12,774. MISTER YOU AIN'T

MISTER YOU AIN'T

The burnt-out house in Plainfield has

a scattershot ring to revival. Mexicali

Rose and her gang have left, needing

now somewhere new to play. The whites

of the old shingles are now blackened 

with soot, and window-shades hang

on the windows. Springtime tires to

bring a burst of fresh air. But even

that fails here.

-

Time there was when time there was  -

plenty of it all, to hang around and

time to dawdle. No longer. Now the

missing chapters need filling in,

and even the ending has to be 

composed. Again. There are so

many. Or have been. Plenty.

12,773. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,038

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,038

(that bowdlerized version of me)

People often acted to me

as if I was running things

or in charge, and I wasn't

really at all; in fact most of

my problematic life has been

in subservient roles. On the

one hand, something such

as that used to annoy me to

no end, while, on the other

hand, I was glad it was that

way because all that normal

decision-making matter was

never the clay I wanted to be

touching. Like mad brains in

a mad laboratory. I was never

able to get anything running

in consort, and when things

begin getting away from the

supposed leader, you know

it's a bad scene soon to be.

What I had it down to was

that most of life was about

timing  -  some people have

it much better than others. I

always had really crummy

timing. It's always then a

caution that you have to learn

to live with : You come to a

yield intersection, yep, there

hasn't been another car through

there in four minutes, but as

soon as you make that assumption

and figure to slide through the

yield, without really checking,

wham! there's the other car they

warned you about. Your perfect

equation has changed, big time,

and you've got some other guy's

fender now cradled in your

arms. Bad timing, Boberino.

And not just for driving; it

hits its own sequence in a

hundred other ways. Being

in the bank lobby just when it

blew up; running into that

robbery scene at the local

store, just when the damn

guy robbing the place starts

shooting. Ten minutes, either

way, before or after, and you'd

have been home-free. That's

how the cosmic cards are given;

you spec out your location, find

the problem to be dealt with,

but had you slightly altered

your plans, it all could have

been avoided. What is that?

Good or bad timing? The guy

in front of you, the guy, in fact

whom you let in the door, first,

on your way in, right in front

of you buys the 25,000 dollar

scratch off that would have

otherwise been yours! Same

ticket. 'Jersey Bowlerino

Deep Desert Parkway Camel

Scratch-off.' Somunofabitch.

-

All those years I was back and

forth to Princeton, all I ever

saw were mostly fortunate kids.

Whatever their timing was, they

had very little to do with it, but

smugness carries a large briefcase,

and theirs was full. In the town

itself, there were plenty of the

usual street-slug townies dragging

around, mostly black guys with

loose pants and that cool swagger

kind of walk they use, always

pilling a tug or two back up on

the loose pants that seemed

determined to meet their ankles

any minute. Cigarettes and stories.

All these rat-brat privileged kids,

once they crossed Nassau Street,

it was all theirs; any one of those

sluggos parading before them

ought be aware they'd be scoffed

at, snorted to, and poo-poohed

about. Charity and kindness? Not

a way of that at all. The world-gap

there was already established and

no tangerine-colored slacks scholar

was going to make way for Abner

there. One time, walking against a

lights's don't walk sign, a little group

of these college kiddies walked

across my turning path and,

deciding I was infringing my

plebian auto into their sacred space,

regardless of the light (Witherspoon

and Nassau) the one big guy with

the privileged piece of walkabout

pizza decides to pay me back

on his terms  - squishes and rubs

his pizza slice on my rear-side 

window. Now, I didn't really care,

but when I got out and put the

gun to his head, the poor baby

went screaming. OK, I didn't

do any such thing, instead just

drove off and cleaned it later.

But, at that moment I wanted

to force him to have testicle

topping on that slice. His own.

And, again, had I been in charge,

he'd have been in the sewer in 

an instant. The point I'm making

here is how unpleasant it has

always been for me to have to

interact constantly with such

half-wits, and accept things on

their terms because of who they

claim they are. My own guilt is,

I guess, that I too, by accepting 

that claim and NOT bashing 

the bastard, I allowed all this to
become sort of institutionalized;

as did everyone else erecting 

the budding error of the society

we 'toy' with and work within. 

-

When I got that Princeton job,

for about ten minutes I did think 

I was at the top of the world; but

nothing lasted long. That was OK,

and I mostly stayed with it, for as

long as I could. Uncharacteristically,

for me, I had re-arranged my on

priorities in order to get the job,

heck, in order to even interview

for it, yellow-sweater and all. 8

years later, I finally cashed out,

nicely and with some regrets, 

using the amalgamated pastiche 

of age and 'retirement' to do so.

