11,274. WHEN GO ONS TURN TO GOONS

WHEN GO ONS 

TURN TO GOONS

It is only a trifle, like a bad

dare at a swim-pool party,

'Go on jump in, I dare you.'

And someone inevitably does,

clothes and all or none  -  like

no one turns to noon but better,

when 'go ons' turn to goons.

There's nothing seamless there,

and we've swum our final mile.

All the while, never thinking.

Brushing their hair, I watch

the little kids talking how

these tufts turn to toughs

and tangles and knots.

11,273. NOT ALL THINGS ARE WORKING

NOT ALL THINGS ARE WORKING.

Well, anyway : the Working Formulation

of what that's trying to say is, or shall be,

or will be, likely cloudy and unclear. My

motto always is 'Never approach directly.'

So, I leave you in that haze.

-

To only tolerate the unctuous, that is not

enough : you must love them to effusion.

Extreme as situations are, so they say, they

always ease up and  -  although I've never

believed this for a minute  -  get better.

-

It always baffles me why people think

like that : things are always dire and

distressed, so why pretend? Like an old

hammer that, under stress, eventually

loses its head and goes flying across

the room, so too are we. Death already

awaits, and with our free tickets too,

the very moment we are born.

-

If not before. Who knows what that's

all about  -  all things being, seemingly,

circular, that 'before' can just as well

be an 'after'  -  the way the circle weaves.

I have no consternation, just the ideal

knowledge that not all things are working:

a formulation that leaves you in a haze.

11,272. RUDIMENTS, pt. 485

RUDIMENTS, pt. 485

(constantine the sign man)

Do you know the old joke,

(two jokes actually), about

the crusty, old Maine guy?

I always liked them, (the

jokes in question), and they

were first told to me back

in the seminary by my

crazy Maine friend, Leo

Benjamin. From Bangor.

'Bangah' he said. We used

to laugh at them, and

ponder their complexity

too. Truth be told, I've

since seen them, over

the years, also used as

Vermont farmer jokes

and old Maine sailor

jokes. They're not even

really 'jokes' per se, and

for both Leo and myself,

they became more like

very quiet, still and deep,

paradoxical zen koans.

I guess, in the tired course

of a lifetime, one picks up

what one can and keeps

it for treasure. I know I

do. The first joke has a

'farmer'  -  let's say  -

being addressed by

someone who has pulled

over to ask directions. He

listens carefully, shakes

his head up and down as if

in a seeming understanding,

and says, 'Ayuh. You can't

get there from here.' That

seems fairly innocuous, but

think about it some and

figure if that could be true.

The assumptions within

that statement are quite

profound. Could it BE true?

Are there places, really,

which become 'unreachable'

from another place? Are not

all places, in some eventual

way, able to be gotten to?

What after all is visibility and

place and location anyway?

And what then IS the fabric

of this world? That one used

to get us going. The other one,

in much the same way, though

paradoxically much different

as well, has that same old

'farmer' being asked, 'Have

you lived here your whole

life?' for which he squints,

peers, thinks, and answers

dryly, 'Ayuh, no, not yet...'

Again, miraculously deep

and profound.

-

None of this, of course, holds

a candle to the old Irish saw,

which goes "Wasn't he an

anarchist?' in speaking of

someone who died. 'No,

no, he was Irish.' Ah, well,

if only. Nowadays, even the

Irish, if they're not following

rules, they're making them.

Sacco and Vanzetti, where

are you now?

-

It's the simplest thing in the

world to 'say' something; but

saying it doesn't make it true.

Or real. The mysterious haze,

I'd suppose, of a very personal

wishful thinking takes over,

and we then form our realty

or at least our 'being' around

that  -  picking up for ourselves

the various signifiers by which

we'd hope others see us ('He/She

drives this or that vehicle, wears

this or that label, has been here

or there, well-traveled, boastful,

sure). All of the same, in a mix.

I think pretty much that's what

childhood is about anyway. The

pose and the sanction; you pick
what you want to grow into. And

in the same way, of course, it's

the psychological determinant

by which advertisers, politicians,

and the like seek to twist and

convince us. Religion too.

-

With religion, it's even a deeper

subject. For truly, they CAN

just simply say something and

have it be true and have a

million deep followers

immediately conjoined at

the hip in the form of devotion

projected. Say this: Mary

was a Virgin, conceived

without original sin (that's

the Immaculate Conception,

people. It's hers, not Jesus',

so that He could be born

unsullied by the 'usual'

human stains of original

sin, and all sin, including

the 'sin' of sex. It's all

completely bogus and wasn't

instituted until 1854. But they

'say' it is, so it is. Right?)

