12,421. WRINGING THE ASPHODEL

WRINGING THE ASPHODEL

It's a Jersey thing, John Berry;

something in the pines, the bogs,

like an oasis. I've never heard 

more quiet than that.

-

Just now, leaving Ong's Hat,

I thought of that.

12,420. RUDIMENTS, pt. 915

RUDIMENTS, pt. 915

('I figured that to find out')

One thing that fascinates me,

even if it bears no repeating

and is fairly meaningless, is 

how, upon reflection, I see that

the Civil War was fought before

the world had any inkling of the

Theory of Evolution, Darwin,

etc., none of which really 'broke'

until 1867. You make what you

will of a fact like that, but to me

it speaks importantly of the idea

of Humanity and placement.

-

A complete slaughter, of a

million boys and men, fields

covered with carnage, much of

it comprised of indeterminate

battles and ends. Was it fought

over mercantile issues? Human

issues? Slavery? Equality? 

Regionalisms? States' Rights?

Where to go with any of this  -

men fighting and killing like...

like apes! Crazed monkeys!

Barbarians clubbing each other

to death. And then just a few

years later, the theory of Evolution

if published and spread  -  and

all of the concepts we'd once 

know become of arguable

cause.

-

I just wondered what was in a

guy's head  -  in a before and after

sense. Those who survived it all,

what did they think of all that?

One hears a lot of things about

primitive, old, American life,

but nothing really addresses

how it all was in terms of violence

or the readiness to do violence

over concepts, or assumed

infractions of some code. 

Satirically, I guess, Mark Twain

played it off well in his tale

of the Grangerfords and the 

Sheperdsons. Its basis is

feud and violence, and in those

22 pages (Chapter 17 and 18)

he covers it pretty darn well. I

just wonder the prevalence of

that sort of thought. I bet old

America was a rough and ready

place, of the sort you've not

seen. And the referents to all

of that 'American' spirit stuff

we supposedly live by were

or are all of that long ago era.

They actually bear little or

no connection to what we 

live today. I first noticed that

when I moved to New York

City. I began frequenting a

lot of the locations I'd be

reading about, and I quickly

realized  -  that's all gone.

From Five Points and the 

Collect Pond, to St. John's

Woods, to Richmond Hill,

to old Minetta, and the

Potter's Field and burials

at what is now Washington

Square Park. All that's left

is trace, myth, and history.

But, infused in all of that,

with pigs running freely

through the muddied streets,

occasional hangings, set-fires,

murders and intrigues, are the
Declaration, the Constitution, 

the points, ideals and freedoms

written into 'America.' That

all died in those Jay Gould,

President Grant, post Civil

War decades of cornered

gold markets, Erie Railroad

scandals, banking and species

crises. It's all no wonder it

all went to hell.

-

How can you have a carry-over

culture that pays lip service to

old precepts but betrays them,

nay, discards them, at every

step along the way? Just alone,

philosophically, it's a tedious 

dead-end, a romp of idiot people

seeking essences  -  the thematic

matter of 'style.' The themed

restaurants and playlands that

abound. People judging cultures

and worldviews by the corporate,

poisoned, drivel they're fed at

fake Italian, fake Chinese, and

fake Spanish, restaurants  -  to

just pick three. The seats of

which get filled by ignoramuses

with no allegiance to any higher

purpose except the burp and fart

of filling up on trash and then

paying for it. For this men and

boys died, and were gored and

pierced and shredded, in rural,

bucolic fields, left in pools of 

red, running blood draining

from bloated, broken corpses

for who knows why? So Chef

Papakadouri can serve you

re-heated, frozen entries 

trucked in from corporate, 

on trucks over roadways 

where these fields used to be?

None of this can possibly

be worth it.

-

Last chapter, you may recall,

I told that Hungarian girl I wasn't

her catcher in the rye. Her reply?

Before leaving, one of the things

she had said, oddly, was: 'Until

now, no, yes, I never have any

experience of glamorous sex. I

figured that to find out. I came

out to be a sample of what it

was all about.' That about sums

up, for me, this whole stance :

a world of unending surprise,

yet one, at every turn filled

with an almost ritualistic sadness

for me  -  lost glory, lost hurts,

lost opportunities, and only a

long, lingering, 'overdue-at-the

library-return-desk' feeling in 

my soul. I never want to go.

But I do too, just as much.
Maybe I just should have
been a monkey. 