(Second try at it; the first shot

at 'retirement' they asked me to

stay, and I set different hours and

terms for like another year or so.

Coursebooks, freight, sales,

and returns be damned, I finally

did leave at like 65. Old enough

to at least still be young-walking.

What did I miss the most? The

nearby coffee-shop.

-

Had someone asked, by the end

of my established non-tenure

there, what I was in charge of,

I would, perhaps, have been 

able to say, 'parking in the alley.'

That would have been true, too. 
The thing about life is, it's all
equation. Numbers. A sacred wheel
for each of us, constantly turning.
That 'equation' is actually a bit
of what the nitwit 'horoscope'
people, and even 'fortune tellers'
are edging around with all their
stuff, but they never really get it
or bring it to any sort of fruition.
We are on board our own dream
at any time, and the cloudy
atmosphere of that is always
churning and changing the
shapes and forms of what we are
seeing, or imagining we see. 
That's the eerie 'equation' too
which controls our timing. If
one somehow gets off this
even by half a beat, there are
consequences.  For whatever
reason, it seems, I've been off 
it often, and it's had the
consequences too. But, the
thing about life is, were they
the consequences I deserved,
or did I not, just as much,
 make that happen?

12,772. TOO MANY THINGS

TOO MANY THINGS

Too many things are stretched thin

now. We can't go home again. In

the middle of the forest? There's no

turning back there either, when all the

markers are gone. The black bears

loom? The demons and goons?

-

A few ducks at Loon Lake; I can

watch gather, but I can't get close.

12,771. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,038

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,038

('so where will I go, and who will I follow?')

Well. Sidetrack here. One day

away. Let's not talk about

me! 'What's often referred to 

as the first pandemic began 

in the city of Pelusium, near

modern-day Port Said, in

northwestern Egypt. Year 541.'

(Hmmm, that equals 10; a

curiously final number, for

so many beginnings). You

know, in our language we

say 'said.' Like 'He said...'

But this is pronounced

'Sayeed,' Like 'hayseed' 

sorta . The historian

Procopius said the 

pestilence 'spread both

west, toward Alexandraia,

and east, toward Palestine.'

Then it kept going. In

his view, it seemed to move

almost consciously, as if

fearing lest some corner

of the Earth might escape 

it. (OK. 'Procopius,' would

not that mean, like, 'For a 

Lot?' Maybe. As opposed

to that other Historian 

named 'Antiplentius,' 

meaning  opposed to a 

lot? Well could be. You

know those old Romans). 

-

The earliest symptom of

the pestilence was fever.

Often, Procopius observed,

this was so mild that 'it did

not afford any suspicion

of danger.' But within a few

days victims developed the

classic symptoms of Bubonic

Plague  -  lumps, or buboes,

in their groin and under

their arms. The suffering, 

at that point, was terrible. 

Some people went into a 

coma, others into violent

delirium. Many vomited

blood. Those who attended

to the sick were in a constant

state of exhaustion. 'For this

reason,' Procopois said, 

'everybody pitied them no

less than the sufferers.' No

one could predict who was

going to perish and who 

would pull through. 

-

In early 1542, that plague

then struck Constantinople,

at that time the capital of the

Eastern Roman Empire, which

was led by the Emperor Justinian.

'One of the greatest statesmen

who ever lived,' and his reign

was a flurry, (the first part of

it anyway), of action 'virtually

unparalleled in Roman history.'

He ruled for some 40 years.

In his first 15, pestilence-free

years, he codified Roman law,

made peace with the Persians,

overhauled the Eastern Empire's

finances, and built Hagia Sophia.

But as the plague raged, it also

fell to him to 'make provision

for the trouble.' He paid for the

bodies of the abandoned and

the destitute to be buried. Even

so, it was impossible to keep 

up; the death toll was too high.

(10,000 a day). Another

contemporary, John of Ephesus,

wrote that 'Nobody would go

out of doors without a tag

upon which his name was

written,' in case he was

suddenly stricken. Eventually

bodies were just tossed into

fortifications at the edge of

the city. The plague hit everyone,

high or lowly, and Justinian

too contracted it, but survived.

His rule, however, never

really recovered  -  he couldn't

recruit soldiers, nor pay them. 

