10,345. FOUNDATION ROY

FOUNDATION ROY

And king of the chisel was here.

He took someone down from his

cross. I told him it was Christmas

not Easter.

10,344. REVAMPING THE REFERENCES

REVAMPING THE 

REFERENCES

Standing stones and falling waters, I don't

know which way to turn. I have icy fingers

now, wrapped around this Frank Lloyd Wright

steering wheel, from 1988. The neighbor guy

just started an engine, it sounded like noise, or

more like a gun, and a rumble, together.

-

His wive's name is Namath  -  her old name

I mean, the 'nee' one, the maiden name, the

girl's name she was. Kathy Namath, and her

brother Bruce. I knew them both. Somehow,

she got married in to this other one, that was

living there already. Now it's all one large

effort at building a team. 

-

I got to the library late today. All was good,

and no bother. The lady said 'Are you okay?'

and then 'Happy New Year.' In that order too,

so I figured she first wanted to 'ascertain'

that I was okay before granting me happiness 

for the rest of the year. Why waste it otherwise,

when she can us it on some other.

-

I hate it when people ramble on  - at the library

desk, this cop looking guy, Marine like, is telling

the story of his wife's getting their son a new

suit for Christmas. With a nice, striped, dress

shirt too, he said. It made little sense to me; 

and then he said they brought it back the day 

after, to exchange for another suit that comes

with two pants -   and they still got eighty

dollars back; in return. 

-

I wanted to say, that's not what 'returns' mean,

but it wasn't any of my business, and why, as 

it is, do people tell their roving stories in a 

public place so loudly bold? As if we all wanted

to hear about this story of the suit with two pants.

Maybe a 'two-trouser suit' is how the official

way of saying it goes. I don't know, nor do I

care, really. My next suit-wearing is probably

on the way out, to plot #237. I know I won't

wrinkle it none. And I also know I sure won't

need that second pair of pants.

10343. RUDIMENTS, pt. 178

RUDIMENTS, pt. 178

Making Cars

You can't take a canoe on the

ocean, but they're the same letters.

Hmmm. I guess you could, but no

one does. Or is it that no one dares?

I wonder. Maybe it's no one reads.

(Same letters, once more, as 'dares').

So many things are always happening.

The guy who wrote that Christmas song,

Silver Bells, he was Jay Livingstone,

a sidekick of a songwriting guy name

Ray Evens, with whom he teamed up.

Before he was Jay Livingstone, he was,

from birth, Jacob Levinson. All those

Christmas carol guys were Jewish :

Sammy Cahn, Jule Styne, and Irving

Berlin. 'Silver Bells' was written as

'Tinkle Bells,' but the publisher changed

it because of the common connotation

of  'tinkle.' Livingstone also wrote the

theme for 'Bonanza,' and 'Mr. Ed,'

TV shows, and he also wrote 'Que

Sera Sera,' 'Mona Lisa,' and the

other Johnny Mathis hit, 'All the

Time.' (If somebody loves you, it'd

no good unless they love you, all

the time...). Whew! So many overlaps.

In studying these sorts of things,

musically I mean, I have noticed that

most individual songwriters, by name,

each one, tend each to do their own

same things, over and over, from

song to song; their own signature

approaches and chord and note

sequences that become very

identifiable. And if you take

apart their songs, breaking

down the use of chords and

progression, oftentimes the one

thing that makes the difference

between songs is tempo. Just a

changed beat and speeded up, or

slowed down, rhythm and peak.

In music terms, 'retarded.' Try it

some time, if you care to; overlaying

one song atop the other (mentally)

as you hear them in your head often

proves me out. There are also key

and shift changes, and even then

the skeletal ghost of the songs as

written always remains pretty much

the same. 'Composer' by 'composer,'

they're each quite identifiable.

-

You can't just keep walking around

saying things like 'it's tough being

me,' and expect anyone else to care.

