went around designing 1960's

era schools have any inkling

into the parameters of influence

by which they influenced others?

I'm sure to them it was all just

a job, a project's inclination

towards an effectiveness that

would meet the demands of the

design-contract their company

or school district clients sought.

To me, as an outsider sucked

into their universe  -  quite

unwillingly but all done in a

mandatory manner  -  it reeked

of undue imposition, as in

'What the heck is this?' The

combined efforts of moonscape,

parking lot and pavement,

weirdly colored plastic panels,

an arching-dome effect as

centerpiece  -  and all the

rest of the nightmarish and

weird aspects presented  -  

justly bespoke a manner of

communist/centralized thinking

in some other sort of weirdly

processed Sci-Fi gibberish. I

wanted out, and immediately.

I saw absolutely no hope in

any of this; especially not in

distinguishing US from any

East-Euro Communist satellite

country, or the Soviet Union

itself. Everything else was

just bullshit. As much as they 

tried to distinguish our forms

of 'Goodness' from the very

active (at that time) and hostile

manners of Communism, there

was NO difference. In addition,

these miserly schools were

manned and staffed by the most

ordinary and maladjusted men

and women  -  shiny-suited and

matronly-dour as they were, by

people with no smidgeon of

imagination, grace, advanced

thinking, or anything other than

'practical' consciousness. Of the

lawn-mower and edging sort.

It was all pretty pathetic.

-

From that point on I've never

known what in the hell people

were ever talking about, with

their systems and cons, their

misrepresentations and blatant 

lies. Everything is out of any

proportion to spiritual and

inner reality -  the reality, of

course, by which 'Reality'

itself is formed. Perhaps

people have said this kind 

of stuff since time immemorial,

('Ooga, this world's just not

right, since Modou invented

new that 'wheel' of his.'), and

I'll be the first here to take up

the cudgel of leading others

out of the Hellhole that's been

created. I've always sought to

lift this world to another plane.

However, as gracefully as I can

phrase it, today's world and all

its currents and current events

and personalities, ate nothing

but faint, faint, glimmers, and

poorly reflected too, on Plato's

wall. In fact, that cave's most

probably been walled off and

sealed with concrete, by some

manner of young stripling who

knows little and cares less, but

who merely seeks profit.

14,053. RETOOLING THE FABRIC

RETOOLING THE FABRIC

People talk funny these days: the

wedging no longer holds open the

door of ideas. I proclaim: 'There's

nothing left!' Empty hallways and

battered corridors lead only to the

vacant offices of the broken past.

-

I just spoke to that girl over there :

she's claiming to be a specialist 

in recovering broken spirits but I 

know she's really not. Telephone. 

Stylish boots. Encumbrances 

that only complicate the mind.

-

There is no clarity left.

14,052. INFINITUDE

INFINITUDE

The whole world edges outward,

while we, at best, internalize each 

moment. The topsoil of Pound

Ridge becomes the surface for

the 1964 World's Fair. It was

all just carted away.

14,051. LIKE IT WAS NEVER ANYTHING BEFORE

LIKE IT WAS NEVER 

ANYTHING BEFORE

In the old days when having a Cadillac

meant something, the gimpy guy with

the funny limp, even he could garner

respect. It's long since that things have

changed. I get to see the grubby kids

stealing Twinkies and games. Some sort

of phone has more value now.

-

You can, yes, wrap it all up and throw

it all overboard. It wouldn't mean a

thing offensive to me. Any act taken

is a DC protest in my book : a crowd

of strangely-led weasels, up against

the same, from another side.

-

What's any of it matter? Drive that

fancy car right into the crowd? That's

your solution now? Hard hats and Viking

caps. Hard hats and Viking caps?

14,050. PAINSTAKING DETAIL

PAINSTAKING DETAIL

That mark which streaked along the

sky on this night of change was for

too general for me : I need more

devastating detail to mark things

out. Enough of all that general

stuff. As Eliot had it, 'What news

of the Rialto?' Is there still fun

'neath the stars and sun?

-

Blitzstein? Noise mars the silence,

and cadences ring. A little boy tries

playing his drum, walking the street

with his outfit. I need the specifics,

each detail and color.

-

Let us pray that both Daniel and 

David can return  -  and that both 

of them knew what they were doing;

I've grown tired of accidental fates.

The temples and courtyards - their 

undoing, each resound with the din

I hope the quiet will be returning 

soon : More peace 'neath the  

sun and the moon.

14,049. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,243

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,243

('the pop-world syndicate')

I think the most egregious use of

skip-rhyme, in a simple, pop-song,

sense, was the curious effort of

rhyming 'apples' with 'Indianapolis,'

as in a song from the late 1960's

(I think), by Roger Miller. It was

later, and further on, a song-hit 

for a guy named O.C. Smith, and

Glen Campbell too, among others.

