12,147. SLOW, DREARY

SLOW, DREARY

I think the cosmic needle was

dragging on this one. Not even

one's shadow could keep up,

lagging behind ten paces or so.

Forcefully, birds and animals

were breaking away. Two

gentlemen in leisure suits

were off to Verona.

12,146. DUMANTEL

DUMANTEL

I'm nodding. Again. There's

been too much of the antic

breeze in the space around me

and it just makes me bored.

I spent two weeks polishing

a car; and three months in

solitary so far. Someone just

came by to tell me what 

I've won. There's a billboard

on the highway now with a

message that reads something

like 'If you're new here, we can

help. Assistance. Tuition. Loans.

Placement.' It goes on like that

in an off-key way. I'm not sure

who reads it really  -  there are

lots of South Asians around,

and maybe it's for them. (Who

are they anyway, all these people,

and why can't I juts say Indians

and be done with it?). I think those

are all the same services we can't 

get. How's that go? I forget.

-

Certain things are like spectral

ghosts to me; stupidly so, like 

right there, by that sign  -  there's

the Metropark Train Station, and

beneath and alongside it runs the

Garden State Parkway. And then

there's MetroPark itself  -  a

corporate center for all sorts of

mysterious things; and hotels

and lodgings too. Banquet and

wedding halls. Parking for lots

of folks with cars. I never know

who they are, but I guess they're

here. It just goes on and on, and

even the nearby Social Security

offices are filled with those damn

people in robes. How's that go?

I forget? What did I miss?
-
I tend to think back, to see how 
this started. I can only remember 
a hazier  time. Cooper's Dairy, and 
all those cows where now the 
buildings stand and crowd.
There were often cows right
up to the fences, baying and
mooing, as is crying out. We
could put our hands in and
feel their wet noses. That's
all gone too  -  nothing here
left except the same cheap
cyclorama of traffic and men
in their tidy work clothes; lights
and buildings, trains and shows.
'The saris go by me from the
embassies....' I remember that
poem by Randall Jarrell, and I
smile back at the living nod
from 1969.
-
If you're here now, newly arrived:
We. Can. Help.

12,145. RUDIMENTS, pt. 822

RUDIMENTS, pt. 822

(take a look around you)

I always felt that when a

person says something

derogatory about another

person, actually what they're

doing is telling something

about themselves. It was

always apparent to me,

and it's a good detective

trick too, to find out about

others' heads. Like just today,

there was a female politician

of long-standing and disgusting

regard, who piped about about

another that 'He's running a

political extortion ring,' and I

won't get into the rest of it

here, but the person speaking

that little nugget has been

 part of a 30-year political

extortion ring herself, and

has never owned up to a

damned part of it. So; what

do you get from that? Truth,

Justice, and the American way.

I guess. When you go around 

reading detective stuff you can

 pick up a lot of strange nuggets.

Like about liars. When a person

is lying, it is said, there's a visible

pulse, if you know how to watch

for it, at the area of their jawline

and ear, just under the ear.

They have dry lips, and tend to

look away, avoiding a direct eye

contact. Of course, a good liar

who's aware of all this can avoid

a few traits, but the pulse, and the

dry lips, they get pretty obvious.

It's also sort of the opposite of that

old Sicilian 'evil eye' thing, so in

whichever way this runs, the

truth's maybe there somewhere.

-

In NYC, I watched the cops; to

see how they did things, what 

sorts of reactions they had. There

are a lot of differences between

then and now  -  back in '68, all

things were sterner, almost

fascistic  -  police, police tactics,

protesters, the war stuff. That
street-authoritarianism was
done differently than today's,
which is done peculiarly and has
has different feel and color. And,
unfortunately, has all the dupes
and unwitting ignoramus citizens
simply acquiescing. It's like an
Avenel knife-dream: now the nasty
playgrounds have soft-surface areas,
so the dumb parents won't hurt
their own nasty hearts. Cops back
then were always hard-assed career

men, with one thing on their 

minds - suspicion. Of everything.

Now, there are little cops, small

people, female, weak-knee'd

guys always on their phones.

I've seen detail cops stand in

one place for 4 hours, probably 

at 70 bucks an hour, on their

phone, staring down, looking

at a screen  -  no regard at all

for what's going on, around 

them, or even adjacent to them.

