13,302. WHERE SUCH CONFUSION REIGNS

WHERE SUCH 

CONFUSION REIGNS

Can I bring you something back? I

am leaving for home tomorrow and

most gladly would return with goods

in hand : fine cattle drovers; long

lassoes of the wider world; the kind

of guys you dream of, Charlie. I've 

been told that's your way.

-

If there was a moon in that picture,

it would surely be perfect. Kettle 

drums and the Salvation Army

couldn't improve it. The landscape

seems right; as in some Ansel Adams

overly-structured exposure.

-

I've read books on the subject, and

looked at 10,000 photos. After the

9,999th, I do believe they're all the

same; the way confusion reigns.

13,301. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,108

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,108

(entire ruminations, heed that call!)

I maybe basked in the Finger Lakes.

I recall Seneca and Cayuga too.

Montour Falls and Taughannock,

and Watkins Glen. Rocks and

trails and little pooled canyons

and things I'll never tell. Some

of them are dead now; my old,

belabored friends who were

numbed by the lives and loves

they led. Sadness is a scarf

we wear around our head.

-

My favorite place, by far, to see

was the Glenn Curtiss Museum.

Back then it was pretty meek, in

an old schoolhouse. The exhibits

were cranky and cramped, but so

filled with interest and lore to me

that I could have slept there and

just stayed on. There was a sort

of 'invitation' to a world unseen.

It's different now, 45 years later

or so  -  big, institutional money

has stepped in, the exhibits are

clear now and organized, and the

building itself, along with the

location, are proper, modern and

entire. That's the way things go,

it seems, always. It gets me to

thinking about infinity (more on

that later).

-

Anyhow, Glenn Curtiss was the

sort of American madman we do

not get anymore  -  the sort who

would ride 'aeroplane' wings, 

strap himself to speeding propulsion

vehicles, tinkers and wrench to 

his heart's content to steer the

wind and the clouds his way :

flight, speed, race cars, motorcycles,

all of the most primitive and

mind-bent quality. The far-more

'plastic' quality of today's world

would not fit his formula at all;

with all fabrications pre-existing

and nothing more to be made by

hand. An auto-parts store would

most certainly have him befuddled.

A man like that, I'd say, deserves a

primitive museum  -  not so much

an organized, well-lit, place.

-

I spoke of Infinity earlier here. It's

a human perspective comment that

in some respects can even cover,

in my estimation, the expansion of

the world Glenn Curtis knew, and 

which was, right then, on another,

'his' cusp of conceptual growth. In 

fact, to use a funny word, the 'future' 

is not yet imaginable. In the same 

way it was not imaginable for him 

either. The constant expansion of 

growth and consciousness  -  and 

everything to which that leads us  

-  is a new story every day. At any

one point all of the existing theories

by which we live always are fairly

close to the 'limit' of what we know.

Of what is unknowable? Are we 

that close? I have to say no, I guess, 

because that open-end of Infinity

is always receding before us  -  that

receding being actually an advancing

AWAY from us  -  and we are, as

human minds, I guess, seen in our

constant pursuit of an 'ever-expanding'

frontier. Like the old spread of America

seeking a continental reach (which

at least remained fixed and in place),

we strive instead for an ever-moving

end (of an 'Infinite' nature?), all the 

while as we ourselves are the ones

creating it  -  that is why Science,

Reality, etc., have no end. Glenn

Curtiss, in that auto-parts store again!

-

Funny, how I read once that 'most

people believe that an income of about

twice their own should be sufficient to

satisfy and reasonable person, and that

no reasonable benefit can be derived

from amounts above that.' It goes the

same for science and knowledge too,

I'd bet; it being hard to imagine, now,

what it would be like to know twice

as much as we do.

-

I close this chapter with this thought:

Most all of the scientific knowledge

that we know now, the most sensitive

scientific instruments, tools and

processes, ALL depend on fundamental

discoveries made after 1894  -  when

people already thought the limits of

knowledge and the realms of discovery,

had already been reached! That growing

constant of 'Infinity' is always calling.