-

I have nothing against the song.

It's fine as that stuff goes; a tame

and thoughtful, maybe, combination

of the usual treacle and sentiment

that makes popular songs what they

are  -  or once were anyway. I always

thought that one gauge of that  -  the

re-usable factor of triteness in pop

music  -  was seen by how many

other performers tap into the song;

30, 50, 100 different versions, and

many people trying it. The more

dilute-able the song is, the easier

it is to spread around, numbly. Once

a 'standard,' it's 'Hello Las Vegas!'

-

Probably, 'predictability' is the key

word here  -  the little rhyming

couples must bounce, engage. take

the listener somewhere, and  -  

along with some of 'pleasing' form

of melody and lilt, carry those same

listeners along. Which is what this

sentimental song did, but with the

added, sudden, attraction of that

word 'Indianapolis'  -  thrown in,

sudden, and with a leap too! Who

would have thought of such a

striking effort to bridge the lazy

pace of sentiment with the far-throw

of an unexpected rhyme, or 'assumed'

rhyme anyway. When I first heard

that, way back whenever, it did, yes,

throw me. I'd always heard, and

read, the 'poetry' nugget that the

one word in the English language

that had no rhyme was 'orange.'

That was all 'textbook' stuff, and

told and given, usually, by people

seeking safety in 'writing courses,'

workshops or seminars. Missing

the entire point of their endeavor,

they sought safety in the ways

and means of being 'instructed'

what not to do, what wouldn't work,

and how they should never venture

outside any norms of pace and

inclusion while they wrote. All

so stupid   -  they encapsulated

their won dullness, and called it

'writing.' 

-

Yes, the Internet - with its 15 zillion 

'poetry' sites, groups, and collectives,

all toe-ing the same BS line of what

once was called normalcy yet now is

called 'poetry' - is chock-full of such

stand-out clubs of the hurt and the

broken-hearted; pondering the very

universe they walk through in the

selfsame manners of dwarfs and

eunuchs of sentimentality. None 

dare strike out. None dare step

over the line of their 'regularity.'

-

I suppose that I'm being as bold

an asshole as I can be by saying

that  -  and it is 'incorrect' and far

too general in its strike-path, for

there are many-enough fine folks

whose work I see and read, that

surpass my own feeble and often

odd attempts. I guess what I'm

really saying is more pep-talk

than anything : forget the rules;

go for 'Indianapolis' whenever

you can.

-

Back in my formative years (yes,

kiddies, I'm by now just another

old and tragic figure, and one who

has said a large 'NO!' to the 21st

century, and the last part of the 20th

as well), of the 1960's and beyond,

the sort of 'revolutionary' pap that

was foisted upon us amounted to

not much more than, as today, an

organized propaganda. It had a

thousand forms : the seedy crapola

of, say Crosby, Still, and Nash, used

as catchword and breakthrough music,

with or without old one-string Neil

Young, ended up as deflated, flaccid

and moribund as 'Our House,' or

'Teach Your Children Well.' Good

God, it was a long-way down, to

say nothing of the hedonism of

'Suite Judy Blue-Eyes' and her

garden-smelling hair. What in the

world were those morons ever

thinking about. (Curiously, one

of the more cloaked-in-shadows

figures of those days is 'Mysterious

Bassist Greg Reeves.' Shunted 

aside, little acknowledged, kept 

in the shadows, and certainly never

granted an 'R,' in what rightly

should have been CSN&R, in

those days. Stranger sorts of

racism, I guess, there were then,

so that this one got glossed over.

-

One after the other, these high-hats

of pop-drivel hammered home their

kindly but pathetic song-homilies

which  -  in the end  -  proved no

more revolutionary that whatever

mass-mind messaging was sent out;

from the Who to the Beatles to Bob

Dylan to the Rolling Stones. All crap,

albeit occasionally and grindingly

engaging, but, in the long-run, as

conservative as weasel-dust and

drugs. Groupies, groundhogs,

and fleet-fingers too. The entire

world was, and is, a gimmick,

presented to you by the men who

stayed behind the curtains, busily 

manipulating it all. No matter the

changing fashions, seasons or

styles, the pop-world syndicate

was in control, and quite steady.

Everyone was a sell-out; from

Sweet Baby James (Taylor) to

the so-aptly-named Big Brother

& the Holding Company, with

their rascally big-sister, Janis.

14,048. TOO MUCH TO HIDE ABOUT

TOO MUCH TO HIDE ABOUT

Like a truck-stop morning, or the

time I was passing through that 

town called 'Sheds,' I'm wickedly

disoriented once again by nothing.

Any of those New York State

villages will do me bad and bring

no good. It just happens like that.

-

Nothing to be done but roll with 

the punches? I suppose. Even

winning the lottery has its 

downsides to deal with; and

magnificent mountains, too,

can disappear while you

think you're climbing.