So she was pre-Redeemed

so as to 'conceive' a Redeemer?

Right? She died, pure and

still virginal and clean, and

was 'assumed' bodily right

up to Heaven (oh, that's the

Feast of the Assumption).

Because they 'say' so. Point

being that, I guess, little ole'

Jesus never broke a hymen

on the way out. Because

they say so. How then
was He born? (I wonder

anyway, is that a 2-way

street?)....

-

These seminary days did

always have me roaming 

about. I had always been a 

good listener, and a voracious

reader   - always figuring the

two went hand in hand, as in

'shut your mouth and listen.'

The best thing about the 

seminary, mostly, for me  -  

and I've said this before  -  

was the solitude it afforded, 

as wanted, and the ways to

be left alone. Reading, and

the nice, seminary library, 

and the enforced study halls 

too, they all went together 

in making it a great place 

for that. In reality, it was 

the Doctrine and all that

Christian 'because we say 

so' stuff that irked me. We

had this History teacher, I

forget his name, Brother

Timothy, or Father, something.

He talked funny, waddled 

while he walked, and always 

seemed sort of a slob too.

You could tell that stuff - dirty

cassock, stained and worn,

crummy shoes; made you

wonder about the clothes 

underneath all that too.

Anyway, he was always 

going on as he lectured 

history, in an endless and

tiresome drone, while 

walking or pacing the 

room  as he talked. (It 

was probably some 

progressive, early 1960's

thing about dynamics and 

keeping the attention of 

the class fixed on you as

 you talked). He constantly

held an open book, the

History textbook, in his

hands, out front, as he 

talked. It was all fun to 

watch, but, since he walked

around, once he got behind

your desk, no one cared  -  

never did anyone really

turn around to stay with 

him or keep watching, 

until he got back to the 

front. Anyway, he used 

to have this thing about

propounding Constantine

and the 'Conversion of

Constantine'  -  adopting

Christianity, and all that,

leading into the Holy Roman

Empire and all that stuff that

saved Humanity from ruin.

Supposedly. Because he

said so. It was this whole

spiel, every time, about 

the marching army and 

the pre-battle vision, and 

God's words in the sky, 

and the promise by 

Constantine to convert, 

if he won. 'In Hoc Signe 

Vinces.' The sign in the

sky, and then translated 

in a dream for him, was 

'By this sign you shall 

conquer.' Man, every 

bit of that seemed so

bogus to me, I'm sorry.

First off, that whole, 

'If I win the battle,' thing  

-  what kind of assent is 

this? Real strong faith? 

Always having  an 

alternative ready? 

Defeat meant death 

anyway, so who really 

cared? And then, the 

whole idea about this 

absentee landlord God 

suddenly stepping

in to take sides and

promise gain to the 

winner? What the heck

was going on? I was so

lost as to be rendered

speechless.

-

I wasn't but 10 years later,

remember, that the Elmira

bus-driver, weatherman, and

newscaster, all combined, got

fired for saying on the air that he

saw Jesus in the clouds one day

while driving his bus route to

Binghamton and Jesus told

him that all would be OK  -

referencing the fierce storm,

Hurricane Agnes, that had just

ripped through Elmira (June 22, 

1972). Vince Murphy got fired.

But, on the other hand, winning

his battle, killing thousands, and

forging humanity's brand new

Euro-future, by seeing God in

the sky, got Constantine eternal

fame and righteous glory.

Yep. I guess you CAN get

there from here, after all.

11,271. WHEN I HAD A CLEAN SWEEP

WHEN I HAD A CLEAN SWEEP

The skeleton beneath my closet

never let on : (note to police. Dig

there). The problem was, there

wasn't any floor. (note to police.

Forget about that). In the place

where the table once was, there

is only now a deck of cards. BUT,

in the top drawer, left, of the broad,

mission cabinet, there is a large,

hand-inked treasure map that will

lead you to the sea. Cleverly designed

enough, it is, that you will drown

once you get there  -  deep mire,

messy currents. Unless you follow

exactly the times of night I tell you to

use; the ebbs and highs of the changing

tides. Outside of that, nothing much 

to report. Now, one more thing  -  sit

back and think about why you are

doing any of this. It isn't that this

treasure is for you; someone else

will mark it as evidence and just 

take it away  -  you'll never know, 

the real amount or what they've 

taken. So, really then, who's the 

actual criminal here, and what's 

the crime? It's like when I walk

past Rahway Prison, from the 

Rahway Train Station; as I'm

approaching the prison grounds, 

all the signs say, 'Keep out. Warning. 

