8454. ALL THE WAY

ALL THE WAY

I resign myself to nothing,

and will fight it all the way.

There's enough good glee right 

here to float a nation  -  that 

'ship of state' thing we learned 

about in school  -  did they 

mention the captain is always 

the fool? Certain lessons I

always forgot.

-

Now in these fading moments,

before I leave, before the graying

screen goes dark, before the lighting

fixtures fail and the dogs neglect to

bark, I need to say once more:

I resign my self to nothing.

8453. SHORT PIECE

SHORT PIECE

I'm losing my hair and

my teeth are falling out. 

I'm beginning to wonder

what this life's all about.

8452. DEVRA SHORNSTEIN

DEVRA SHORNSTEIN

Yes, I remember  -  everyone

hated her. And all her District

Manager glaring bullshit eyes.

Except I guess the ass-kissers 

and the sycophants who cared. 

What for? A sit-down in 'cafe' 

to listen to her crap about how 

the aisles weren't set up right

and the end-caps weren't 

running to plan. When

just a shrug would do

as well, everyone was

besides themselves.

The books will sell,

shut-up, the stupid

books will sell.

8451. LITTLE MONSTERS OF THE FIELD

LITTLE MONSTERS 

OF THE FIELD

I have the eyes of the mob glaring 

into the night  -  a thing they haven't 

made a noun for yet. Sitting here, 

in the ferry terminal, on some cold 

and damp February night, I am 

wondering why. It's probably 1988.

We came here on a whim, the three

of us  -  freezing in our too-thin jackets

to ride the ferry back and forth. It

was inestimable old-days stuff. No one

does that any more, and this was the

old ferry terminal, not the one they

have there now. A few meager shops

sold things to eat. Hot dogs, chips

 and junk, rolls and cupcakes. There

was a nut-stall, selling chick-peas,

which we'd always buy in a little

bag to feed the sea gulls and pigeons.

And we tried eating some ourseves,

always, but they weren't that good.

The chick peas, not the birds. Sea 

gulls would dive behind the boat

for anything thrown in the wake.

Pigeons would peck them off the

floor, cooing, with their funny walk.

As a pigeon walks, each step also

bobs its head. It's more a strut.

Funny to watch. I guess they 

were more made for flying. I

remember, as well, the horrid 

coffee  -  just bad stuff everywhere.

Real swill, but people drank it.

There weren't any Starbucks in 

1988, none of those masterful

special roasts and blends either.

Coffee was brown, hot water

brown, and you drank it like a

bum, with his last dime, thankful.

On this freezing, damp cold 

night, no matter, it warmed 

us from the inside out.

8450. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #128

128. BRICKS AND MORTAR

When I was young, there

was a place in Plainfield, 147

Park Ave., as I recall, that had

a live stock-ticker lightboard

on the side of the building. I

think it was Janney, Montgomery

& Scott, an old-line Philadelphia

stock-trading company. It's long

gone now, yes, lifetimes ago,

and that old Plainfield doesn't

even exist anymore. Little really

did I know about anything, but

that stock ticker meant so much

to me, aspirationally. Difficult

to put into words  -  it represented

an elevated life. Just as, as a kid

on Inman Avenue, I'd walk out

to Route One just to watch the

flow of traffic headed north

to New York City  -  mouth

agape, just staring in the

amazement at all the cars

and people, and the wondering

where they were all headed

and for what 1950's NYC

reasons. I knew then I was

hooked. Well, entering

Plainfield and seeing that

stock-quotes wall rolling

all its numbers, I felt the

same way. The big time

called. I couldn't be

stopped. One time, to

make it even worse, a

friend of my mother's

came to visit our house,

in an afternoon sit-down,

just a few coffee hours,

like women used to do.

I don't know how it came

up or even how I got wind

of it, but this woman actually

WORKED there! In that very

office! I wanted to marry her,

myself, right then and there,

have part of that boast. It

was terrifyingly liberating.

