11,196. THE SOMNABULENT ONES

THE SOMNABULENT ONES

(ginny took a bath)

So let me tell you the story

about blindness and the wrath

of seeing : It all comes down,

I think, to not seeing. To a lack

of vision. To  a pre-cutural bias 

of acceding to your own demands.

Anyway, that's how I'd put it.

And I have no real concerns 

about the ways of the storylines

ending. We've gone to war for

less. Summer's Eve, and all that.

It was OK then; it should be OK

now. To acquiesce with what we

have is just dancing with ugly 

wolves in pretty-sheep clothing.

11,195. RUDIMENTS, pt. 454

RUDIMENTS, pt. 454

(russ the dane)

Never sticking your neck out,

as they say, means never getting

your head cut off at the neck.

I guess there's a nice, quiet 

complacency to something 

like that, but I don't know 

why a real man would want

it. It seems to me that we're 

now surrounded by fake men;

little guys who hide behind

the scenes and set off their

incendiaries while taking no

initiative ever to own up to

the things they're doing. That

goes for women too, I think

that's what they're called. As

I was a novice, coming up

through the dank folds of the

cloak of Avenel, I remember

people who would just punch

people. They were the best, 

just getting right to the point.

There's so much conflict around

anyway  -  I remember, in about

1961, this guy Clifford Gary, a

real pain in the ass kind of kid,

and he had a sister too, name

forgotten. In Catechism or

Confirmation class, one of 

those, one after-school day 

when we had to walk over and

attend that crap, mandatory, his

father came stumbling into the

church, about 5:30, drunk or not

I don't know, loudly demanding 

his kids and verbally cutting up

this Sister Josephus troglodyte

nun we always had to put up 

with. He verbally berated her,

the church, the sanctuary, the

entire operation, real good; 

letting her have it right between 

the eyes, saying it was dinnertime

and he wanted his kids home, not

at some overdone church seance.

He got his kids and stormed out.

All the while she was babbling

some drivel about whatever. See,

all she ever had done before was

lord it over 10 year old kids,

with her clicker and her screechy

voice and that fat face she had

the bulbed-out over the sides of

that white nun thing that she

wore. I don't think she'd ever

had to take it in the face before

by a regular, crazed, normal

guy. Good for him. I almost 

cheered! Boy, she was a wretch.

-

That's what's good about a

comeuppance. The deserving

always get it. It was a good

lesson for me and  - even though

I fell back into the well of the

same church idiocy in a year 

or two  -  the lesson always

stayed with me. Nuns were

pretty useless anyway, and

this episode simply had

underscored that for me

too. I always wished the

world really was flat so that

those sorts of people would

have somewhere to fall off

from, or be pushed!

-

Municipal and government 

types are the same sorts of

people. You can't just demand

allegiance, and you certainly

shouldn't be 'buying' it with

stolen funds in the guise of

graft, corruption and influence,

but it goes on and that how 

it does go on. That's why

Avenel stinks. Go ahead,

look at for yourself, don't

take my word for it. I ask

you. And then I also ask, as

I would ask of those who

purport to be running the

social-site the town has  - 

(whoever would have thought,

35 years ago, that a place like

this would produce a thing like

that or a bunch like those 

running it) - to answer to 

themselves what in the hell

they think they're doing.

That was before spines and

backbones, I keep forgetting,

went out of style. Nobody's

home, because nobody 

apparently lives here any 

more. The razor is sharp,

and Kelso belongs to me.

-

In Avenel, this Father Egan

guy  -  he of the speed-process,

17-minute Mass  -  had a brother

named Ben. Ben was the erstwhile

church organist, and he lived in

Metuchen. Right out through the

mid-80's maybe it was. I lived

in Metuchen for 37 years, mostly

because of the train station, its

proximity to Princeton and NY

by rail, and the rather, back then,

strange, old, southern and tribal

feel the place once had. It's all

gone now, but when I first lived

there my end of Center Street 

was like the deep south. Across

from me lived a guy named 'Russ.'

He was referred to by everyone as

Russ the Dane. He was an old

drunken Biker guy, about 55 or 

60 then, back in the late 70's.

He came over one late afternoon

and introduced himself, just like

that  -  'Hi, I'm Russ, the Dane.'

His house was cool, adjacent to

the park that fronted my house,

and back then many a warm 

Summer night went by with he

and his brother (perhaps 'Don

the Dane? We never met), 

played banjo and/or guitar, 

and harmonica, all sorts of

really neat old Appalachian type

tunes with one or the other of

them on vocals. (Their family

originally came from Tennessee.

