12,591. CROSSED SWORDS WITH SIKH MARJA-BATA

CROSSED SWORDS WITH 

SIKH MARJA-BATA

(the prayer at the pump)

I tried paving his driveway, and I asked

if he'd pump my gas. In exchange I guess.

These guys now are everywhere, and

what's a fuel stop without them? Repeating

everything twice at the pump. 'Thirty-five?'  

In that accent; 'No, I said twenty.' Should

I repent? What's repent anyway? Some 

lady from Lent, with a big smudge on

her forehead  -  apparently it had never

dawned on her before today that she'd

soon enough be dying. She needed this

stupid reminder? Guys don't make passes

at girls who wear ashes? The sackcloth's

OK, but I wonder if she's ever heard

that either way?

-

The guy at the pump  -  I thought he was

talking to me but I see now there's a

thing in his ear and he must be talking 

to whoever's there : God or the Devil, 

dueling, and I see they'll both soon 

need re-fueling. (Was that perhaps a 

prayer?). Seventy-five to life will get 

you this : All my expectations, gone.

12,590. SEVEN STRAINS OF SINFULNESS

SEVEN STRAINS OF SINFULNESS

I cannot make a sparrow fly, nor can

I bring a turtle to tunnel into the mud.

These natural things happen without

my intervention. I am feeble, and I

am weak, by such comparison'd calls.

This life goes on, and that is its all.

Only Humans will reckon things

differently, and amass with false

pride their weak, feeble meanings;

their festivals of lights and seasons

of greenings.

12,589. RUDIMENTS, pt. 975

RUDIMENTS, pt. 975

(where only the locals know)

Over time I'd probably walked

five thousand streets, alleys, and

lanes, Easily. They each were

different, and they, strangely,

were the same as well. Some had

the little storefronts, and others

had the little theaters and cafes

that define neighborhood. They

don't really use that word in a

city (neighborhood); it somehow

doesn't fit, and is more in line

with houses in a row, lawns and

driveways. Most all had that

same row of fronts, apartments,

walk-ups and brownstones, with

the entry buzzers, double doors,

lines of mailboxes, and cornered,

quaint, shrubbery out front. Some

had a playground or schoolyard

close by, resonating with noises;

here and there, reflecting older

days, was a 'community' baths, or

a community pool, a YMCA  -

nothing like now, with gyms and

workout places twice a'corner.

It wasn't like that at all in 1967;

now they build these things right

into the new buildings, and sell

the units with them as amenities.

Demanded amenities. It's funny

how necessities grow, from things

that didn't even exist a hundred

years back. I didn't always know

all of this  -  it just more became

a gradual thing, to be accumulated,

this walking knowledge. Sometimes,

threading out, by subway or whatever,

even over to Brooklyn on any of

Jim Tomberg's (mentioned long

back) jaunts to secure metal

pieces for his sculpture work,

I'd get to see all that too! And

 it was wondrous stuff, even if

much of 'Brooklyn' was held

to be a joke (sometimes even a

cruel one): "People in Brooklyn?

A curious quality in the eyes

and at the corners of the mouths,

relative to what is seen on

Manhattan Island : a kind of

drugged softness or narcotic

relaxation; much the same

look see in monasteries and

in the lawns of sanitariums  -

they seem an exorbitant, pulsing

mass of scarcely discriminable

cellular jellies and tissues; a

place where people merely

'live'" That was the writer

James Agee, going on. I felt

I knew exactly of what he

spoke, from an Avenel frame

of reference. Truman Capote

called Brooklyn a "benighted

realm filled with sad, sweet,

violent children, a homeland of

mediocrity, and of men who

guard averageness with morbid

intensity." A place were even

the names were tawdry : Flatbush,

Flushing, Bushwick, Brownsville,

Red Hook, Gravesend. I got a

kick, after thinking about it,

in Brooklyn talk, how the word

'earl' meant 'oil'  -  and the actual

word 'earl' (as in royalty) was

pronounce 'oil.' Huh? Dawg.