I've known two cops over the

years, fairly well. One guy was

a 42nd street detail street-cop;

at it for years. Nice guy, but

never too involved; just wanted

his first out, after 20 years or

whatever it was; cared for little,

though he did say he could tell

me some things he'd seen that

would curl my hair. He's out

now. And another guy, the

opposite  -  intense, wiry,

ready at all times for the take

down. Undercover. Surveillance.

Task forces. Had a completely

different approach. Retired to

Breezy Point (a cop-community

of retirees) just in time for the

whole community to get blown

away by a Hurricane  -  Sandy  -

and then burned to the ground

as the winds and open gas lines

started a fire. So many lost so

much.

-

Tough stories are everywhere.

Female stories too. I could tell,

but why bother. People used to

live like rats and dogs, homeless

but with stop-gap homes in

underground crevices and

passageways, beneath ramps 

behind subway stops and track 

turns  -  all those dead corners

of things you can sometimes see. 

These people were sometimes

vicious and brutal, but not always,

and they most often only came

out at night; their spaces and

beddings were never disturbed. 

The darkness was safe for them.

There was a strict protocol about

place and space  -  until someone

went mad. Going at others with

a machete. Or dousing them with

gasoline as they slept, and lighting

them up. It was crazy. At the 79th

Street Boat Basin area, in the 70's

anyway, there was a community of

complete wackos living in the

tunnels and abandoned (closed)

ramp exits of the Henry Hudson

Highway area  -  trees, shrubbery,

granite slabs, ramps. Must have

been 30 or 40 people  -  they

policed themselves, fed themselves,

and groomed and did all their

loving and hygiene stuff too. It's 

all gone now; one day the cops 

swept in and just dragged everyone

off. One of those Mayors running

the crackdown on the homeless

stuff. It happens every 15 years or

so; same bullshit. I don't know 

whatever happened that time. I

never knew about the dead, or

the babies that were probably

born. A lot of that's never

considered 'proper'  -  bums

having sex?  -  so you never

hear about it. Until it's too late,

or some pick-axe political dweeb

decides to run with it all and

makes an issue. Mayors,

Councilmen, Judges, and

Magistrates too  -  that's the

real extortion racket; the 

homegrown rats who dig right 

in your faces. You see, a man

gets known by the definitions he

lives by. If you misunderstand

life, you're doomed, and no

amount of flim-flam or 

dilly-dallying is going to save

you. I mean that  -  I've always 

been pretty Biblical about

salvation and redemption and 

all that. It's all to be done by

YOU, and you alone, and for

yourself. All that riding the

carpet in the interests of others,

that's all lies and crap. Those

political types, that's all they do.

Lie. And crap. And they probably

lie about their crap too. You gotta'

watch out -  they're everywhere.

-

The old 'glitterati' of New York,

back at the end of the 1960's, was

a real riot. They hadn't a clue about

what was happening around them 

right then, and they clung to their

old money and ways as if they

just had to. Like a legacy entry

to Princeton, some university

connection in its dotage things

the world is a never-change,

fixed equation. They end up

looking stupid, and being so

too. Back then, it was Mayor

Wagner. Then Mayor Lindsey.

Two different operations at

other ends of the spectrum,

but both desperate and in a

losing cause to preserve the

'past' ideals in a city that was

past ideals. And was burning

to the ground too. Neither of

those guys had a real brain;

it was just a tether-ball still

roped to the past, the elite,

the fragmented old world. 

There were two choices, 

basically: Cede the entire

territory to the barbarians,

and take your chances; or 

cede it over to the real estate

and financial interests. They

chose the latter choice. Now

they're all gone, and just look

around you to see what's here.

12,144. THE OLD MAN AT CARSTON ACRES

THE OLD MAN AT 

CARSTON ACRES

Sometimes you can't get out of

the way, and you just fall. That

old guy, luckily, feel right into his

chair. He seemed to have three eyes,

which is perfect vision of a sort.

He didn't even flinch; just stayed

there sitting, with the Autumn 

leaves falling around  him and,

here and there, a few apples

dropping from the dimpled

old tree he'd sat beneath.