14,047. CANNOT TARGET THE MOVING OBJECT

CANNOT TARGET THE

MOVING OBJECT

The story of compensating for movement

is a long and twisty one : How firing just

ahead of the object can help you meet the

goal of contact. We have to think, at the

least, that it matters. 

-

I can't sit still, sometimes. Yet, at other

times I'm able to remain in place with

the stillness of a Godly dreamer. One

that conjures moving worlds at will.

What shall I hit? How far ahead shall

my projectile be sent? Is there ever

a perfect now?

14,046. HIRAM IS THE CATASTROPHE

HIRAM IS THE 

CATASTROPHE

Seeing the newsbox with but one eye -

me, not the newsbox, which has none -

I scan the strange headline, thinking

of it, maybe as a storm I'd not heard

of, or an incoming conflagration: new

disease, a tsunami, a meddlesome pox.

-

There can be no such thing, and I do

understand such qualifications : What,

after all, would a meddlesome pox 

even be? The only distraction is the

reflection on the plastic  -  meant to

be glass, and act as if  -  which makes

all I can see to be the people in and

out of the revolving door at the large

building housing Cassey, Mays, and

Deeter. Which is the firm I'm headed

to. Agents for the insane, perhaps?

-

Actually, I think they're lawyers for

substantial battles. Judiciary input

and long, drawn-out trials. Nothing

like that for me. I merely need to

deliver a package; but still, I feel

caught up, and in the moment.

14,045. HOW IT IS

HOW IT IS

How it was we stay so calm

with the tremors happening

all around us, I'll never figure.

We should be melting cars for

guns? Trading in washers and

dryers for firearms and bombs?

-

People walk the street assailing

others. Those who assault diners

in their caverns, eating, just go

on  -  no interdiction, and no 

retribution either. Hot hands,

bland forks, and 'give me all

your money!'

-

People seem lazy or dulled.

Restaurants get filled with the

crazies, and others live in the

shadow of bombs and fire. Once

was a time when every day had

the fury of outrage and death  -

over Israeli cafe explosions or

Talibans hacking off hands again.

-

Now, the world remains so quiet

that even babies sleep through

the lethal carnage: Minds, dying

slow on the line.

14,044. CERTAIN THINGS

 CERTAIN THINGS

(one dim bulb)

With certain things you get

everything, but with everything

you only get certain things. What

kind of deal is that, I want to ask?

How does a winner walk away a

loser, and a loser come back 

to win?

-

When I was 11, only then it was

that occasional items began to

add up, though I was still often

perplexed about the most ordinary

of things: The paper-boy seemed

like a real slug, and I never much

liked him anyway, though as I recall

my sister and her friends were 'gaga'

over the twerp.

-

Incipient formulations rattled me :

I was always making things up. It

worked until I began to get bizarre,

like telling Sergeant Crilly I had just

robbed the First Woodbridge Bank

and Trust. Kept the cops busy. 

-

In contrast to yesterday's brightness,

the world today is one - dim - bulb.

14,043. I HEARD YOU WERE STILL LIVING

I HEARD YOU 

WERE STILL LIVING

Sometimes the sun goes by : Not so 

often, however, as to be regular. See 

what I mean? I talked with an editor

over my use of commas. 'The Oxford

Comma Guy,' he called me. I took it

as a slur, and I pinched his abnormal

sister; sorry, I meant 'punched.'

-

If five will get you ten, what's that

mean? Yes, I asked the judge that too.

Another time, he asked me the time.

'Five to ten,' I said. 'He answered,

'That's exactly what you'll get.'

-

I had heard that one before. But, still,

never being able to figure things out,

I had to ask myself, 'How much of me

is just a handicap now?'

-

'Just a Handicap Now.' Pretty good

name for a book, or don't you think?

14,042. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,242

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,242 

(one way or the other)

Sometimes you can enfold crazy, and

not let it out, and it bursts at its seams.

That's when trouble ensues. Most of the

time though, one has to keep the sense

of the irrational in check and appear

ordinary, within bounds, and quite

sensible too. In our local neighborhood,

we had a kid who  -  for all practical

purposes   represented that in one of

the more bizarre ways I've ever seen.

Up until about age 8, thereabouts, he

was the most brash, loudest, unruly

kids you'd ever see. All of us other

kids around him stayed an extra

half-inch away from him, and his

unpredictable outbursts  -  whether

verbal or physical The kid was

pretty much out of control; he'd

walk and 'rule' the nearby schoolyard,

and anyone crossing him was apt

to be in big trouble, and soon. His

father had something to do with

the Museum of Natural History,

in NYC, and none of his really

knew what he did there; dusting

bones, digging dinosaurs, or

whatever. (It could have been

most anything, but the houses we

lived in were not of the sort that

represented big money, high wages,

or, for that matter, 'professional'

situations. So, who knew.