Pitchuh. Cawfee. You do

enough of this, boy you

really can go crazy!

-

Getting by was never just getting

by. It always involved pushing

things along. One never wanted

to 'stay still.' Somehow that

was considered wrong, as if

all that lousy striving was meant

to be a superlative way of living

-

The essential conflict to living,

which was fairly obvious, was the

difference between say 'Chinatown'

and the Financial District, or even

Madison Avenue. Those latter two

locations embodied NYCity life

and business perfectly  -  the giant

steps and the constant activity of

sly trading, convincing others of

things, corralling profits and

advantages, etc., etc.  -  mostly

so as to show the encumbrances

of success as sold along that street

(Nassau)  -  shoes, fine leather,

jewels, furs, rare collectibles,

and the sorts of things those guys,

apparently, cared about  -  like

six-thousand dollar pens. Honestly,

there was a pen place down there

by Trinity Church somewhere and

it had a wide window full of

just those pens. OK; so that was

one aspect, one extreme. And

then you could turn a blink,

downtown, into Chinatown, and,

if you so chose, run into the

deep, funky lethargy of the

Buddhist places, those oddball

little temples and shrines, lofts

and walk-ups of the meditative

dreamers, gazing (as it used to 

be called, cavalierly) 'navel-gazing,'

in deep zen'd out reverie, opium

den induced stupor, if so chosen,

or just plain lazy-time-passing.

The Chinese, of all sorts, were 

good for that. Americans didn't

have a clue  -  you could tell

just by the foolishness of that

'navel-gazing' crap, and the way 
they called it that. A stupid

response to something never

understood and not American

at all. It was as if (old comic

characters) Dagwood and

Blondie had suddenly been

transported to some twisty

here and now they couldn't

fathom. One time a friend of 

mine, Mary Tse, from Taiwan,

was visiting from Elmira. She
was an exchange student there 
of some sort, for 2 years. She

had uncles or family or such

that lived in Chinatown. So,

while in NYC, she decided to

take me to one of the Buddhist

Temple places she knew of.

These weren't church-like or

sacred and anything like that.

Buddhists didn't do that stuff  -

this was a second-floor loft 

space, at Chatham Square,

right above the start of the

Bowery, and the Manhattan

Bridge ramps and all it was

pretty cool, with large, I mean

real large, swivel out great

panes of glass-windows,

allowing the street air  -  and

noise and tumult  -  in. There

were maybe 20 folding chairs

set around, randomly ordered,

and about maybe 12 feet up,

along all the walls, were sections

of shelves, each with a bowl

upon it and each bowl filled

with, mostly, oranges, incense

sticks, some floral stuff, and I

can't remember what else. There
were also lots and lots of little
slips of paper, with Chinese
characters written upon them -
I found out, later, representing
wishes, hopes, and requests. The

sticks of incense were everywhere,

little wisps of sandalwood and

jasmine, scents and aromas.

At the front of the room was a

larger-sized Buddha, the smiling,

fat, kind, and around it, on its

pedestal, were arrayed more 

fruit, oranges, baskets, flowers,

more and greater incense, and

some candles, lit. There were

money offerings, dollar bills

somehow stuck all over that 

area. A few people sat around.