State Property. No trespass. Keep out. 

Premises under constant surveillance.'

Who's the actual criminal here, and,

again, yes, what's the crime?

11, 270. SHADOWED CATEGORIES OF DOUBT

SHADOWED CATEGORIES 

OF DOUBT

Everything had a schedule, all on its own,

each small thing. How was I to know? The

girls who would turn into men; the men who

would turn into ladies. Each had its own

fixed time, a scheduled lamp waiting to

light. Standing back with two drinks in only

one hand, I was mesmerized by the thought.

-

The three-man band on the cardboard stage

was running down as the stage collapsed.

It all made for a pretty music, that clang.

11,269. RUDIMENTS pt. 484

RUDIMENTS, pt. 484

tommy hilfiger

Jean Paul Sartre said,

'I am always making

myself up as I go along.'

In those early years, I

did find much in his

words to take solace

from, though now

looking back at most

of it I find it all rubbish.

That entire, WWII and

postwar Existential thing

had no legs. It fell apart,

I felt, once society went

the way of possessions,

materialism, credit and

advertising. The entire

focus of what was supposed

to be living was lost and

cast-off. It had been a long

way down. Everything had

become, anyway, symbols.

In the same way that I was

always troubled by F. Scott

Fitzgerald and that light he

kept staring out at across

the harbor to Daisy's, so too

did the general direction

and the assumed endings

of the current culture,

trouble me. Gatsby was

a faker, and a very early-on

symbol of America's largest

fake and con : Consumerism.

Amassing junk. Whatever

the contrived symbolism of

that Gatsby stuff was meant

to be, I found it in a hundred

other ways never spoken of:

In any case, I always thought

the book was anti Semitic,

though no one ever made

mention of that. There was

first the issue of Gatsby's

false name (really 'Gatz'),

and all the rest of his falsehoods.

And then there is the Jewish

gangster guy, Meyer Wolfsheim,

representing pure Evil, the dark

presence, the filthy schemer.

These things were so obvious

to me as to be incomparable to

any other reading. But, never

mentioned. The legacy there

is long and wide and deep.

-

Up in the part of Pennsylvania

I was at, you could probably

count the Jewish people with

two sets of fingers. I guess

that means 20, but that's 

too many. I was hardly

aware of that, of course,

except for that Harry Glass

guy, the school superintendent

who hired me for the job I

had for a bit. He was actually

a 'Glassman' and a transplant

from Plainfield, NJ too. It was,

in that case, fairly obvious.

But, other than him, every

other spire, steeple, bell,

landmark and place of worship

up there was lily-white and

Christian. Baptist-church huts

proliferated, mostly. Again, the

white Baptists. There was also

a sect of 'black' Baptists, but

not up there. They went by

another name, maybe it was

'Southern Baptist.' I forget.

-

Each one was the same as the

next, and each was poor and

pathetic, with always some

sort of 'added-on later' social

room or wing. Any of one

hundred different reasons

and holidays were used to get

locals out for cake sales,

bake sales, prayer meetings,

'meet the missionary' gatherings.

When I had been in the lower

east side of NYC, a lot of

the east European churches

had a bit of the same feel  - 

blessings of the animals,

and pets, and food baskets.

They'd bless anything to

draw people in. It was all

very pious and quite serious,

and they fell for it all. In

Pennsylvania, in the same

way, if it was, say, 'Mother's

Day,' there'd be this stupid,

sloppy, afternoon ceremony

of awarding the 'Youngest

Mother Award.' Which I

always thought outlandish,

since any girl of 14 was apt to

get knocked up out in those

parts. Why in the world promote 

that? They never did the same

for fathers, nor for Father's

Day. Old Rev. McKnight,

I'm pretty sure, knew he'd

be laughed out of court on

that one. But all this stuff
brought the ladies out, and
got him some attendance.

-

Back to Sartre's making

himself up as he went along  -

in  the same vein, but in a

lighter fashion, Mark Twain

remarked (Hey!) : 'I remember

everything, and what I can't

remember I make up.' The

somber, dark, 'pin the tail

on the donkey' aspect of

despair had not yet settled

over Mark Twain when he

said that  -  showman and

raconteur as he was; but

he himself was never a

bundle of optimism beneath

it all. If you read some of

his closing remarks, he

was a dark dude; a black

soul in a white suit.