It lived on). Usually there'd

be a late night fire going, in the

the pit they had. I never went over

there, the guy used to creep me

out, I admit. A little too drunk 

and friendly, one of those in

your face confessional guys,

when drunk. I never liked that.

He'd go on about his own

motorcycle days, the Indian

motorcycle he used to ride, the

stunts and the mishaps. And,

of course, the tales of ladies.

One night, here's the sort of

terror he was, a family had

moved in at the end of the

block, unfortunately for them

right across the street from 

him. The Clyburns; nice 

people, and I knew the 

family. They were black.

Russ went out, gasolined

their lawn, and set it afire.

It burned out quick enough,

but oh what a glow it made.

-

Just a little ways off from us,

over Rt. 287, which was a

relatively new road at the

time, the little bridge (Durham

Ave, back then still unpaved

until paved a year or so later),

was the Danish Home For the

Aged. Russ claimed it as his

own, saying it had previously

been the clubhouse for his

motorcycle club, in the 

1950's. He being Danish 

and all, I just believed him 

and let it all go. Metuchen

had lots of unsolved tales

back then. This one I left

alone. Near that bridge also

lived an odd family, the Pepe

family. It's still there, at 287

on the Metuchen side, last 

house at the highway, a large

sprawling 1950's split-level.

The matriarch of that family,

(she was the only one left)

drank often at Cryan's, when

it was nearby. She'd tell me

bunches of stories from those

old days  -  though she never

mentioned Russ the Dane.

-

This Ben Egan guy had a

decent enough house, and

Father Egan, from Avenel,

was often there. For R&R,

as they say, just kicking 

back a little, rest and all.

It was weird, but my father

often drove him back and 

forth to these visits. The

funny thing was all this was

before my time there, but it

did converge, and my father

hated Metuchen, because, as

he put it, the streets were too 

narrow and everything was 

congested. He liked Inman

Avenue because it was extra

wide. (He should see it now.

Drag-strip speed-lines, lined 

and pumiced, one in each 

direction, with a sign at each

end that reads, 'Welcome, 

Speeders.' But, that's another

story for the lip-synch crowd.

They probably love it. You 

would believe what these 

folks put their lips around.

Guys too!).

-

It doesn't take much to stay

calm. The funny thing, for me,

now, at this later stage of my

life  -  well, two things actually  -

are knowing what day of the

week it is, and realizing how

in the world I ever got to

this point. I remember my

father-in-law, before he died,

just grinning at me and saying,

'How'd I ever get to be 84?'

I'm not there yet, and I doubt

I'll ever see that decade, but

I know exactly what he meant.

11,194. FRIENDS AND FAVORS

FRIENDS AND FAVORS

It's high times and misdemeanors,

I think. I looked at the cards in the

deck at hand  -  all jokers, from

places all over our land.

11,193. RUDIMENTS, pt. 453

RUDIMENTS, pt. 453
(the three stooges)
Over time I could have died

with all the crap I believed in.

As it turned out, I wanted my

living motto to be 'Only for

the fun.' I kept that in reserve

anyway. And then one day, if

you can believe this, I came

home from work and my wife

- who'd been taking care of her

sick and ailing mother  -  says

to me (her mother died of a

severe dementia about a year

and some later) 'While we

were out today, my mother

wanted us to stop and take

care of burial arrangements.'

I shrugged, and said, Well,

OK, yeah; what'd she get? I

thought she had plans to be

next to your father?' My wife

says, 'No, silly, not for her;

for us!' Huh? Turns out, we

were at this time living in

Metuchen (37 years), and

they have a number of

graveyards there. They'd

chosen a basic, catch-all

kind of non-denominational

Metuchen dumping grounds,

(Ooops!) I mean, graveyard.

So, for like 3 grand they got

a double wide, spot for two,

me and her, I guess that'll be.

Honestly, I didn't really care;

not much interest in where my

calcified mug rots away for

eternity. So, some time later

we go over there to check

the spot out  -  I mean I guess

it's forever, unless they build

condos there too and we become

the basement. When I get there,

my first words were, 'What the

Holy Hell! (I'll try not to curse).