Silence. Mary went into another,

sectioned-off area, behind a

curtain. A little Chinese lady

came out, with a tray of small

things to eat, offering them. I

was unsure of the whole scene,

and, alone at that moment,

declined. And, while she was

still there, the food lady, Mary

came out from behind the

curtain, looking forlorn. I was

more confused. She said, 'We

must leave. My uncle said 

no one here knows you and

therefore do not want you 

around. I'm so sorry, it's

just their way.' She was

really sad over this, and we

did leave. I'd left 2 dollars

at the statue, and made sure

I said basic goodbyes to those

around me. I told Mary not to

worry, it mattered little to me

and I'd rather no one was

upset. And then we were 

gone. Mary told me there

are many of these places,

all around Chinatown, and

they were quite tight-knit

 and even clannish. I said

I understood, and not to

worry  -  and we went along

our way, as I recall, to some

Chinese food-feast in one

of those sidebar restaurants

that only the locals know. That
was all pretty strange to me, 
inasmuch as it sort of betrayed
a nervous paranoia more than
any Buddhist detachment. But,
no matter, and the entire
experience has always stayed
with me. Or, as Anton Chekhov
had it, in 'The Student' - from
1894: "The great cable that links 
is to the past, that unbroken chain 
of events flowing one out of
 another....With both ends of the
chain, touching one end, the
other quivered.'

12,588. RUDIMENTS, pt. 974

RUDIMENTS, pt. 974

(what more is to be asked)

Most people believe what

they're told, or what they

see. I only believe in what

I know. I'm not sure what

that makes me, an idiot or

a sage, or even where it places

me in that old, long line of the

Doubting Thomas cranks. But,

whatever, that's me and I'll

step forward when called.

Mainly it's all because I

don't care  -  I'm worn out

and my threads are frazzled;

tired to hell of a complete and

long life of half-truths and

things not being, upon

investigation, what I'd

been told they were. As

a for instance  - and once

again with Government

money and a constant and

expanding Park Rangers',

and buildings and grounds,

payroll  -  you can drive up

the Turnpike and as you get to

the NJ Meadowlands  -  what

little is left of them  -  see,

and turning off, enter, a

dedicated Nature Center,

complete with guides and

full exhibits, covering the

importance of those meadows,

waterways and fields. Now,

any of those people  -  the

Rangers, guides, teachers,

etc., will sit you down, show

you slides and exhibits, things

about turtles and hawks, harriers,

ducks, and crows. With great,

seemingly, reverence too. All

the while what is happening

right around them, year after

year, is the complete betrayal

of all they're speaking of. The

total opposite : being built,

malls, playlands stadium and

parking areas, even condos

now and warehouses. There

is a mindless, complete

disconnect underway...of the

sort that simply has me on

full alert and wondering about

Humankind. I fear soon enough

that this small island of parking

and 'museum' will be its own

isolated spot, still maybe called

'Nature,' but isolated in a sea of

developed marshes and meadows,

and still foolishly bragging on

about it all. What sort of idiotic,

tax-based, money waste is any

of this? Where do these dollars

go, and how many are allocated

for this stupid site yearly and

how many actually end up there?

It all seems like a very leaky

money faucet, to me. But that's

why people go into politics, to

tap into things like this.

-

One of the most formidable things

I learned, and took note of, was

the sort of blind indifference the

rest of America had to NYC, in

the sense of a physical place. To

see the shadow-play of 1970's

ecology and Nature concerns, all

that Earth Day and tree-planting

stuff, was somehow to close one's

eyes to the reality of what had

become of the island of Manhattan.

Frankly, over 300 years it had

degenerated, or been allowed to

degenerate, from one of the most

beauteous of island locations to a

truly veritable pigsty and unnatural

place. Yet no one said a word. 30

miles from Manhattan, if you poured

oil into a sewer you'd probably face

eco-jail time and a fine. People had

become completely self-righteous

about things like that. At the same

time, the island of Manhattan had

been ravaged, over time, by leveling,

digging, draining, cutting, building,

concrete, steel, iron, glass, mortar,

smoke, gaseous and noxious fumes,

and deadly gray darkened skies.

It was pretty incredible, and yet,

most everyone, with their focus

on the present day of streets and

street numbers and avenues and

locations and places, gave little

or no thought as to what they

were inhabiting, or walking upon.

It was incredible how people

were able to so compartmentalize

all those things and segregate them

from each other. Living completely

un-natural like, they'd then go up

to the 92nd Street Y and hear a

lecture about the pristine world,

and begin screaming about it all,

missionary zeal for their false

'ecological' concerns taking over.