-

There never was much overt

religiosity in the area I lived.

There was plenty of local

'church' stuff, and the presence

of Ministers and visitations

and all that crap. But nothing

of it was really 'religious' in

the sense of large, heavy

cosmic questions being

addressed. It was a jumbled

mush, instead, of childish,

Bozo the Clown moments

purporting to target the soul.

It's still like that here, now,

around where I live. Avenel. I
never much cared for children;

kids bore me, I find then

self-centered, vain, and

talentless too. Yet, all of

the churches I come across,

and see in action, treat their

parishioners as children and

target all of their efforts as

if everyone was 7 years old.

Easy to placate with promises,

and even easier to push around

with promises of a tomorrow.

I could never understand why,

as Society matured, churches

didn't just disappear. Now I

realize why  :  because Society

never matured.

-

I'd often tried my hand at

simplicity  -  sometimes I had

no choice. The concept of it

attracted nonetheless, and I

am pretty sure that if I won

a million dollars tomorrow

afternoon I'd remain as

dullingly simple as I am

now. Up there, as I was

living a hand-to-mouth

existence (figure that

phrase out? I guess it

means is all you're ever

doing is trying to ways

to have food, or get food.

The problem, even there,

isn't much for me  -  not a

big food guy at all), so

overcoming simplicity

was never a big project.
I was simple. Period. Two
flannel shirts and some 
sort of jacket could carry 
me for two months. I had
a few old, paint-stained
sweatshirts that, when they
got too bad I just wore inside
out and they looked new! I
probably could have started 
a fashion trend.  You may 
remember, since I've mentioned 
 it before, that at about this time, 
up in Elmira, I'd made my
acquaintance with a young
guy who ran a small, jeans and
shirts store, just starting out.
The store was named 'Peoples
Place'. I'd written a few local
newspaper things, and the old
man who ran a store next to his,
which sold the opposite of what
he sold  -  suits and ties, formal
overcoats, and all the old-line
Republican tweedy stuff  - had
replied back to me and asked
me to meet him, at his store, and
discuss some ideas. Which I did.
Which is how I found Peoples
Place, perched right next door.
The next few times I went back
with my wife and child, who was
about 4 then, and this young guy
gave us a nice tee shirt, 'small size'
so the kid could sleep in it, etc.
He was a real local nobody then,
the store owner, but I liked him.
His name was Tommy Hilfilger.
Yep, that Tommy Hilfilger, for all
you hot-to-trot fashions buffs out
there. Indian Madras got nothing
nothing on Tommy. The logo, by
the way was terrible, I thought, nor
did I think much of the name. It
was a catchall place, sort of, with
records, music, clothes, and all
other sorts of paraphernalia. They
went back and forth to NYC, to
stock up on all this 'trending' stuff.
All little behind the current of the 
day, but for up there it sufficed. in
a place like Elmira, back then, you
could get away with being two
years behind the curve and 
still be seen as hip. If you did
really want the cool stuff, 20 miles
up the road was Ithaca. I always
figured, 'First it was Goldfinger,
now it's Hilfiger,'
-
When you look at any of this 
fashion stuff  -  and I'd bet Tommy, 
back then would have owned 
up to it  -  it's just a bunch of
hogwash. Clothing is a need,
not an elitist tendency; nor is
it a means of 'showing' you're
better than anyone else, more 
classy, more tasteful, or smarter 
or wiser than. Only a stupid 
person would think that way.
To spend one hundred and
seventy five dollars on a shirt,
I'd think you'd need your head
examined. Just down the street
from the Peoples Place, which
had quickly up-classed and
glamorized itself into a black
and gloss Soho basement kind 
of 'look,' replete with pounding 
music that was even pumped out 
onto the street, was a smaller
place, owned by two people I'd
met once at an Elmira College
house party. That place was called 
'Fat City.' In much the same way,
they had clothing, often used, for a 
modest 4 or 5 dollars. They also
'made' shirts, vests, etc., as an
artisanal craft. I have one. They
were pretty neat, but went 
nowhere. And there was a
third location too  -  used and
salvaged clothing  -  cheap.
It was called 'Glad Rags.'
Whatever fashion bandwagon
had somehow cruised into Elmira's
quiet habitats, it was only Tommy
Hilfiger's that came up with its own
code, brand, elan, and pizazz enough
to take it all out of town, and then
go big-time forever. The needle
and thread trade started 
making itself up.