12,143. YOUR REASONING IS LIKE A POT-LUCK DINNER

YOUR REASONING IS 

LIKE A POT-LUCK DINNER

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land

of lethargy, of thee we stink. And

anther thing : 'Do let me go on I'll

jut rattle your cage you multifaceted

sick and losing bunch. Your mother

apparently ever the jewess is the same

key music as your fathers apparently 

always men of little compunction.'

Well now that you've made your

point, what' your point? Do we not

still have those purple-mountains of

majesty and those amber waves of

grain? 'Again I'll say, every pot-lid

I lift brings me a new aroma and I

truly never know what to expect.

Surprise! Those are frog-legs in the

potato soup. Tasting good is surely

a misnomer.' Well, OK, I'll admit

to something like that  -  we have

strange people playing their political

games, what they think are, anyway.

An old woman dodders on the edge

of her shelf, where the granary seeds

have fallen from and now sprouted

something else. She maybe once was

in someone's arms, now she's dead to

every charm  -  and Liberty still is her

name. 'I lift my lamp to the western

wind, the wailing wall of doubt, the

madmen on the fringe. Give me your

tired, your sick, and your lame, we

sure need something and it's all the

same to me. Land where your fathers

died? Who says that? Pilgrim's pride?

Grocery cart in the shallow waters of

eventide's bad design, with corn flakes

and twaddle-cakes dripping out each

pore, your children are now all useless.

I'll give you no more!' I declare! The

next President shall be a doctor, a 

soothsayer, a scientist, and a mare.

12,142. RUDIMENTS, pt. 821

RUDIMENTS, pt. 821

(I'm ok now; it's all over)

My setting always seemed 

to be at 'Catch-all' and that's 

the way it went   -  I roved 

and picked everywhere. In

the time I spent growing,

it was often a pointed 

decision for me to strictly

stay on course. The last 

thing I ever needed was 

a 'country,' and I'd not 

select this one  -  if I had

to opt for a place. In any 

case I chose my battles 

and struck back as needed.

One thing I found out was

that you can't 'sift' for

truth; it either is or isn't,

and, if it is, then it's so

apparent that no searching

is in order, or needed. At

about this time, up at

Broadway and 19th or 

18th street, the very first

concept/working version of

a Barnes & Noble 'Superstore'

was in place. I didn't exactly

know it at the time  -  to me

it was just a cool deal; a new

idea. A monstrous, organized,

well-priced, and bargain-racked,

store with multiple cash-registers,

record albums, and tons of

books. It was a sort of Heaven.

Putting aside all the corporate

babble that came later, (over

750 stores), the idea in its

raw form was to be, at base,

a walk-through, informal

format, open-space, wide

warehousing of books, and

arranged by categories too.

That was a new idea for me.

I'd gotten used to the hit

and miss format of book

buying  -  in those 4th Ave.,

Book Row places that lent

themselves to nothing as much

as solitary stealth in the pick

through piles and piles of 'old'

style books. There wasn't

that much help given. This

store introduced the idea

of categories  - which to me

was a new and infinitely

interesting view  -  Philosophy,

and its sub-categories; The

idea of criticism, as in 'literary'

criticism, ('LitCrit), to which

I'd always beforehand referred 

to as 'Books About Books'

was there in big numbers -

all those studies of author and

titles, the amassed work of the

varied writers and critics sort

of deconstructing each other,

tearing asunder arguments

and concepts. The books 

themselves all seemed fresh

and modern, some even

colorful...unlike the Biblo &

Tannen representative book

dens that otherwise lined the

lower areas by Fourth Ave.

and Bowery. It was an 

eventful moment.

-

Later on, right across the

street, on Broadway, they

opened a textbook outlet,

which was even greater  - 

a person could specifically 

course himself through the

working title-lists for any

course  -  which of course,

(Jeez, all these accidental 

puns), meant free rein to

go at it. I had little interest in

80 per cent of the categories

I'd see  -  math and sciences,

outside of Lewis Thomas

anyway  -  but was able to

stay with all else that I

wanted. I drowned myself

in Moby Dick's bath-water,

as it were; rehab with Ahab!

(I called anything that drained

Avenel out of me rehab).