Or they'd wander to the Ethical

Culture Society, or St. Mark's

In the Bouwery Church, and hear

the same there and begin crusades

of decency and natural living! On

Manhattan Island no less! It

seemed (seems) no different

than that other Turnpike and

Meadowlands Nature-disconnect.

I've always found people to be

incredible creatures.

-

At the same time, going back to

1967 and my very first exposures

there, none of that existed at all.

The streets were paper-strewn;

garbage, trash of all sorts, dead and

broken cars, gutters overflowing,

disgusting pieces of leftover

buildings and tenements, broken

plumbing everywhere, fetid odors

and pooled apartment waters, air

shafts being used as dump chutes

for everything from old couches

to bicycles to TV's. One just had

to know it had to end, and soon,

or we'd all just turn into rats. It

surely was a different world. I

wonder now how plagues and

breakouts never happened; God

only knows what deep gulf

food-preparation was hanging

over, and I shudder to think

now, looking back. The food

place that I did some part-time

work at was a dastardly handling

hole of probable bacteria, old

food, basement storages (in

more of a cave than any real

'basement' concept), and leaky,

gnawed-at items, gnawed by

vermin, that is. I don't recall

inspections or inspectors, but

I guess all that went on. Just

the fact that this hell-hole had

no AC, and that countless people

sauntered in, grabbing and quickly

dining in 14,000 degree dead-heat,

made it a probable for disaster. I

got out of there as soon as I could.

-

Hunkering down in NYC? If you

were to tell yourself it was for any

other reason then intellectual

pursuit, I'd have to hope you were

lying. The people I saw lived in

an abject environment, and among

situations that would have made

Calcutta (now called Kolkatta) or

Rangoon veritable paradises by

comparison. Most anyone else,

except the very rich or at least

more than modestly comfortable,

were there because they were

stuck there  -  maroon'd, ghetto'd,

lost, struggling and forgotten.

Those free to come and go, enter

and leave, at least had that escape

valve to rely on : the larks of

a quick vacation or a few days

out, made it all better after a

re-entry. However, the crowd I

saw was either in earnest study

of some sort, art, acting, or

research; and the others just

'were.' At that level of living,

that I was at, environmental

concerns (sorry) just do not

come to the forefront. Yet, and

I admit, I liked these people best.

They were alive. They squirmed,

yes, and had bad situations often,

but they lived a thorough life.

What more is to be asked?

12,588. CROSSWORDS IN THE MARSH

CROSSWORDS IN THE MARSH

Puzzles, I mean to say, not anger.

I'm waiting in a car and, while so,

doing a crossword puzzle which asks

me for a five-letter word for atomic.

All I can dream of is 'lively,' but

that has six. I get morose. And that

has six too. I get serene, but that 

has six too. What in the heck can

I call this joy that seems atomic.

Happy! And that will have to do.

12,587. THROWN BEINGS LIKE US

THROWN BEINGS LIKE US

Thrown beings like us, to the face

of the Earth, land feet-first we

would hope. The morning grace

is there with light; bright lines

we can follow, at most. There

seem neither directions in, nor

out. I'm sitting in a room where

they are praising the dead.

-

It's not so lethal as all of that,

until of course, it is, and we are

done. We too are as over as a

moment once forgotten. Remnants

of a relic; us. Farthest shadows of

a very fading light. I sit in a room,

where they are praising the dead.

12,586. PAPPY'S A MISFIT. ALWAYS BEEN.

PAPPY'S A MISFIT. ALWAYS BEEN.

Not take your locket down from

the rafters while I remove your

lingerie. From me, I'd say. There's

more spittle than tea in this fine

array. Here's where Melchior's

thinking comes into play.

-

Not spending lots of dough has

so far done me worlds of good.

I've had enough to buy my own

streetcar, just on what I've yet

saved. Now I just need to put

down tracks. That old Amboy

to Brunswick line should do.