12,419. AFTER DAWN AT RICK'S

AFTER DAWN AT RICK'S

I was still seeking a nightlight

when the windows grew bright;

nothing more to do but carry on.

Let things go, be as they may; she

was gone already. It's another day.

Out on the streets things were waking

up : They say this is the city that never

sleeps, but for that, good luck.

12,418. RUDIMENTS, pt. 914

RUDIMENTS, pt. 914

(my catcher in the rye moment)

I was never too certain of

anything, or I was certain of

uncertainty, if you like it put

better that way. Most of my

chances were missed slow-lobs,

that probably should have been

caught easily, or with the least

bit of stretch. But they weren't,

and I let them all go by me. End

result is me. There are, however,

one or two great things about me,

and that's how I feel; sorry.

-

The first being all this writing;

which I feel is a real steady and

professional-like, nicely done,

pile of work. The whole thing

together, which I consider as one

- prose, poetry, artwork, photos,

and drawings.  I stand accountable

for all of it, and proudly too. The

other thing -  and this takes a

little going into  -  is as follows:

I had a friend, dead now (I say

that way too much) with whom

my literary discussions often

circled about his premise (a

vacuous one? Meaningless?

Unimportant?), that, in writing,

no one had ever come up with

the equivalent of abstract art;

abstract-expressionist NY

school kind of Art is what

he meant. We used to discuss

this, often enough  -  I fronted

for Dos Passos, as sort of

having approached that, and

Celine too. And then, funny

enough, we'd realized that each

of those guys, whom I was

using to make a case, pre-dated

the case I was making! Which

was a riot, no?

-

Anyway, truth be told  -  as I

said, he's dead, long gone now,

just another self-inflicted one  -

and I stand alone. Alone here

saying, 'I've done it.' Not caring

who agrees with me either. I

have, in these pages, done exactly

that  -  come up with a manner of

an abstract-painting but with

words, as incontrovertibly weird

as that all may sound. Any section

here can be examined, and with

care, for its own lead and theme,

it own direction, tine, color, and

swirl. Heading here. Heading

there, with its own little huntings

of what's perhaps, meant and

where it's, perhaps, to lead you.

If you're looking for a vase, or

a landscape, or a pile of fruit,

or even an ace and a rose, you'll

not find it. It stands. Thank you.

-

So, it's late '67, deep and Wintry.

The Hungarian girl starts talking.

I did not know her, we hit it off,

mainly probably because I listened.

Most people don't. She was, maybe

28, maybe 30; I don't know, and

was not good with ages. (Actually,

now I'm very good, and can almost

with precision guess a person's age,

maybe within a year either way.

Fear not; I'm not leading you by

the nose on another discursive

ambulade. This is true  -  I think

it has to do with being 'old' now

myself. People younger than me

suddenly seem so simple to read.

Everything about them is quite

obvious. It used to be that people

kept themselves hid; now most

things are so shallow that it's all

open and all over the place too.

Along with the face, you can just

tell from what people have come

out of, to get their ages pretty

close. I ought to be one of those

circus midway (is that correct?)

guys, guessing people's ages).

-

In any case (I wonder how that

means, and how it got started?),

she says she left Hungary as a

kid  -  rushed out with her parents

as the Hungarian Revolution started

breaking around them. She stared

dropping a lot of names : Bela Szasz,

Ervo Giro, Andra Hegedus. People

with those cool Hungarian names

I'd never even heard of (but wrote

down). She was a Rajik, herself.

Part of the larger Rajik family  -

her uncle had been killed, early

on. And they fled. It was difficult

mostly, to follow or fathom. The

Hungarian Revolution, what of it

there was, was never very clear to

me and seemed mostly to be about

betrayal. by the United States too.

A kind of do-nothing betrayal

anyway. It was one of those sticking

points about why I disliked America  -

which is weird because she liked it

very much, and claimed it for her

and her family's salvation. Also,

I would have thought, in ten years,

she'd have had a better English, but

I guess not. 'We got here on a late

night. To a place then called Kilmer. In
the farm-woods of New Jersey. It was,

to say, a campment? Encampment

of refugees, flooding in we were,

one after the other too. For weeks,

and we stayed. With the food brought,

each time, in wagons and carts. They

set us well, cared. We followed the

newses, and the fathers sometimes

would go  -  mostly to New York,

to see what work there could be.

And to where. My own father, he

worked metals there, in Hungary.

And in New York we moved  - he

got work in a foundry in Queens.