As I lived in those early NY days,

there was a complete separation

between normal life, as I saw it  -

the one with families and spouses

and responsibilities  - and what I 

was doing. I was becoming a 

professional outsider, a fringe 

character, determining my own 

ends and marking my days by no 

comparisons to others at all. I 

had a Studio School friend, one of the 

big-deal guys there. Steve Sloman 

was the name; still is, he's still around, 

and gotten half-famous too in his 

art-niche world. He had a cool 

girlfriend  -  oddly a name I've 

never been able to recall. I might

have been Heidi actually. Really  -  

and they had a large dog. A 'Poolie', 

they called it. A large, generic 

mix of Collie and Poodle. Large 

and hairy. Unlike his girlfriend, 

who was just large; Germanic 

large or something, not fat or 

fleshy, just a large-framed 

Teutonic type, tall and big-boned 

and overpowering. With gigantic 

horn-rimmed glasses too. Really 

cool and different. I'd never seen 

anyone like that before. She and 

Steve were constant companions, 

like old married people, never 

the one without the other, and 

whenever you had a conversation, 

it was always with 'three.' 

Always those two, together as 

one, and you. It was crazy-cool, 

and intriguing. I never seen that 

before either, two people in such 

a consort of one, with a dog. I 

saw them a lot. One day we were 

walking east on Eighth Street, 

away from the Studio School 

building, and the traffic was 

intense, loud, smoky, horns 

blaring, cars stuck in traffic 

in every direction. We were 

nearing the crossing of Eighth 

and Broadway, and nothing 

was moving. Our walk-pace 

was fast, by comparison. One

of us, there were about 5, said

something about how jittery and

raucous traffic seemed and all

the people caught up in it. It

was a Wednesday night, or

evening, rush-hour time, and as I

said the whole scene was dead  - 

traffic, lights, people. Steve jumped

at that last remark  -  about the

anger and noise of the people

snagged in all this  -  and said, to

the effect of: 'Look at them. Why

wouldn't they be that way. I would

if I was them  -  it's Weds. night, the

poor slobs have just made it to the

middle of the week, still have two 

more days to go, all this they have

to put up with, day after day  - 

they've made a real mess for 

themselves. They're angry, they're

tired, they're mad. So, yeah, I 

understand perfectly why they're 

like this. What's not to understand?'

And then it was 'ha ha,' at their

expense. We all got a good laugh

out of their plights. 

-

I've thought of this weird little scene 

lots of times since. I can remember 

pretty much right where I was standing 

as we talked, walking along. Up ahead

of us was the old District 65 union

building, a NY trucking local  - there

were warehouse bays and trucks, all

jammed into a small, city streetway,

always jumbled up. People walking, 

guys lugging, working, and yelling

commands, unloading trucks, pallets 

and freight. You could work up a sweat

just watching them. Across the way,

back then, there was a record store. 

In the window of the store, among 

all the other albums shown, the new

'supergroup' Blind Faith' was being

featured  - the import version of the 

album cover, not the sanitized, American

one. This version had a topless young girl,

with fresh-budding young breasts, shown

as she held a model of a jet aircraft in her

hands. Her gaze was a bit strange, but

it was all memorable. The other corner

was a home-furnshing store named

'Zuma', I believe it was. High-end,

crafty-looking hippie stuff, furnishings

for people that sort of money and space.

There was a liquor store, and pharmacy 

too. Everything seemed connected  -  to 

life, to the hum, to the business world;

while we, at that moment, all seemed

connected to nothing. Just skirmishing 

along, and there, then, simply making

fun of, and ridiculing it all and the

people caught up in it. I had mixed

emotions, and didn't really know

where I belonged. Which side, if there

were sides? Everybody I knew had 

always worked, like one of those

people they'd just scoffed at. I felt

confused. I almost felt broken.

10,342. THE NETTLESOME TYPE

THE NETTLESOME TYPE

Engage me for but a moment, what's 

your name again? That pattern on 

your coat seems European  -  they 

don't make things like that around 

here. I remember there used to be a

store called 'Alexanders's' and they 

sold coats and furs from far away.

The entire chain, each store, had

strange Polish and Yugoslavian

coats and jackets -   pelts and skins,

feathery furs and wiry shawls. It was

like shopping in  Moscow for some

eerie east-European fabric. Very

strange, but it couldn't last. The

nettlesome stuff gets moved

out fast. And, by the way,

you remind of a solid

dream.