-

One year, they went down to Florida,

for some sort of family vacation, for

a week or so. I don't remember what

time of year it was, though most

people go to Florida to escape their

own, 'local, Winters. In any case,

while there, this kid fell off a sliding

board or a diving board or somesuch

and smashed his head on concrete.

He was out of circulation a long time,

whether there or back to some NY

or NJ hospital, we never knew. He

had gone blind, from the fall. None

of us knew what to make of that. He

eventually, after a long time, returned

to the fold, remaining quite separate

now  -  as he had a blind-person's

cane, and closed eyes, and tapped

his way along everywhere, walking

and manuevering. From that point

on, whether he was with a retainer 

(person) who helped him, or not,

we mostly let him alone. None of

us knew what to do, nor were we

really 'comfortable' with his new

situation. But, weirdly enough,

from that time on he became the

most gentle, quiet, calm and reserved

kid we'd have around. All that crazed

thrashing and anger was gone. No

more raging noise. No more bluster.

-

The street he lived on was the same

street our local (Catholic) church

was on  -  with its marauding nuns,

the disciplining furor of maidens

in starched, fearsome outfits. Penguin

suits, we often called them. Poor girls.

A few were meek and mild, reticent

about everything, but the few 'sisters'

in charge were blustering and always

outrageous. There seemed something

lackey in their daily makeup, a flaw

in character that had to be compensated

for by taking their repressed urges

out on children  -  pulling hair, twisting

ears, etc., for the most meaningless and

stupid infractions. Something was

surely wrong in their 'Heaven.'

-

Without getting too bogged down here,

I want to make the connection between

the portrayals we were given between

versions of Heavan and Hell. They had

been arranged and portrayed to us, in

lockstep, as opposites by which the very

judgment of God would render us either

blissful or in misery, for (and to?) the 

very end days of whatever version of

eternity these miserable nuns and

teachers and priests could conceive.

('Conceiving,' of course  -  whether

virginally or through intercourse, was

one of the human things disallowed to 

them. Perhaps thus the rage). It had

never exactly been explained to us, in

a Calvinist sense anyway, how any

of this might be played out during

one's very life on Earth, BUT, as if

some secret gong had gone off, the

parallels between that kid's previous

behaviors and what had happened

to him  -  and then the changes that

ensued  -  stood to many of us a new

and frightful example of God's will

at work. This fellows outbursts had

caused him a blindness as retribution?

This was the bizarre end-result of

poor deportment? We too were to

be under that same indictment unless

we reserved to ourselves an awareness

and a consciousness of the constant

'God-watch' we were under?

-

There's not really anything a kid 

can do about that sort of thing and, 

certainly, the determination of such

'religious' facts and figments is really 

nothing a child should spend time on  

-  although it's a fact that probably 

lots of time is actually spent on those 

very items :  the figments and the

imaginings, during very impressionable 

times  -  of Gods, Goddesses, myths, 

father-figures, punishments, eternity, 

sin, punishment, doom and doubt as 

well. (Until, for boys, some sort of

military service is called for and

all of that is thrown by the wayside).

-

The blind kid eventually disappeared

from sight (no pun)  -  whether they

moved away, or he matured and entered

some home of school for the blind, etc.,

I never knew. It's a blank spot, and one

that was never filled in (I think the

word for that is 'lacuna'  -  one of

the oddest words I'd ever run across.

I can remember first hearing it spoken

by William Buckley on one of his

'Firing Line' show TV interview

broadcasts  -  one of his gimmicks 

was to use palatial vocabulary and 

seldom-heard words. He had this 

strange tic, too, of raising his 

eyebrows as he used the word(s), 

as if he knew he was teasing his 

audience with his own verbal and

Connecticut-wealthy, superiority.

-

The memory stayed with me, and

whenever I'd see a tall sliding-board

or a high-diving board or whatever,

the glimmering after-effect of this

childhood friend's 'punishment' and

doom reared again its ugly head.

Whether or not anything like that

was correct, or even true, I never

learned. One way, or the other, for

good or for bad.

14,041. 'YOU WILL HAVE TO VISIT ME...'

'YOU WILL HAVE 

TO VISIT ME....'

'You will have to visit me, for I cannot

trespass on the space of another.' Is it

thusly spoken, how the doldrums at

sea resemble the deeps of the cosmos?

How sailors are the same, wherever

they end up? In this life, it is all one

place.

-

You will have to visit me, for I cannot

visit you? Is that the sense of this crown

of thorns? Like some crazy God flailing

about in a hedgerow-maze of its own

making? 

-

We see glimmerings of solution, but then

they fade away? Everything is open, there

should be no delay, and I expect you here

'today?'