Remember, heed that call!

13,300. CANDLEMAS

CANDLEMAS

No no not February, and not

really. Purification day? For

sainted Mary? Blessing of

candles? Wherein did they

get this stuff? Italian legions

of pious pelts, I suppose.

Even the Pope knows, if

it looks like, and smells

like, it is.

-

Here in Winchester Gardens,

they park the cars by twos;

one for the money and two

for the show. Three to get

ready, and go, man, go?

-

Are not these people all a joke?

Noted harm of lethal trumpets,

Seven Seals to go. Saint Peter

at the gates, while only God

enumerates.

13,299. THE MIND IS A RUNAWAY THING

            THE MIND IS A RUNAWAY THING

I sit tonight on  a ledge of snow, nearing

a Christmas Eve with no more to go.

In a very tired year, one in which 

everyone has been complaining about

something. I won't linger, though I'd 

like to stay another, yes.

-

There seem to be talk-a-thon voices 

everywhere now  -  used to be one would

get paid for that, or raise money for some

horrid fund : Twisted kids on a telethon;

raising money for injured soldiers; or

funds for war-widows' compensation.

Now...it's done for nothing at all.

-

There's little logic in chalkboard

computing  -  marks like steeples on a

mathematician's slate; perpendiculars

and symbols, arrows and brackets too.

It all leads to the same dead-ends, I

suppose  -  needs for salvation, they

say, some infant's odd birth, barn

animals, magi and magic stars.

Again, what's it all worth?

-

If I were carry this ball of wax to the 

depths of space, the sun itself would 

surely melt all my conclusion; leaving

me, like Icarus, an absence without

a trace, except some stain upon

the ground beneath me?

13,298. NOT FORTITUDE

NOT FORTITUDE

Only the lace keeps the character

intact. Without it, our world would

explode, with a smack? (The lace

being a grace which holds Evil back).

13,297. SALAMANDER WALK

SALAMANDER 

When I was young, my caped friend

named Al came to visit, once or twice. 

Perplexing times in full store, for me.

We tried maintaining quiet, because of

the old lady downstairs, but he set off

a firecracker loud enough from Hell.

Maybe it was July 4th; I can't remember.

-

Second floor antics from a large,

wooden porch; but it couldn't have

been July, because I remember his

caped coat. I guess he's grown into

something quite else, by now.

-

The cape always made me nervous.

He talked fast, yes, but Algernon

Swineburne he was not. Funny how

things live on : a shoddy heave of salad

dressing, maybe, on a bunch of wilted

leaves like us.

-

Now, is that 'like' or 'as?' Or maybe

even it should read, 'a shoddy bunch

of leaves as were were then?'

13,296. ARGYLE SOCKS

ARGYLE SOCKS

The man from Antonio's said

his practice was busy. Holiday

preparations made no difference

to him, he treats every day the

same. Wishing everyone well,

the very best service he can.

Argyle socks included.

-

The normative thing was how

the reindeer flew by as he talked.

13,295. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,107

 RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,107

(henry higgins rides the raft))

Me? I was always a bit of a

drudge. Still am, I suppose.

The first time I read Huck

Finn it probably took me

two weeks too long. I had

a lot of faith in that book,

and then I later learned more

about it, and lost a lot of it

(that faith). Yet, I stayed with 

it, at least up to Chapter 16, 

after which it really does 

turn into a different book 

altogether. Much less of a

consequential book then,

just more of a yard and a

kid's adventure story. And

then  -  once stupid, controlling,

Tom Sawyer is reintroduced

into the book, he runs with it,

ruins it, and transforms the

whole thing. I never like that

kid, Tom Sawyer  -  just the

most ordinary, reckless dude

ever. The kind of jerk who

spends his life in an office, 

pushing paper and following

instructions. It was as if 

'Modernity' was brought 

into the book.