10,341. RUDIMENTS, pt. 177

RUDIMENTS, pt. 177

Making Cars

I always considered a lot of things

to be simply items that slowed one

down. I was all about speed at this

point, swiftly getting things done.

I didn't much think about banking

the angles, shooting off the sides,

or any of that strategy stuff. That

was all for the crafty ones, the

movers who figured they were

going places. Where? Jobs, careers,

stock and board rooms, banking

or government service. I had

a friend, Howie Kessler, who said,

and all he cared about, was that he

wanted to be a civil engineer. He

knew this at like age 14. I said,

'What's that? What do they do?'

He replied, 'They build things

for government agencies, roads,

bridges highways and all.' Huh?

How he ever got to that point is

beyond me, and I don't know if

that's what he actually ended up as,

but he knew what he wanted. Or

so he claimed. I myself was so 

mixed up into escape and subterfuge 

that any of that looked to me like 

nothing but trouble. Man, Howie

was dull. And I already knew that:

he'd gotten it all figured out like

on a platter, and probably pleased

everyone he knew, family-wise, by

the news of his decision. How 

rabbinical was all that anyway  -

to worship forever at the temple 

of the slide rule and compass.

-

It might have all seemed funny, 

yes, but then one day I was reading 

about this person  -  well, let me begin 

all over. I was reading a history of the 

city of Los Angeles, and the later 

development and expansion of 

California and all that. I came across

this person, William Mulholland  -  in

this book considered one of the three

big names in the formation of Los

Angeles : Harrison Gray Otis, Harry

Chandler, and this William Mulholland. 

Now, I like all that stuff. I can stay up

until four in the morning sometimes

just reading, if it's absorbing. As I've

 said before, 'reading' as a writer is a

difficult chore, and it's a very delicate

one. I read for information, and I don't

read fiction, plot, story or any of that

inventive, writing-craft and workshop

made-up stuff. I've got enough tales 

and stories of my own to nurture and

develop and write out. None of it's 

fictional, and even when it is  -  in the

poetry stuff  -  I want it to remain

pure and unfettered; unaffected by

things other, that I may be reading. 

So, a lot of that's out  -  fiction and 

fantasy and all that. Plus, it's all boring 

anyway. Anyway, William Mulholland

proved to be an interesting case, and

especially in light of the earlier 'Howie

Kessler' tidbit. And it surprised me. 

Mulholland had been born in 1855 in

Dublin, Ireland. Regular stuff, his father

was a postal clerk, his mother was at

home. He was utterly bored and at 15

he signed on as an apprentice seaman

and spent is time plying the Atlantic 

trade routes back and forth. After 4

years, he'd had enough and he spent

a few years in Michigan lumber camps

hacking about, and then the dry-goods 

business in Pittsburgh, where his uncle

owned a store. It was there he heard

about California, had just enough money

to get to Panama by ship, walked across

the isthmus from Colon, and worked his

way north by ship, to San Francisco by

1877. Then he went to Arizona, prospecting

and fighting Apaches for pay; he ended

up in Los Angeles/San Pedro, and then

joined a well-drilling crew  --  and this

is where it got startlingly interesting for

me. As he writes: "We were down about

six hundred feet when we struck a tree.

A little further we got fossil remains. 

These things fired my curiosity. I wanted

to know how they got there, so I got hold

of Joseph LeConte's book on the geology

of the country. Right there I decided to

become an engineer."

-

I was fascinated  - not that I wished to

become an engineer. Frankly, that stuff

all still bored me, it was boring, and I

believed none of it. Any concocted

geologic story lines about fossils and

things beneath the ground are but one

version of the events of this world, 

and a not very creative version at that.

(You may say, 'but facts are facts...').