There was a sense of uplift

to be had, for me, just in the

'presence' of Plainfield. As

it was then. It's all so gone

now it's a pathetic fallacy

to even use the same name

for the place. It should probably

now be called El Paso II. Not

'ours' in any way any more.

-

Old-line Plainfield is what

I'm talking about. I caught

it on the cusp, as it was

leaving  -  rows and rows

of merchant's homes in one

section, a few fine parks

spread about, large manor

homes of the proud, old

Merchant/Management

class. Huge trees, grace.

There was (still is, if you

can find the ancient signs

marking it, and if anyone

around really cared) the

Van Wyck Brooks Historic

District. Van Wyck Brooks

was one of America's earlier

literary critics  -  one of

those snobs who went

around back then with

intellect and attitude and

founded an industry based

upon a point of view, an

approach to living that we

no longer have. It's all

been supplanted now

with TV, radio and

entertainment geeks,

babbling. But back then

he was about the equivalent

of all that, but with an intellect

and a reference story-board

that made use of all literature

and writing behind it. You

almost had to listen, or read,

anyway. He was some serious

shit, early on. He lived right

here, grew up here, and they

were nice enough to actually

'honor' him for years until the

morlocks and midget-labor

classes moved in and destroyed

all of that. If they even understood

you now, they'd probably think

Van Wyck Brooks was some

sort of local waterway where

George Washington pissed.

Anything we do now to 'honor'

the past ends up dishonoring

it for sure.

-

He went to Harvard. He wrote

'The Flowering of New England.

He was awarded a Pulitzer Prize.

The area he lived in, now the 'Van

Wyck Brooks Historic District,'is

now just a dormant shambles  - all

those fine, almost royal, grand homes

in disrepute; still standing, yes, but

many gone. Those left are mostly

broken up into rooming houses now  -

five or eight mailboxes on the front

wall, Mexicans and idlers flopping

around. Once-florid lands and scapes

now just all jumbling together or

brutally cleansed, cut, trimmed

and hacked. No one cares. In 1968,

right there, they took down any

number of homes and built a quite

nice, 1968 state-of-the art library.

It's still there today, the same way

fine, old cemeteries from a hundred

years ago are still in their places :

because no one knows how to take

them away. It's a dump, a video

wall now, mostly for black gangsters.

Truly a horrid spectacle. The

once-modern architecture itself

now looks a shambles, out of place,

strange, distant. No grace, not

inviting in any way. And it's

destitute. Making all that even

worse, they tore more old estate

housing down and built a 'new'

state-of-the-art high school to

replace the old one. A hideous

bunker, a pool of still more

low-lives, slimeball gawkers

slopping along to drug-rap 

school. Daily. Each kid is

Government-schooled

now in filth and shambles.

No learning at all. If Van

Wyck Brooks showed up there

now he'd stab himself in the

heart. Twice. It's amazing to

me now, the prevalence of

ignorance and uselessness.

-

When I went to New York,

part of the reason was to elevate

myself, bring myself up to other,

finer, standards. To a place of

legacy and lineage, honor and

history. Where all good things,

the things of merit and achievement,

writing, art, essays, thinking, poetry,

philosophy, had all come to a

higher plane. I could walk 

within and amid the ghosts 

of that past as they still 

lived in the bricks and 

walkways and walls of all 

I'd see. I was hungry for 

that sort of touch. And I

pretty much achieved what 

I'd set out to do. Then, years

later, I took all that again to

Princeton as a sort of proof-

mechanism, to show myself I

had been right. I found that,

mostly, yes, I had...but that in

those 50 years between the 

very world this was all a apart 

of had itself changed so drastically

that the reference and relationship

no longer mattered. No longer

mattered at all, and even the stock-

tickers were, by then, all gone.

Princeton kept up a wall of it own,

but I found it too to be a slowly

eroding wall, drip by drip, as when

rain water eventually sizzles through

old mortar, and it just all comes

tumbling down, bricks, mortar, wall

and all. Just like happened to Plainfield.