For all eternity I'm going to be

stretched out (comfortably, I

guess) at arm's length or so

from some moron whose

gravestone is THE THREE

STOOGES! A large Three

Stooges! Yep, you got it right,

and see the photo here if you

don't believe me. I figure it's

cosmic justice, in the joke

sense, since I was just raging

on previously about there being

no cemeteries in Avenel. If

some guy had a thing for the

Three Stooges like that, why

in the world did he have to

inflict it on others, Hell, on

ME! My own very cosmic raft

of forever, I'm on a freakshow

boat ride with Moe, Larry, and

Curly. My wife, of course, trying

to put 'best light' on this  -  and

because it's probably her eternity

too, so the books say  -  thinks

it's all kind of cool, and then

she (maliciously) adds that

when I die there will be so

many people from all over the

world visiting Metuchen to

find my legendary burial

site, 'Like you do now, with

Ginsberg and Twain and

Whitman and Melville and

Crane,' that it will add a

fame and a panache to

the entire scene of my

gravesite. Jim Morrison

here I come? Metuchen

get ready.

-

Well, I said 'only for the

fun.' Not much else a boy

from Avenel can do. I don't

think they allow burial (yet)

in one's own yard. That would

be cool  -  a little running

fountain, a sit-down outdoor

wet-bar, some recorded words

and music, an overview of a

sucker's life, some holy water,

and a meter to collect (of

course) donations. Where

the money would go? Yeah,

beyond me and I wouldn't

much care anyway. Things

pass away; that includes me.

-

I always believed that everything

was finite in this world; in this

manifestation. The one we see.

There's our other, broader,

operative world  -  imaginings

dreams and wanderings and

all that  -  just as real or moreso.

Each of our thoughts and each

of our intentions making a world

of their own, so that, in the end,

WE are the real creators, forming

and designing worlds to be lived

in, made up of our thoughts.

That's nothing but trouble

for the folks with all this

negative stuff they put out,

but that's all their problem,

none of it's mine, and if those

schmucks never got the

message, tough on 'em.

I build the good, and for

the love of the world too.

-

My point being : the physical

things of our world, yes,

including us, are finite. None

of it, at that level, has anything

to do with the radiance that

comes from within us. Everything

in this world falls apart and has

limitations  -  the windshield wiper,

your toaster, the TV, the garage

door opener, etc., etc. They all

have a built in number of uses,

and they're done. Whatever it

is  -  5 billion wiper swipes,

17,000 pieces of toast, 504,000

hours of TV watching. It's all

got a number to be reckoned

with, and it's done. Now, the

beats of your heart come into

this category too, so be careful.

I have no idea the number, nor

how close to 'the same' it is

for everyone. At some point

you're going to pop those last

few beats, at the rundown,

and you'll know. Maybe God

does know already.

-

I used to think about stuff like

this within the confines of my

metal barracks-style seminary

bed. There wasn't much else

to do, having already prayed

my lungs out to be delivered

from Evil (nice try). There was

absolutely no support for it,

it was seen as anti-Christian,

for one, and completely beyond

politeness and good company.

So, once again, even there, I

was isolated and alone. The

problem for me was that I

could not see it being any

more or less negative from

anything else going on around

me. Arthur Miller had a play

back then, called 'The Crucible.'

It was 'about' the Salem Witch

Trials, but in reality it was a

coded, drama-reference to the

McCarthy era of 'bad' politics,

which had just ended. Nothing

could be said, just maybe

suggested; and a lot of those

matronly, theater, types went to

see it on Broadway and stuff

just really thinking it was some

jerkhole's play about the old

Salem Witch Trials. It was, but

it wasn't, but Miller couldn't say

that. He'd already been blacklisted

anyway, and then to rub it in he

started sleeping with Marilyn

Monroe, and married her. I

guess he showed them. Like

one of those 3D topographical

maps with the bumps on it.

That was all so seminary-like

too  -  we could maybe sneak to

read that play, but if found out

there'd be repercussions, and of

course we were NOT allowed to

even think about staging it. (We

didn't have any girls anyway, and

it got really tiresome to keep

seeing your friends in drag and

makeup pretending to be a girl,

while you're going nuts dreaming

about them anyway). The stupid

monks couldn't have cared less,

and they probably all had 'pictures'

of St. Theresa or somebody to

swoon over.

-

Within this context, I figured,

you could either limit what you

do or expand what you do, but

you still pretty much remained

within those parameters. If you

expanded everything to an excess,

like drugs or alcohol or whatever,

you changed everything, I suppose.