-

The way it went, I later found

out, in Elmira, was that he had

written the book, up to Chapter

16, was unable to decide which

way to go with it for an ending,

put it aside, and only three years

later, while living IN Elmira at

Quarry Farm, did he take up the

book again and somehow glommed

on the ending I'm speaking of.

Perhaps most readers would not

notice, but everything credible

I ever read about the book, 

always makes critical mention 

of the break; which break is 

fairly obvious. One of the usual, 

big, 'American' problems  -  which

somehow always come to the fore  -

is the way the book has been (or

had been; probably no longer with

today's moron crowd) absorbed

into the 'American Canon' as 

some shuckly-sweet tale of 

simple adventure  -  drained of

any merit except the most simple

sentimentality and pitter-patter.

-

Well, so much for anything; that's

the American way. It just got me

thinking.

-

I often enough, way out in the

sticks, felt like Huck Finn, yes,

metaphorically of course; but the

whole point of early American

life was much like the beginning

of that book. Devil-may-care,

attitudes of adventure and learning

on the fly all that adventure could

teach. Woods and rivers. Boats and

trails. Large separations of land

between distant and lonely houses.

Small riverside towns and villages

hunkered along big-river shorelines;

with all the lights and lanterns shown

by their reddish/yellow illuminations

at night. Illuminations! Yes! A quaint

American version of The Drunken

Boat; Rimbaud's fancy-flight upon

the American lawn. In its 'best' parts,

Huck Finn the book did capture some

of this, until it rolled over into a mere

and stupid adventure tale, ripe bait

for sentiment and children's lessons.

Drivel. Almost a satire of what of

we once were  -  and, unfortunately,

within its 'slavery' context, ripe for

censorship, mandated librarian-controls,

and banning from the literary canon.

-

Of course, that same literary 'canon,'

run by the usual malcontents and 

satraps, can accept lewd, indecent,

trite, sarcastic, ironic, and pathetically

subversive psychological screaming

out, now, as real literature. A free

meal at a buffet of fools.

-

I sometimes also think that, right 

now, the Earth is screaming out 

over our communal idiocy, and 

taking itself back. I'm sure that a 

level of true consciousness is at 

work here....disease and anxiety, 

disasters and malcontent, are all 

sourced  from the inner world

of the foolish Humanoid-lost. 

'Earth' is sick of us. 'Earth' demands 

itself back. 'Earth' is willing for the 

sacrifice; mutating and destroying us in 

waves. It little matters, as this picture 

doesn't move, just instead gets

erasures and alterations done to it.

You wish to say 'Mother Earth?' You 

can, though that sounds way too gentle 

to me. It's more like the avenging, 

Mad-Father Earth of old times,

warming up now for the next

inning  -  pitching that rolling

ball of fire and brimstone back

our way again. Just you wait, 

'Enry 'Iggins, just you wait.

13,294. STILETTO, IN THE GHETTO

STILETTO, IN THE GHETTO

Make mine the preponderant crime

here, where the knives are plenty and

the bullets flying. The small shed with

that guy who sold falafels, is burned

now, to the ground. The goons in the

street were angry about something. The

general word is : read nothing of the

press, and listen only to our kind.

-

A radio monitor around the guy's 

neck went down with him on the

bicycle. They both hit the ground

around the same time. Blood egged

out like slime on a parapet. Slippery?

-

Three-card Monte was once the

Christmas game along Broadway.

All those usually poor people with

a few extra  -  thirty-five  -  bucks, 

out walking the streets for distraction.

Now even they are lost to this new

moment; someone in every doorway 

with a crime due to happen. On the

corner, the little black choir kids sing:

-

'Angels we have heard on high;

sweetly singing in the sky...'

13,293. OH, TRAPEZOID

OH, TRAPEZOID

And it was all that : so late

in the deep, deep, night, I'm

sitting about with my feet up.