-

We could show those freaks in 

Metuchen a thing or two  -  for 

certain. They're still wailing like 

little girls over who just was in 

their town. Probably buying KY 

Jelly at Uncle Joe's Deli? I've

never heard such a bunch of

fairies like them. Pappy's a

misfit. Always been.

12,585. HOLD MY POST

HOLD MY POST

When I go out, sometimes I'm 

wrapped tight. If it's Winter,

that's all right. Don't need to

die of the cold. Other times,

I've been told, I'm 'not wrapped

too tightly at all.' I really don't

take offense; just reply, 'I'm old.'

-

It's not even that, really, because

I don't feel old, in fact sometimes

I feel bold. Swat me some flies,

beat down some guys, young

jerks with their manhood on

hold: Infiniti music pounding

at the stop-sign at the corner.

Boy, I oughta!

-

But, more truly, what's the use?

What's the use of anything?

Hold my post.

12,584. RUDIMENTS, pt. 973

RUDIMENTS, pt. 973

(landing lane bafflement)

Sometimes I feel at home.

When I'm home  -  but lots

of other times I don't. There's

just something about all this

that keeps me estranged, in

an odd way. So, to try and

'explicate' that, I'm taking a

change of pace here to cover

a different subject. As best

I can. Stay with me on this.

-

I don't believe in Government.

I don't believe in systems either,

and feel they're all corrupt, and

self-generating, and, once in

place, they do all they can to

sustain and grow themselves at

the expense of regular people,

continually trying  -  by lies and

deceitful manners  -   to find

continuation by control. To

dupe. By contrast, I'd identify

(self-identify?) as an anarchist

revolutionary, and the rest be

damned, whether its dripping

with blood, slaughter, and

danger in the streets. Who

cares, and we must somehow

take it all back. Of course, I

know all those self-sustainers

will pipe up, in their self-interest,

'Who's gonna pave your streets

and take out your garbage?'

I'd probably go and answer:

'Well, frankly, I don't give a

flying fist-f' who, and it will

probably be you anyway.'

-

Over here, New Brunswick way,

we've got a place called Raritan

Landing. It doesn't really exist at

all except as a more-than-quaint

historic and archaeological point

of reference within the far older

ideas of 1600's and 1700's New

Brunswick, which can be verified

and authenticated.  This entire

Raritan Landing and Landing

Lane colonial, found-village,

thing had been ignored for

years and years, while the

local area grew and prospered

itself to stupid proportions, and

only then, in the late 1970's once

more found itself needing a

'founding' myth, by which to

cover and sentimentalize all the

crap that had been going on.

Politics at the local level is

good for doing this sort of

thing; hoisting itself, as it were,

by its own petard, swinging

all the dirty deals, and covering

them over with trite fantasies.

The problem here which we

once again face is the usual

one of water, rivers, and

canals. Previous to the years

before 1830 or so, everything

was oriented towards the water,

be it the local river, stream,

and later, canal, or shoreline.

People thrived, FACING the

water. Now it's all done in the

opposite fashions  -  roads and

pavement having re-oriented

(destroyed) all of that. Rim-roads,

bypasses, and 'shoreline' drives

hardly even allow access to

water and shore. People's heads

are completely different in

outlook  -  water means nothing,

toll gates, canals, links and

waterways, and the travel that

all provided for access and

freight, isn't even understood

by them. They wouldn't know

a raft from a draft; Mark Twain

notwithstanding.