Well, they're not. All facts are furious 

fictions, set in place, that fit, and have

been made to fit. Please don't be so

rational. What fascinated me was the

pure and opaque version of the world

that somehow existed in 1878 and those

years around Mulholland. Just look at

what's come of it all now  -  look at

the vastness of Los Angeles, the lack

of water, the dryness, the rerouting 

of rivers to supply water, the dams,

the mis-use of land and water, the

over-population and housing built in

treacherous locations. And you tell 

me. Seems to me that governmental 

engineering, or any, tends to end up  

as a real crock. Mulholland eventually

made it to the top, running the most

critical and far-flung water-supply

system in the world. He replied: 

"Well, I went to school in Ireland

when I was a boy, learned the Three

 R's and the Ten Commandments, or

most of them, made a pilgrimage to the

Blarney Stone, received my father's

blessing, and here I am." He started

out there (L.A. water system) as a 

ditch digger and a clearer of brush

and stones out of canals. One day 

he was approached by a man in  

a carriage, who demanded to know 

his name and what he was doing.

Mulholland stepped out of his

ditch and told the man he was

'doing his god-damned job' and that

his name was immaterial to the

quality of his 'god-damned' work.

The man, it turned out, was the

president of the water company.

Learning this, Mulholland went to

the company office to collect his pay

before being fired. Instead, he was

promoted. Engineering, indeed!

10,340. BLOCKADES AND EMBARGOES

BLOCKADES AND EMBARGOES

(he can't take a joke)

All that stuff that Sheriff Tyler says

and to which I never listen. I really

don't care  -  inasmuch as I'll do what

I want to do no matter. So you don't

like the Paki store, where I go anyway?

So the guy from Berlin bugs you, with

his German kraut and bratwurst fill?

Listen to me, Buddy: and read my lips.

'Like I care.' There's a way-station

along the trail here that says 'Leave

nothing behind.' I sort of understand

that better, although your type reads

it instead as - 'Dump no bodies here.'

-

See what I mean  - you looked twice

and right away took offense : that

pipsqueak Italian code of honor?

Leave me alone, you spaghetti

midget cauliflower goon. 'Non 

sa stare allo scherzo.'

10,339. RUDIMENTS pt. 176

RUDIMENTS, pt. 176

Making Cars

One thing I never, ever, liked

was manufactured emotion  -

pretty much the kind of stuff

you'd see back then, 1960's

TV. It was, and still is, really

miserable. And not only is it

miserable but it's also

responsible for much of

the resultant problems we

face now; all sorts of things

just now coming home to roost.

The results of sexist violence,

abuse, use of women as sex

objects and men as walking

lust-buckets. That's the paradigm

as it was drawn, and guess who

drew it? The same breed of snipe

who still draw it. And their

vulgarity and abuse of others

is well-rewarded. It's a real

dilemma, and one marked and

made much worse by the

validation given to it by the

millions who sit through and

watch it, attend it, ask for it.

So, I guess there's nothing

to do.

-

I used to wonder anyway

about people who'd be

interested in that line of work.

It all seemed so forced and

so artificial. In the seminary,

incredibly enough, I got mixed

up with that myself but it was

restricted. Obviously, out of

bounds for us was anything

dealing with the normal angst,

sorrow, flames of love and

passion, and any of the other

human emotions that go into

real life. An insipid, de-salinized

version of all this was on par

for them anyway  -  having

stripped their 'religion' of

anything of value they all

basically walked backwards

through life to be sure that

everything behind them had

been cleansed. I think the

only reason 'Mary' was a

'Virgin' was because in any

other, normal, format they'd

neither understand it nor know

how to handle it. Thus, justice.

-

A lot of New York City, at 

heart, was an actor's city. They 

came and went, they had entire 

districts set up for them  -  there 

was Actor's Studio, Actor's School,

and on and on it went. Schubert 

Alley, Sniffen Court, all these lit 

out-of-the-way theatres and 

performance spaces where 

actors lived. Drama schools, 

drama bookstores, playwright 

bookstores and music racks.

The historic premise of 

everything was everywhere -   

The Golden Swan (lived on), 

Eugene O'Neill, Provincetown 

Playhouse  -  all sorts of vanguard 

and guerrilla theaters. I mingled 

around all that, plus the cabarets 

and the burlesque houses, and 

all those nascent gay places too. 