The territories began to revolt;

the plaque then reached Rome

in 543, and seems to have made

it all the way to Britain by 544.

Constantinople, in 558; a third

time in 573; and still again in

586. It became known as 'The

Justinian Plague,' and didn't

burn itself out until 750. By

that time there was a new world

order : Islam had arisen, a

powerful new religion, and its

leaders ruled territories that

included a great deal of what

had been Justinian's empire,

along with the Arabian peninsula.

The rest of 'Europe' had come

under the control of the Franks;

much if it anyway. Rome had 

been reduced to about 30,000 

people. 'History is written not 

only by men, but also 

by microbes.'

-

There are many ways for 

microbes to infect a body, 

AND there just as many ways

for epidemics to play out in 

the body-politic. Epidemics

can be short-lived or protracted,

or  -  like the Justinian plague  -  

recurrent. Often they partner

with war; sometimes the pairing

favors the aggressor, sometimes

the aggressed.  Epidemic diseases

can become endemic, which is

to say constantly present, only

to become epidemic again when

they're carried to a new region

or when conditions change.

(The next chapter will cover

Smallpox and Exploration).

As a lead in to that : "The 

word quarantine comes from 

the Italian quaranta, meaning 

'Forty.' As Frank M. Snowden 

explains, in 'Epidemics and

Society,' the practice of quarantine

originated long before people 

understood what, exactly, they

were trying to contain, and the

period of forty days was chosen

not for medical reasons but for

scriptural ones, as both the Old and

New Testaments make multiple

references to the number forty

in the context of purification:

the forty days and forty nights

of the Flood in Genesis; the forty

years of the Israelites wandering

in the wilderness...and the

forty days of Lent.'

PART TWO: rudiments......

(Smallpox)

12,770. I'M GONE

I'M GONE

Dead like a monkey-bevel.

Bold as a broken bridge.

Raw as a red-meat sundae.

Gone like a shadow's ghost.

-

But when I'm back, baby,

you'll be sorry then:

burned like a fen oasis.

Torn like a wrestler's cloak.

Ripped like a gym-school

fanatic. Moored like an

ogre's boat.

12,769. DON'T KNOW

DON'T KNOW

Johnny Appleseed was a wastrel

and a drunk. Just as bad as me in

every way. He was a Chapman too,

you know, and like that politician

guy and like Wavy Gravy was. Hugh

Romney then. What is it with the

names we tender? And who wants 

them either? My best remembrance

ever was that alien guy, Fischbein,

or whatever it was. Another one

was Algernon Swinburne.

-

Can you imagine? Everywhere 

I used to walk I left something

of myself behind. There are

gratings on old sidewalks with

my name etched in. Glass panes

I used to Dremel, poems on

glass, words on no-matter.

-

Everything fades and goes away.

Even Rarleighbourne Fischbein.

And what do you know?

12,768. PULCHRITUDE

PULCHRITUDE

Those covered bridges that I remember,

over rivers and streams, they have no

bottoms now; nothing to walk or ride

upon. Ghosts, like all the rest, of the

land that once was. There was one,

in particular, off the side of a road

somewhere out Towanda way. Those

Pennsylvania idlers kept coming by,

but no one recognized a thing. 1974,

for instance, that world already 

was half-erased. Worse now,

and all for sure.

12,767. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,037

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,037

(the blazing star commando)

Blazing Star was the previous

name for what is now known

as Carteret. Colonial days and

such. No one much knows about

any of that any more, but when

waterways and not highways

ruled the roost, the connections

of importance were on the

water  -  thus we find Blazing

Star, Linden and Elizabethport,

in a row as a very important

colonial and later-era locations.

When I say no one knows much

about it anymore, I really mean

it. There's such a dearth of real

and vital old information now

in what today is taught. No one

gets a clue unless they dig it

out themselves. Back in the

time I speak of, all that 'over

the river and through the woods'

stuff was still in grandma's and

her house's future. Wagon paths

and trails through the woods

were held by locals, for their

own uses and own maintenance.

Real freight, supplies, and

cargoes,went by water. The

various riverways mattered

greatly  -  Raritan, the Arthur

Kill, Elizabeth River, Rahway

River, etc. Lesser tributaries

all led to the careeneing and

widening harbor water all

around Newark and Manhattan

New York Harbor, again and

tight out to Sandy Hook. When

the flotilla of Britain's armada

came into sight of lower Manhattan,

cresting through Sandy Hook,

it was a sight to behold. The

Dutch in Manhattan, seeing that,

knew the jig was up and just

walked away. Nieuw Amsterdam

quickly became New York,

named for the Duke of...