-

Knocking my head against walls

was not something I cared to

do. I was determined to make

all that the past for me. Inside

the Studio School, it was

pretty apparent to me that

others were better educated,

already, than I'd ever been;

they were more worldly, and

had so much less of the poor

and half-baked, 'sentimental'

religious aspect which my own

upbringing had been battering

me with for years; in and out

of seminary school. All those

exposures, in fact, had made me

quite 'medieval' by contrast to

their far bolder secularism. What

a dumb spot to be in. A light

went on in my head that then

immediately led me to one of

the stronger convictions I'd

ever had  -  that millions of

lives are wasted by subservience.

Subservience was the primary

gauge of success for Authority

to use in order to show results.

They wanted you to be a 

medieval drone, tripping and 

bowing, doing nothing on 

your own but looking for new

orders and systems to follow!

For them, that's an answered 

prayer! Back at home, as a

kid, all that going to church

folderol, catechism, communion, 

confirmation, rites and recitations

and rituals, Father this and

Monsignor that, it was all on 

the order of those old vassal

states and church fortress 

villages once dotting their 

'Europe,' building nation-states;

holding everyone in place so 

that the newly-allied combo

power of 'Church' and 'State'

could establish its steamroller

over people  -  Holy Roman

Empire, Papal Viceroys, and

the requisite oppression and

'martyrdom' by the usual ruling

class could smite the peon into

that needed subservience.

Divine Rite of Kings? Or

Divine Right of Kings. Mix

it up with hidden church riches

and the gobbledy-gook of

other rituals and languages,

and before you know it you've

got yourself a country. And,

as I said in the opening, I

wanted no country.

-
All those dark, dour and
stretched old men  -  estranged,
solitary, serious, creased  -  poring
and craning over old books along
Book Row : With their canes and
magnifying glasses and bag lunches
and slow steps, often were in
their old suits and clothes from
what seemed like 20 years back;
in turn it being an older and
more serious time. Life like
that was odd, as if it were a 
long rubber-band stretching 
and closing, drawing things 
back and forth with it. These
men were one step away
from the same sorts of men 
along  the Bowery, a mere 10 
blocks down the way  -  those
who had fallen, tumbled, failed. 
The rubber band had let them 
go, and booze took over from
books. in fact, it seemed to 
me, that if you lifted the island
itself up, on edge, these book
men who slowly start their
slide down, easily merging
into those booze-men all
staggering along the old
Bowery hotel-streets
-
As it then turned out, in the

varied places I ended up after

those days, I eventually became

my own producer, editor, writer,

composer, and study-hall guide,

pretty much just as I'd envisioned

it. I never needed any hangers-on

and I guess I never sought the

applause or I would have gone 

after it. A part of me deep inside

wishes I had, but I always kept

this dumb notion that as long as

I was working steadily to amass 

the work, at some point someone

would find me. Well, that never

happened, but I've always

remained a 'free man in Paris,'

and I always wanted to be ready

if lighting struck. But I guess

my rod was always too good

and the current was carried

off. Least I know, it never

hit me. But I'm OK now too;

it's all over.

12,141. FAROES ISLAND

FAROES ISLAND

Never the magazine, never the booklet.

I've always kept quiet in the jaws of

defeat. Mystifying silence is a better

tactic than screaming. Put down the

ice-water glass and come with me to

the market. We can pinch a penny or

two while you look at goats and lambs.

We can dine, smiling, while watching

the big farm grow.

-

Well, as it goes, that was some pretty

rough writing. Singular sentences in

a linear row; like an arm wrestling

day in the sunny penitentiary. The

lawmen and the Governor, in fact,

may visit? You don't say!

12,140. RUDIMENTS, pt. 820

RUDIMENTS, pt. 820

(is this how it went?)

Whenever I reached a place

where I felt all things were

fraying, I stopped; sensing

I was far enough along and

running towards destruction.

That's a big key, knowing

when and how to recognize

that. 'You can't undo the

moment,' was one of those

catchwords that got stuck

to my mind early on and

never left. In a very basic

sense, it's quite true  -  yet,

in other senses, things actually

can be atoned for, repented

of, etc., so that the 'moment'

actually does get undone.

But that's different too.