It got hazy and I really didn't

have a leg to stand on but I never

cared about that anyway. All

for fun, remember? Which is

how I probably 'earned' myself

those damned Three Stooges for

eternity. I bet you're thinking

this really bothers me, that grave

and all. Nah, not at all....What's

the whole idea about buying a

grave ahead of time anyway;

especially one bought by a daft

old lady and her daughter as

a 'gift' for someone else? Oh,

I forgot, it doesn't bother me.

-

The other problem or dead end

or whatever you wish to call it,

which this brought me to, was

the question then of were we

or were we not powerless to 

influence and effect our own

personal fates? Which then also

of course brought up the other

problem of 'societal' or mass

fates, of us all as peoples on

the globe, together. Wars and

rumors of wars, you know....

These were heavy questions,

and these Catholics dudes, for

one thing, didn't much wish

to hear about it. I walked away

from there with the following

conclusion : (Hear me out, oh

Avenel) : All we do, all of it,

is nothing of our own. Whatever

we have and do is what we've

been given. Our life is an

assignment  -  that goes from

Kelso in the foxhole to Fireman

Dan on his ladder perch. Eat

you food, dude, 'cause it's

the only meal you're getting.

11,192. THE MATADOR COMES RUNNING

THE MATADOR 

COMES RUNNING

Like jazz in an upstream water :

the growing of sound from a

unseen thought. Jazz and thunder;

this tubular loft bends. 'Hold that 

cape there, Buddy, we'll be done

in only a few.' (I'm holding some

cloth. Is that what he meant?).

Too dark for the lights to see. 

-

All this talk starts driving me 

crazy. Idle talk, is that what the

bullfight means : chase the beast,

run it free? Where are the clowns

when I need them to be?

11,191. SENTIMENT

SENTIMENT

At the grist mill they 

(I noticed) were gristing.

Was that a word?

I wondered.

11,190. RUDIMENTS, pt. 452

RUDIMENTS, pt. 452

(the glass bead game too)

A life, any life, one simple

life, is filled with paradoxes.

To get farthest away from

it, often you have to get as

close to it as possible; letting

it smother and subsume you.

Regret, shame, mistakes, they

all arise, like green grass and

the shape of clouds. There's

nothing to be done, really. Bite

the lower lip and move along,

blessing those who may have

cursed you along the way.

-

I spend an inordinate amount

of my time studying. I don't

mind it, and in fact I look

forward to it. The most

difficult part about it all is

how it divorces me from

the reality of that which

other people live. I have

little in common when I

hear the usual offhand

things. No idea, sorry.

Sopranos? Grey Gardens?

Six Feet Under? Some

Hillbilly family that looks

like me and hordes junk?

When people come at me

from those directions, and

a lot do, I just often pretend

I'm reading lips and can't

understand what they're

saying. They go away.
-
James Joyce to Herman Hesse :
That's a fairly diaphanous way
to connect, but it works. Sometime
in the early 1970's, going heavy
with German Literature as I was, I
got this oddball certificate and a
book, presented to me from the
German Consulate or official
UN office. I was never sure. The
Glass Glass Bead Game (Hesse), to 
Buddenbrooks. And I wasn't even
sure what I'd gotten, but thanks to
the college I did. Elmira College
presented it to me. Things like that
linger for a while, and then they
dis-appear. But at least it 
was mine.
-

It all brings me a wonderful

solitude, and one sought after.

Usually when I want to talk

I just go to a keyboard : This

one here, typing, or the two

piano keyboards in their other

rooms. Furniture that sings,

now there's a concept. We've

got some a'hole here, near here,

8 houses off or so, with a little

crap car and a megaphone'd

4-cylinder engine that he is

constantly romping through the

gears with : l-o-u-d. It sounds

like a high-pitched Jap squeal,

but I guess he thinks it's cool;

he might even think it's music.

Seems like he's always going

but never going anywhere  - 

some people are like that. A

constant motion. I seem to

remember there was a sport

where that was a penalty. Wish

it were here. Dragging him and

his crossing-guard vest away by

the ears would be fun  -  a music

to my ears in the same way as

his probably is to his and mine

to mine. Hey, crackups happen.

The high point of pride, like

I read today locally, is when a

quaint little girl from Nothingville*

brags about her expensive car,

so as to shut someone else down.

That's pretty typical of the sort

of rap-bling culture she inhabits,

so it's understandable, but the

materialism of it astounds me.

Any idiot would know better.