8449. NORMAN POST

NORMAN POST

The fence here points five

parts west. Towards Mecklenburg,

in that direction. I'd rather be

back in New York, for all I see

here. His father was the farmer

I once knew. Buried now in

six feet of dirt.

8448. NO TROUBLE NOW

NO TROUBLE NOW

She was a flower in a 

moving vase : a tea cup

in a fancy setting. All 

around, the world was 

moving as she stayed 

steady center. 'That blur,

that blur, what is that

changing blur?' 

she said.

8447. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #127

127. THE POUR HOUSE

I used to walk around NYC

thinking about, early on, why

everyone didn't live there; and

then later why they all ended

up, instead, staking territory in

the 'suburbs' and moving out.

It was an endless conundrum

to me, and it really took a while

to understand what was going

on. People from Brooklyn,

and Queens, the Bronx, and

Staten Island, and Manhattan

too, they'd start showing

up in places like or around

Avenel. Or the environs of

Woodbridge anyway. Trying

to find the answer, over

time it did become apparent.

People age, and they just

begin wanting different

things: space, room, energy,

safety, (there's never

any safety, but, hey, why

leave the best for last?)...

You wake  up one day,

you're 45. Living out in the

crummy end of the W50's.

First, a long time ago, you

lived in the Village, then that

got too pricey, you moved to

e24th, for a while, then a bit

on the Stanton or Essex Street

rung, and then, finally, the staid

yet crummy, decaying w50's

Two kids, basic job, no longer

using the city for its amenities

or exciting things. they're

unaffordable. Worried about

the rent, kids' schools, tuition,

money, no car, no place to go.

Suddenly, all the things you're

supposed to be living in the

city for are passing you by.

Nothing more to say, nothing

more to do. Then you move...

-

That's how people end up in

places like here, I guess. We

get a lot of new oddballs, still

with New York license plates

for a while. You start seeing

them, you watch them getting

used to the place. They've

never had a lawn before, or

garbage carts, roller wheels,

hoses, hedges, any of that,

let alone a car and a driveway.

All that 'new world beckons'

stuff just slapping them in

the face. Avenel. Colonia.

Port Reading, Rahway,

yeah, even Perth Amboy.

Not the choicest of

locations, any, but surely

home. And it's a very nice

thing; perhaps hard to give

up the city, but then better

with time, as things become

your own. Strangest thing in

the world, this progression.

-

Princeton wasn't much like

that. People who moved

there had the mortgage

bracket which enfolded

completely different numbers.

The million dollar threshold,

for one, was just a starter.

So it was different. If they

had a New York place,

God-damn they still had

it. My friend, Barry, at

the Princeton Record Exchange

- started in 1969 as his own,

living and vital hippie fantasy.

Still going, great guns, lo all

these many years later. It's

all his, and it's huge. He remains

completely in the background,

hidden, except for staff and

some, no one ever even sees

him, business-wise. He'd be

there, early, 6am mornings,

already in his office inside.

Truck or van outside. I'd see

him around  -  he owned a

few other properties, acquired

over the years, and so had a

real estate concern too. Also

pretty much keeping him hid.

He was known as a bit of a

crusty crank, always walking

around with a cup of coffee in

his hand (Panera was a tenant

of his in one of his buildings on

Nassau Street, so I always figured

 'free coffee' was part of the rent),

while cursing the 'three dollar 

coffee' down the street,

which I'd buy. He'd point out

my penny-foolishness.

-

One day, in NY, I was walking down

Third Avenue, up about 19th

street, and there's Barry, steaming

past me. He was walking really

fast, to my slow amble, and was

as surprised to see me as I was

to see him. We saw each other

at about the same moment.

This was about three years

ago. He said 'I'm on my way

down to the movie house at

11th, for the film festival

showing today; I've got to

get there before they close

the advance ticket window,

otherwise there will be a

long line later. If you want

to walk fast with me. We can

talk and have a few beers.'