-

So, when the 'Sewer' Authority

came through the area, long back

about 50 years ago, claiming their

precedence to gouge up, dig, and

remove and replace much of the

ground cover and, in effect, any

'past' there, in order to 'sewerize'

the line from Landing Lane at

River Road right up to Bound

Brook (conveniently already

gouged over much, years before,

in the clearance for making

'Johnson Park'), the certainty

of perpetuating this 'myth'

went as follows (to me this

is so obvious, a payoff the 

find nothing, to the first group, 

and, fortunately, the follow-up 

outrage by the second, which 

at least ended up doing SOME 

digs) : "The first archeologists

who looked for historical evidence

near Landing Lane didn't find

any. Hired by the Middlesex

County Sewerage Authority

to conduct the required

archeological surveys of the

land along the Raritan River

between Bound Brook and

Sayreville [a huge expanse]

where sewers were proposed

Susan Kardas and Ed Larrabee,

both Ph. D.s, 'didn't know'

anything about Raritan

Landing (yeah, right), and 

they didn't find anything

near Landing Lane that

suggested that an important

town had once existed there.

Although they had proposed

what we call 'shovel tests' (in

this case two by two foot holes

excavated to sterile subsoil)

within the portion of Johnson

Park the sewer would cross, a

long stretch of the right-of-way

was already scraped for a new

park-access road and they

examined the exposed area

for a distance of 3,000 feet

down to Landing Lane instead

of digging their own tests. The

absence of shell, ceramic shards,

lithic flakes, or any others debris

relating to past occupation LED

THEM to conclude there were

no prehistoric or historic sites

in the area. [Complete falsity].

-

Just a year or so later, Susan

Ferguson of the NJ Dept. of

Transportation (NJDOT) found

something very different. She

and her crew excavated 21

test pits (again measuring

two feet square), at intervals

of one hundred feet or so along

both edges of Landing Lane

all the way from the base of the

bridge to the intersection with

River Road. At least seven of

the tests produced significant

numbers of historic artifacts.

There were lots of clam and

oyster shells, charcoal fragments,

white clay pipe-stems, hand

wrought nails, and ceramic 

shards. Ceramic styles change

over time, and the ones found

here dated to the 1700's. Local

historian Walter Meuly, visiting

Ferguson in the field, looked

into the holes, and told her

she had found the first evidence

of the invisible and forgotten

Raritan Landing. Meuly knew

of the old area maps and map

reconstruction enough to

appreciate these finds, and

their significance. The planned

bridge and further construction

that had required the survey

was dropped shortly thereafter,

and the DOT didn't do any

further work." An entire town

lay buried beneath the well

groomed lawns of Johnson

Park! The only thing left,

betraying this, was, atop the

nearby, facing hill (to the

river), was what is not called

the Cornelius Low House, 

after originally being called, 

after its construction in 1739,

Ivy Hall. It still stands, but

is put to poor use.

-

Now basically this is all

information, but not context.

I'm here to give it my context,

just as the mythology, of

origination is 'their' context. 

Whatever was saved in this

Raritan Landing and Landing

Lane intervention, was saved

NOT by Authority or the at

work Bureaucracy. They were

underway, by contrast, with

sneaking around regulations,

falsifying studies and tests

and conclusions, and most

probably paying people

off to reach those favorable

conclusions. What was saved

here was saved by a brash

core of adherents to both

Truth and to Real History.

The people, at work. It's

all to easy, like Woodbridge

dies, say, to bulldoze, pillory,

and shackle everything in

front of plows and bulldozers

and cutters, defaming place

and location, while erecting

costly edifices to house, later,

the supposed trinkets of a

useless and false history. As

I walk Landing Lane, at least

I can consider myself fortunate

to be near an effected effort

of saving the past, once, and

not thwarting it. But still, no

one tells you this stuff; you

have to find it out on your 

own. Schools and historic

organizations? Useless. This
could have all been lost; a
buried legacy of the rotten past.
The modern world cares nothing
of that; political factions cast
their warfare towards that
silly thing they insist on calling
Progress,' and the rest be damned.
They're out to make names for
themselves. Vanity. Not History.
-
The last history-angel that came in
on a cloud was killed by politics.
The rest are being interned
by Bureaucracy; a lying, cheating
Bureaucracy, but one nonetheless.
You can 'recognize' local history,
or you can (try to) hide it, as
they did here. But you cannot
ever falsify it. It lives.