We lived on 24th street and then

later moved to Bensonhurst, and

then again later, back to e19th.

Where I did like best. It was good,

America, as I grew. Friendly.

Like promised lands, always.

The Kilmer stayed yet open,

and many people transferred

from there to where I was,

growing. I liked it. And

now too. You?'

-

She was quite direct, and it was

stirring. I'd never been in such

company quite before, and was

not sure what I was feeling,

Maybe the arousal of a young

man, whatever. I'd felt that

before, and it seemed here

familiar, though I couldn't tell

her that. Something about her

was driving me, that much I

knew, and  -  right away  -

because of my upbringing, I

wanted to apologize. Probably

any other, regular, American

guy would have already been

thinking how to bed her, and

made some moves. but I wasn't

like that. I was scared shitless,

which has always been my

manner anyway. So I wanted

to keep it quite ordinary, and

simple. I said, with a shrug,

'Aw, nothing, I'm just a student

over there at the Studio School,

biding time mostly, art and stuff.'

She almost scoffed. 'Art. What

is Art? Why you even bother.

All you Americans, you should

be making things more. Not

'art'. The world has too much

already. Look at wars. Death.

What has art ever done for

that? Except make picture

of it? I am so disgusted of that.

You think the world needs more

paintings? How will that solve

problems, or feed people?

Art? You know?' I didn't

really want to go past this

point, but just said, 'Well,

it's not my point to be your

catcher in the rye, if you follow. 

I gave up worrying about the

rest of the world, in fact, just

last week.' I hadn't really, but

found I just blurted that out,

probably with the idea of getting

her ire up. I always hated  -  and

still do  -  people seeking defined

reasons for doing creative things,

as if it something doesn't put

food in the mouths of needy

babies or something it's just

no good. I really didn't know

what else to say, and she got

up and left, with, at least,

a good-bye.

12,417. CAPE MAY GARDEN CLUB

CAPE MAY GARDEN CLUB

There are miners underground:

digging sand from the crevassed,

deep world beneath us. Occasional

strange arrivals appear, out of the

blue, from nowhere : prehistoric

fish, the kind the fossil-shops

sell. Here the man with the

geologist-hammer is tapping

away at something. His entire

crew was surprised at finding

rocks underground. I'd never

seen that before, thinking I'd

be just as surprised, I guessed, at

finding a horse-fence or doghouse

under the sands. The surf kept

pounding, but no one cared. A

Chinese fellow played some

one-stringed instrument up on

the old boardwalk bench. People

walked by, throwing quarters, and

missing. The ladies from the

Garden Club kept cleaning up

for him, throwing the money into

his box. Like Salvation Army

people, in a gardenesque reversal

of time and fortune?

-

Who thanks for meaning, and

what meaning has thanks?

12,416. RUDIMENTS, pt. 913

RUDIMENTS, pt. 913

('don't tell your mother, ok?') pt.1

'You know how to feel, it

is, how you say, too cold

to comfort?' The girl was

from Hungary or somewhere;

she'd told me but I instantly

let it go by me, getting

lost in the way she talked

and spoke spun the language.

I was fascinated at the jumble.

We were sitting at a Twin Donuts.

I forget the name of the street,(I

looked it up -south side of W11th

and Greenwich and Seventh Aves).

right by St. Vincent's Hospital.

Mostly, the street's gone now

and so is St. Vincent's. It's all

sold and turned over into condos

and fancier places. This is 1978

I'm talking of here, so there's

really nothing now left; not

even a remnant. Forty some

years, in a place like NYC,

is about 15 lifetimes. The

bookstore was an old and

rickety one, again nothing

like today. It was a bookstore,

not an amusement park. it

was old and dusty, woody,

dark, cloistered and haphazardly

set up, like the old 12th Street

Bookshop used to be. Little

cubbies and turn-ins where

you never knew what you'd

find. People slouched or leaned,

and poured over the books. In

Winters, they were always pretty

warm, in Summer, often hot.

It wasn't a big business, like

today, and seldom did anyone

bring in food or liquids. Rare.

St. Vincent's had a waiting

room one could get at along

12th, and for bathroom use,

it was always right, no questions.

(Remember too, a different world

back then, entirely. No entry gates,

no security, no pass-cards and codes;

the whole gum-cracky world was

simple and dark and plain. And I

took to it much better).