That was funny to me. He's

a thick, bulky guy, muscled,

not fat, and to see him fast

walking, in the normal 3/4

cargo shorts I'd always see

him in, was funny. He reminded

me of the rabbit in Alice In

Wonderland  -  'I'm late, I'm

late, for a very important date...'

We got where we were going,

the corner of 11th and 3rd ave.,

(AMC, Village 7), and as he

dashed for his ticket window he

motioned me into the bar on the

opposite corner, called 'The Pour

House', where he kept a tab.

He finished up, we took a

corner window table (it was

open to the air). I said how I

was surprised to see him, etc.

Asked what he was doing here,

and more  -  he said he and his

wife 'kept' an apartment in the

city, in the w40's. He said how 

he was often here, and was 

way into films, watching 

indie movies, the entire set-up 

of the varied film-festival 

showings, all over the city,

this being but one example. He 

was, right then, a perfect

example of that other gumption

I knew of, that sort of bolder

Princeton gumption spreading 

itself perfectly over places, 

and somehow re-defining 

both. It was funny, and I 

really liked him for it  - 

just speaking his mind 

and living perfectly among

different worlds. He asked 

questions then, about me, 

as I'd asked about him. And

say what you will about him,

but he pulled no punches nor 

held anything back, We 

got 'rid' of the subject of my

job at the Princeton bookstore

in a few quick lines  -  he was

not impressed and didn't think

much of it. Then we got to 

'what do you really like, what 

makes you?', and I started on

about the Studio School, all my

other lives just down the street 

from there, my art, my painting 

and writing, photography, etc.

and this is where I get lost, 

because I've seen this before,

a hundred times, the pure and

mercenary act of people in

business. They might as well 

say, 'Look, if it isn't business, 

I'm not interested.' I told him 

he could see my stuff anytime, 

it was online, constantly posted, 

sold occasionally, etc. He said,

'I'll be perfectly frank with you,

I wouldn't go there, I'm just

not interested in any of that. 

It would mean nothing to me.'

Yes, I remember those words

as if etched : 'It would mean

nothing to me.' Well, then.

Lets have a another beer. We

did; he went in to see his film,

we said goodbye, and parted.

I mention also, he asked me if

I followed films, and the festivals,

and asked if I'd like to see this one.

In all truthfulness then, and still, 

I did say I had no interest in

films or movies, and couldn't

much sit still for that period of

time in someone else's storyline.

But that was after what he'd said,

and the two should really not be

connected. I'd spoken my real 

mind in response to films and

movies just as  -  I guess  -  he

spoke his about a lack of any finer 

interests in art or any of its 

sensibilities. Except 'film', I

guess, which DVD's he sold 

as well. It was difficult for me

to speak my real mind to him, 

yet I did, and uncomfortably

too.  He seemed to speak his 

without a second thought. The

funniest thing, as we parted, he

asked me to someday soon write

him a breakdown of my ideas about

his business (the famed Princeton

Record Exchange), what things it

should be doing and what ideas

or strategies I may have for their

merchandising future. Always

business. The coffee is pricey, but

at least here the beer was free.

8446. NOW THE GREAT SHOELACE

NOW THE 

GREAT SHOELACE

The mistake of ice is to be made

of water. Cannot avoid detection

once it warms. How sad it gets.

-

My cover's blown, I'm really a G-d.

8445. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #126

126. WALL-HANGINGS

International provenance, the

sanctioned idea that you've

'been' somewhere  -  all of

that held some heavy stead

in Princeton. That cute tinge

of another accent, the travel

vouchers of a decal'd forehead,

the traveled jadedness of

knowing 'how,' things work

there, or there, drawing beer

in Belgium, pouring your

cream in Rheims.

-

I used to love just listening

to the stories and takes I'd

be told. I'd look on, in some

amazement, to see how

people would return from

some far off vestige of

empire or place, and

come back unchanged,

exactly the same as

when they'd left. It

always seemed to me

that a form of travel

so deep and dense

would truly have to

'change' someone. I

know it would me,

and I'd be glad of it.