-

I was always taken with the

name 'Blazing Star.' Loved it,

in fact. If you take Route One,

north, past to Linden, you pass

a large cemetery on your right,

I think it's 'Rose Hill' and then

a mass of refineries and crap.

That's all part of the sell-out

and crooked policies of this

area and all the groupie-homos

who sold us out over the years,

but there it all is nonetheless.

Turning into that cemetery,

drive it ALL the way back to

the rear fence (It's a large and

deep cemetery) and you get to

the fencing that marks to off

limits area for Mosey's Creek.

You can see it all there, and

there's even a small island

area in the center of the

waterway, and just beyond

it is Staten Island. You'd

never know it now but

Royalist Staten Island held

much of the British force that

prodded and raided back and

forth between Staten Island

now, and that same Elizabethport

then. Acres and acres, thousands,

of farmland, fields and meadows.

All destroyed now, as are any

nautical or marine connections.

There's even a place, out in the

Linden meadows where they've

erected stop stop-gap burial

memorial for some guy and

his family who once owned

a lot of the area and whose

bones and stuff they found,

or dug up, when wrecking

everything for refinery

and industrial use. At least

some swine had the good

sense to mark some sort of

memorial for those poor folks.

It's not much, but at least

it's something to look at to

prove the old world existed.

I knew an artist once, Frank

Thorne, who used to do a

weekly strip for the Elizabeth

Daily Journal  -  he covered

a lot of this old colonial-era

history from around that

E'port area. Good info, and

nicely drawn drawing-boxes

too. Frank's old now, but I'm

pretty sure he's still around;

leastways his house is.

-

Until some part of the 1980's,

until they took some further

land and expanded the sewerage

plant, there was a herd of goats

that was kept there, out to the

end of Trembley Point Road,

and they were kept there, I

think, by the Municipal Water

Authority, of Linden. They

kept the grass down, milled

about, and were just generally

cool to see  -  all the Exxon

and refinery trucks were 

always running back or

forth too, but they never

minded. That was more my

problem then theirs. Goats

don't seem to much care

about that stuff. History and

all not really being part of 

their make-up. I don't know

the life span of the average

goat, but even let's say at

20 years, what little carrying

capacity  - NONE  -  in human

terms, do they have about

the past. Kind of like us, but

only in  a way, it wasn't here

before them and won't be there

after them. Isn't that weird?

-

I always tried not to get scuffed

up over this stuff, but it always

irked me how much we screwed

up our lands and histories. And,

heck, while I'm at it, how we

screwed up for those animals too,

like the goats. Killing and eating

their flesh like nothing ever mattered

except us. Big, stupid us. I can

remember, over in Iselin, back

when the swamis and South

Asians and Muslims began to

step up and take the place over

for themselves, how grossed-out

I got when I started seeing, in

the Green Street meat and grocer

ships, the large window signs

advertising, 'Goat - $1.79/lb.

That was about 1985, as I recall.

Blazing Star was already a

memory, long ago and forgotten,

and Oak Tree Road was still

barely a lane and a half, with the

horse auction off to the left (now

a 'temple of some sort, and a

seeming-zillion apartments).

no one remembers anything,

they just put it all out of mind 

and cheer on the new.

-

Another weird, local thing that

always bugged me as how, in

1946, 'Woodbridge' was awarded

'All American City' status. I was

a seminary kid then, but I can

well recall the banner, across 

Avenel Street, between Park

Ave. and Madison, where the 

church rectory used to be. It

boasted of Woodbridge (there

were other banners all over the

other 'Woodbridge' incorporated

towns too, about how the township

was awarded some Presidential

citation BS and it went on, I can't

remember. But it was all crap.

Woodbridge wasn't even a city.

Not even close. It was a ramshackle

agglomeration of dismal little

spots like chicks without a hen

mother, searching for something,

anything, to peck at. How it got that

designation, I'll never know, except

that if you read it now it's pretty

clear it was an award for having the

best potential to become another

rip-snorting, land-gobbling, killer

segment of off-limits happy living

servile residents who were supposed

to somehow applaud the desecration

of their lands, the growth of industry

and highways and traffic, and the rest.

Well, hoo-ha for that, and it all still

goes on.