-

Twin Donuts used to be around

in a lot of places  -  a real trip, they

were. Sort of double-faced counters,

where the people across from you

were close enough for contact but

not annoying, as the waiter service

or attendant I guess  -  there were

certainly no waiters  - each manned

a flank or a bay; whatever it was

called. Donuts and coffee, mainly,

and then all that other junk of old

crusty pies and whatever else was

sold with coffee. I forget, because

I never had any money anyway.

Many times, my friend Paul and

I haunted these places  -  he was

always going on about something,

some fine point of literary

minutia, and he'd eventually also

end up angry about something  -

the black guy's leer at him, from

across the counter; the way the

counter-person cleans with the rag,

right by where your eating; the

lighting; the noise level; whatever.

It was much like a game anyway;

my whole life at that point was

like a game  -  of chance? Of pool?

With all the pockets sewn shut?

-

My life right then, in fact, carried

its own menu of problems, but as

I compare it to today, it was a heck

of a lot simpler, and more pleasant.

All this computer hack stuff, waiting

for lame downloads, commands, and

uploads and all that; the loss of files,

the hidden files all of a sudden

super-hidden; none of that crap

existed. My biggest woe was, maybe,

a dry typewriter ribbon, or not

having sex for 16 days (I'm

generalizing), or having 37 cents

left in my pocket and no idea what

to do. Paul used to take care of

some old guy, for money, up in

the west 80's  -  he hated that

chore too, a few times a week,

cleaning house, dishes, and stuff,

but only a little, since the hire

was more for a companion

and someone to listen to the

old, housebound man; and

the guy always wanted to have

classical music playing on

his record player. Mendelssohn.

Paul hated Mendelssohn. But,

it paid. I always liked the name

-  'Felix' Mendelssohn -  it was

pretty cool, even though I never

got how to spell Mendelssohn.

Now I just use Spell-Check. It's

funny, but there's a store chain

around here called Quick-Chek,

and they always have that Chek

mis-spelling, even though they

spell 'Quick' the right way. I

often wonder if that drives

Spell-Check crazy, or how they

accommodate stuff like that.

Or is it Spell-Chek?

-

Mendelssohn was composing

big time music when he was

like 12 or 13. That used to

drive Paul crazy too; he

somehow begrudged the

kid, for whatever, plus he

never liked the music.

Mendelssohn was born

Jewish, but maybe converted

out later on. I forget, but all

that bugged Paul too. It never

bothered me any, and one of

 his creations I really liked. I

think it's called 'Calm Sea,

Prosperous Voyage.' I thought

that was pretty cool. I liked the

title, and it was a real nice piece

of music too. Mendelssohn had

a sister too, who composed music

and got famous too. That used

to really get him going. Paul  -

you may remember from earlier

chapters, is the guy who had

told me, at my reaching 30  -

that, if he wasn't famous by age

30, he was going to kill himself.

Well, anyway, he's dead now,

yes, but not from that. In fact  -

another weird matter entirely  -

some of Fanny's (the sister)

music was published under 

her brother's name. I used to

argue with Paul, or discuss

anyway, (I'd 'posit,' was the

word) how in the world a

person could get 'famous' in

the 1830's, with no media and

only through published, and never

recorded, music. We'd go on for

an hour or so, usually in some

doggy-palace like a Twin Donuts.

Another funny story that I always

remember was one night, summer,

nice weather, I was dropping some

printing proofs off to someone

uptown I'd been dealing with and,

from Avenel, I drove in with my

father and mother and my wife,

Kathy. My mother and Kathy went

looking at shops and things, walking

Fifth, etc., and we'd arranged a

meeting time like 9:30 or something,

at a Twin Donuts location I knew,

maybe Lexington and 60th,

something like that. We got done,

my father and I and ended up early

by about 20 minutes at the Twin

Donuts place; sitting there, coffee,

etc., watching the sights. It was

funny; my father was getting all

nutso over the 'attractive' girls

coming and going, loitering and

doing their faces and all. To him

their attractiveness was in the

scantiness and outlandishness of

their clothes. I eventually had to

just say, 'Dad, dad, easy, They're

hookers, all. This is where they

hang between times, taking a

break. Get it?' He clammed up,

and said, "Oh! Don't tell your

mother, OK?'
--
(pt. 2, next; back to the Hungarian girl)

12,415. NONSENSE YOU FOOL

NONSENSE YOU FOOL 

Like anchovy paste on a

young man's face  -  if 

put on too fast, the 

haste makes

waste.