-

Just before an aircraft breaks

the speed of sound  -  the

'sound barrier'  -  sound waves

become visible on the wing

of the plane. Now, I don't

know if that's high physics,

basic science, or some mix

of both by conjecture, but 

what I can attest to is that, as

a young kid, at school, in 2nd

grade and beyond, I can recall

that massive momentary stun

when, all of a sudden, along

some mid-day, we'd hear this

massive smack-bang noise

in the sky. Believe me, you

had to be there  -  we'd be

told not to worry, it was yet

another test pilot (1957?), high

overhead in his F-85 fighter

jet or whatever it was, breaking

the sound barrier. It would

make a huge 'bang' in the sky,

almost physical too; something

you could feel and want to

touch. It was that vivid. (As

an adolescent, other things

later caused that same

sensation; but, I digress).

This thing about the sound

waves becoming visible on

the wings of the plane was

just another of those mysteries

of this life I never understood.

"The sudden appearance of

sound just as sound ends is an

apt instance of that great pattern

of being that reveals new and

opposite forms just as the

earlier forms reach their

peak performance." Whew!

Mechanization was never

so vividly fragmented. You

may claim to understand

that. I never did.

-

In any case, that's exactly

what I always felt like, under

the rising shaft of some great

new surge of idea or creativity.

Yes, in those terms I could

clearly understand that same

transformation. Within my

own life, as I understood new

things I ended up understanding

nothing. I felt energies rising,

and suddenly taking shape into

the forms and objects of my

strange imagining. I wrote

somewhere here, just a few

chapters back, of my response

when asked why I paint or

write as I do. My answer

was that, you may recall,

these are all places I want

to be, to visit, to live. My

energies, like those waves

of sounding rippling over jet

wings, take form and shape.

They make things; not just

sound.

-

Two quite sensible ideas rise

up from all of this: First, as

to the old 'is the glass half

full or half empty?' routine,

I eventually realized  -  and

you yourself can scheme

this out  -  that in either case

the glass is twice as large as

it needs to be; and, secondly,

to the 'what came first, the

chicken or the egg?' thing,

it seems instead that the

chicken is the egg's idea

for getting more eggs. Both

of these sound-barrier logics

break the envelope of.......

something. You fill in the

blank, OK.

-

At the Studio School, humming

around at most everything as I

was, I began to think about

what all this art and abstract 

art was. As with those naked

life-models I mentioned in

the last chapter, it never made

any sense to me to have someone

in perfect fidelity, with paint,

brush, pencil, charcoal or

whatever, recreate in art

exactly what they'd seen.

Why? Whatever for? We are

assaulted by the solidity and

the flowing change of the

physical world at each 

moment. I never thought it

 needed another recreating.

Just to prove you have a good 

eye and a steady hand? Bravo

then. But, in the same vein,

try thee a camera. Or watch

ye TV. It all bored the hell

out of me  -  any of that

perfect recreation. I needed

the rip and tear of Cezanne.

Even Van Gogh wasn't good

enough for me. And then

heck, for a while I just stepped

off the cliff and went 'abstract,' 

finding that's where it was 

all at for me, and bringing a

more-perfect satisfaction

about creating. I was sick of

the rest of all that normal crap.

People 'maturing,' and becoming

mutes, having not a say on any

matter, ending up in a home

with a pool and a scheduled

vacation, forever. Think of

Nietzsche and all that Theory

of Eternal Recurrence stuff,

and back off. Boy did I hate

to see guys grow old, with suits

and ties, losing hair, withering,

but compensating for all that

with material goods and calling

it 'Life.' It was no different

than that realistic art stuff,

to me. I called it 'Tree On a

Bridge' painting. A whole

new school of art.

-

The content of writing is

'speech.' What is the content

of speech? An actual process

of thought, which is non-verbal.

(That's from McLuhan). An

abstract way of painting, in

turn, represents the direct 

manifestation of creative

thought processes. Raw and

unfiltered, and without, yet,

a home. As if a scanner or a

computer, say, was reading

the thoughts and forming,

something. An image? A new

field? Is not THAT what Artificial
Intelligence actually is? Another 

world and place? The designs have

psychic and social consequences

which get amplified once they

are thrown into the existing

processes of the everyday 

world. We need do no more

other than produce it, and allow

it space, and walk away. 

Looking back, we may allow

ourselves then to say, 'Is this

how it went?'