Cars fade fast, not just go fast,

and become become worthless in

about 3 years, outmoded, dead-style,

a passe-pointillism of over-reach and

stretch. I often used to wonder if

an auto dealer would ever really

own up to his selling a 'disposable'

product. They're never sold that

way, but are perfectly indicative

of the capitalist ethos. As soon as

you buy that one version of the

monster-mobile you so treasure,

they've discontinued it and already

claim a newer, better, finer, sleeker,

version of the rot you just bought.

Commerce goes like that. What if

everyone just stopped! Can't have

that. They have to constantly be

making and pumping up the 'next'

demand  -  the thing you don't have.

That's Capitalism, mamma-llama.

But....you don't have to be stupid

to not know it. Though it helps.

-

In James Joyce's, 'Portrait Of the

Artist,' I used to run across the

line, 'zeal without prudence is

like a ship adrift.' As a younger

kid, the line used to seem important

and valued. Back in the seminary

I'd been reading that book and

got all fouled up (what else was 

new) with the authorities there,

for reading it. They claimed it as

anti-clerical, which is was and

it wasn't  -  could have been

argued all day. They were always

cranking about something (a lot

like that Stanley guy, from the 

Pioneer). Every little thing 

'meant' something, signified 

this or signified that. For 

priests and brothers they all

almost seemed hen-pecked, 

or maybe even more, like 

old wives themselves. Boy,

I hated that. There was this

pesky image in my head of 

these guys, as one, with aprons

on, prancing around in their

priest house, together, pretending

they were all perfect. Anyway,

who knew WHAT they ever

pretended, and no thanks. You

need to remember that, back

in Avenel, the librarian, Mrs.

Muccilli  -  she used to give

me pretty much any book I

desired, no questions asked,

and with a smile too. These 

guys, by contrast, all lathered 

up in their church doctrine, 

kvetched wildly about 

whatever came their way.

I distilled it all down to

secrecy. The librarian lady,

she had nothing to hide - two

kids, a husband, went home, 

happy, cooked and tended 

house, made love, and rested.

By contrast, these twisted up

priests guys were always in

an uproar and acted like

infidels themselves, barring

and forbidding this, outlawing 

that. A simple-base kid's book

like Catcher In the Rye, with that

snarky tone and a very simple,

single whore-scene, got them

all so bungled they went red in

the face to pop a cork! (The

book was found in the stashed

possession of a few seniors).

Really, you had to see this 

place. The best thing that 

came out of it all for me, 

this seminary stuff, was my 

study habits; which habits 

I've thankfully never lost, 

and the rest of the timed-out 

world can go scratch.

-

Anyway, first I needed to come

to a comfortable decision about

zeal. Which was sort of easy. It

was prudence that caught me.

A few years later, the stupid

Beatles even threw a carpet

sweep at the word, naming 

some song about somebody

'Dear Prudence.' I figured,

as always, leave it to the

entertainment people to 

screw something else up.

What is it, a name? While

personifying the quality? Is

that what they were trying to

say? I thought Joyce had it

much better.

-

What is it that 'Authority' takes

upon itself to parade with?

They end up just looking so

stupid. In the 1963 seminary,

had, each night, and I mean 

each, a Study Hall. It ran like

from 7-9:30 each night. In the

classrooms, doing the equivalent 

of homework and study. The

idea of absolute quiet was

enforced. There was a Prefect,

or whatever the word, who was

one of the priests or brothers

who patrolled the hall. He'd be

walking slowly along, back

and forth, one end to the other,

reading his breviary or church

book, keeping order, with an

eye out for infractions or noise

or inattentive jerks (like me).

Everything was restricted, even,

as I said, what we could read.

Each classroom had a large

glass pane along the hallway

side  -  that kind of security

glass with the metal honeycomb

going through it  -  so pretty much

we could tell when Father Nazi

was coming back by. But people

would get caught. I got whomped

a few times for infractions. They'd

just come in, fling you down over a

desk  -  really  -  and start swinging

on you with these giant gay

rosary beads and a cross that

hung from their belt. It was 

all so freaking stupid, really,

in that this entire idea was 

based on reverence and duty

to the ideas of Jesus and the

church, yet that was the very

thing they started whomping

on you with. It never much

hurt, I admit, and it was also

damned silly and pretty feminine.

(I should have just punched

the guy back, flat out). But, it

had its share of humiliation too,

as a tactic  -  which strategy I

was sure these cake-walkers

had already figured out while

bathing together.
-
After the study hall was over, we
still had some 10pm chapel
praying to do. It just took a 
minute. Then we could walk
to the dorms and go to bed. I 
was always very tired by that 
point. Some nights I felt 
really whipped.