In fact, if I didn't

somehow change

I'd be upset. It's odd

how people can know

all about a 'there', but

know nothing about

their own 'here,' and

not really even care.

-

By contrast, in New York,

along the lower east side

were all those old people

who wished never to see

the 'old' country again :

bucket-loads of pain and

memory attached, stories

of tragedy and hurt. The

little, unending, film in

their closed yes was of

troubles and sadness. For

other people, going there

now had become 'holiday' -

that's a word you would

use in showing that you

were a tad 'UN-Americanized

(where silly people took

'vacations') and had

experienced the personal

rank and glamour of

'Holiday' in Europe

instead.

-

Mostly, what I have found,

is you can't be tendentiously

over-protective or precise or

limiting in what you do : life

has to become a product for

one's own self and being,

and that often just takes

some daring and the rest be

damned. Now, me talking

like this is a little crazy,

because that's never been

my style at all. That's more

for the home-made jewelry

crowd, the frame shops and

clothing stores and trinket

people with storefronts they

open on a dare. But you can't

go by me, because I'm always

in a huddle of my own, with

no really 'productive' output of

the sort that would be valuable

or meaningful to others. A lot

of the come and go stuff in

Princeton  -  Nassau, Chambers,

Witherspoon Streets and such  -

that was more their style,

opening a store because

whatever you sold was

also your 'hobby.' That's the

worse thing in the world to

do. It ruins your 'hobby' for

you, making it mercantile and

saleable, and it also isn't much

of a reason to run a business.

Everybody's got a favorite

something, but so what. The

next thing you know, to stay

afloat and make twenty dollars,

you're renting a fifty-dollar table

spot at some shitty flea-market

to sell your junk. I know, because

I did it with motorcycles and

motorcycle stuff.

-

There was actually a guy there

I got to know, with a frame shop.

It was the craziest place, and had

been there for years, and it showed  -

stuff everywhere, looked like a 

heaped  junk-shop, wood, 

frames, papers, books, everything

all a'jumble and cluttering up this 

front window he kept. I had

sold one or two paintings and

went to him in order to get

really professional framing.

It turned out to be expensive,

yes, and out-of-pocket, but they

looked really nice. Over that 

8-week period, I'd gotten to 

know him. He never produced 

when he said he would, his 

two-weeks would always 

become three, then four,

without any real explanation

But I never minded, mainly

because he was a cool guy 

and I enjoyed just giving

him my half-hour of BS right

back. We had a good rapport,

right off. He was a little, 

chubby guy, only a few 

years older then me, still

spry and he liked staying busy.

It seemed like he had tons of

work, a nice backlog, and good

clientele  -  of whom I'd also

see examples -  people coming

in with projects and things.

The way he explained it to 

me, and the business proposition

he offered, was that he was an

interior decorator, interiors only,

for wealthy Princeton people. 

He'd design and do their rooms,

over. Redecorated, from plans 

he'd submit. Big money. He 

told me I was a fool  -  'what 

are you selling this stuff for 

250 dollars for? This is

Princeton, that's an insult.

People won't buy unless it's

8 or 9 hundred. That's what

they want to pay before they

feel something's worthwhile.

If you work with me, when I 

design rooms  -  can you  

make a steady supply of this 

stuff?  -  I can build two or

three of your painting right into

the design and charge it in.

They'll love it and I can give

you a nice cut.' Anyway, that 

was the plan. I'd given a 

tentative, 'OK. let's do it,'

That was about 2008 or 9.

Then he started hemming 

and hawing, the 'economy's 

gone south, everybody's

pulling in, nobody's buying',

Etc. That was the end of that

deal I'd always see him after

that, but just talk and hello,

how are you. No big payday.

He was the Euro-type too,

who'd come back with all

these grand realizations and

perfect dreams. Such sand

is always running through 

my fingers.