It was part of my signature to 

be everywhere, taking it all in. 

Some old, grizzly guys drove 

cabs just so that they could 

be constantly amidst the raw

material of writing and stories 

that they could record, re-write 

and steal.  All those stories, 

gotten for free, later turned into 

a million bucks. There was a 

great crossover where all these 

things had paths that converged  

-  the wiry, evil decibel level of 

'Taxi Driver' and 'Mean Street's 

to the Cactus Flower fluff and 

'Prisoner of Second Avenue' 

half  comedy but always half 

serious too. There was trouble 

everywhere and out along the 

streets, if you played it correctly, 

there were tales and stories 

worth performance, worth the 

retelling. But the strange 

difference was, as I saw it, 

as follows : none of these 

people were New York people. 

They'd all come from somewhere 

else on that crazy romantic notion 

of maybe hitting the big time 

while at some undiscovered 

stage-role in NYC, the Great 

White Way, under the lights, 

as it were. A huge pastiche 

of BS, it all was. The best 

stuff going on was in the 

cavernous little hovels with 

dark, glossy painted stages 

and one bad microphone; 

it was all visions of something 

else  -  I was never sure what, 

except that it was always 

insincere, broad emotions 

with not real people playing 

roles, but 'type' written into 

script, each 'type' never real, 

just instead representing 

some lead-in to a desired 

emotion. It was all fake. 

The best thing I ever saw, 

actually, was at Circle in 

the Square Theater, down 

in the village, when Circle 

in the Square was around, 

and it was Al Pacino, live on

this tiny little round stage ten 

feet from us, in 'American 

Buffalo.' Pretty much 

about these two city losers 

trying to cash in on a 

buffalo-head nickel one of 

them got, thinking it was 

worth a bunch. It was pretty

intense, and probably 

overplayed. But they got the 

point across, and the cool 

thing was the spittle flying 

out of Pacino's mouth, and 

allover us in the first two 

rows eight there. He sure 

was a wet emoter.

-

Al Pacino though was at least a

New Yorker, in that consummate

sense they usually otherwise try 

to get across by type-casting some

mug-faced, crooked-looking guy

who mutters in a bad mood all the

time. By that they assume that you 

will subliminally read the 'assumed'

character out of the face they supply

you. It works, but it's never authentic,

and, mostly in  New York anyway,

nothing else ever is either. Mostly

because of all that acting veneer

on everything. People there are

always pretending to be richer 

and more hip than they really are.

The falseness and the pretense is 

crazy and legendary, and it's 

compensated for in the stark and 

blunt outlooks most people

carry. Who else in the world 

could be happy and content once 

realizing that, by living there they 

are, by definition, (and by my 

present-day calculations), probably 

using up, that is wasting, I'd

say 3 dollars dollars an hour. 

Just for being there : living 

expenses, food, transportation, 

fees, rents, taxes, and all the rest, 

plus the added expense tacked 

onto everything you buy. That's

just so to SAY you're cool and 

hip, by living there. That's like 

$70 extra dollars a day, which by 

the end of an average month is

$2100. I always figured that to

be a heck of a lot of overhead,

and why bother when you can

live somewhere else, and still be

as close as needed, for 1/3 that.

Anyway, that's eventually became

my thinking  -  living in the outer

swamps and reeds and who cares.

-

It was the other people, the guys 
and the girls who hit it big, who 
managed to find these multi-million 
dollar brownstones and apartment 
places and all  -  cars, horse-stables, 
private gardens. I used to gape at a
lot of that whenever I saw it. There's
one street, not much of anything really, 
but a collection of old estate kind of 
brownstones and all, facing a crummy
little library and a playing field and an old 
1900's school on the corner later turned 
into a shelter and then a community pool 
site in the depression and now back to 
being a school again:(St Luke's Place).
For a while, all these new-money types, 
like Gwyneth Paltrow and that ilk, they 
kept buying places here. Coming. Staying 
a while. And then going. I never could 
figure how anyone could make that much
money, that quickly, and just throw
it down. Ah, you know those
new-money types.