Reading Shakespeare? Here,

here, I've decided anew : Time 

for another view. I'll run The

Tempest, MacBeth, and Hamlet

too. (That oughta' do).

-

Now, it's two days later, and

slowly I'm almost through. In

some respects I like the guides

and commentaries better than

the plays, as they walk me 

through. Frank Kermode. 

Kenneth Rexroth too.

-

It's a tough world, all this turmoil.

Perchance I spy the libeled lady,

fain, and wiping hand 'cross eye.

Wouldst I not meddle, interchanging

thee, my foe, for this irksome kettle

where the witches brew?

13,292. RAILROAD YARD NIGHTMARES

RAILROAD YARD NIGHTMARES 

So if this life was to be : A mute rehearsal

for me, something to be taken and then

given back, why was 'Time' as a notion

brought forth. A rock, it seems, will never

age; developing no lines or aches and

pains. A line on the border of Earth and

the water  -  on the other hand  -  fades.

-

Just as I thought that, they started the

lonesome diesel : Noise from chambers

deep within. No movement, just the

idle notion of running in place. I 

need no introduction to that.

13,291. SIMPLE MINDS

SIMPLE MINDS

I saw a group of strangers walking

along Canberry Street. They were

gathered to burn their stimulus

checks. I had to stop and think

about that one. Their point was

true resistance; they were standing

where they spoke : 'Declaiming

this regime with words is not

enough. We need to illustrate the

folly. Fake money, created from

nothing; simply being thrown 

about at will to add to simple

matters like the enslavement 

of expectation. We are all their

victims now. But we here refuse.'

13,290. ONCE MY CANE

ONCE MY CANE

Three angels descending. But why?

As I watched, my cane broke, and

I realized I could walk freely again. 

13,289. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,106

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,106

(einstein's own relativity)

I got to thinking today, in light

of my past history of places and

time, how'd I'd have managed

50 years ago if any of this

current Covid stuff, or pandemic

fever sweeping everywhere, had

taken place then. There was a

long time during all the years

of schooling when I'd have to

read about plagues and wars,

mass deaths, diseases, panics 

and terrors. Was it always at

times of great upheaval and

change that this occurred? Did

not the masses of people with

their 'danse macabre' festivals

try to alleviate their dooms

and terrors, en masse? Morality

plays, opera, etc., they all stemmed

from this very same thing. We've

always been influenced by such

events. Back in the 1980's I can

recall books being published on

all sorts of subjects connected

to this: Diseases and War; 

Contagion! to name only two, 

quickly. The mere Humans of

the times knew little what to 

make of any of that. Now, a few

centuries later, we've learned,

almost in the opposite direction,

to be led, corralled, pushed

around, and accept whatever the

consequences may be. People

talk big, but no one knows what

they talk about. At the management

level of all of this, disease is a

mere tool, one by which the needed

psychological terror to lord over

others is brought forth. Much like

the immediate post-WWII, late

1940's social-feel, everything has

now been turned into propaganda.

With blind faith. They give out

numbers, and we 'accept' them.

-

Can you tell me how many people

have died? Really, from Covid; and

by what means and in what manner?

Not related to any other physical,

age or other ongoing calamity? You

willingly believe whatever number

is drummed out by the usual network

drama departments. Those are not

'numbers'  -  rather they are the

assumptions it has been decided

you will believe in. No one WANTS

you at ease; everything now is done

to keep the populace at the edge of

their seats, disgruntled, and on edge

as well. One negative item after

another; any 'positive' items turn out

to be only noxious drivel paraded

about for the prevailing sentiment to

go about bolstering the common

assumptions  -  that YOU and I

are but automatons, to be coerced

as 'consumers' into taking elixirs and

medicines, and currently, vaccines

(which somehow now have arrived,

right after November, in the supposed

nick of time to herald the new

administration and its refreshed

outplay of Covid reinforcements).

Society swoons, at Evil with a

gentle face.

-

It was never supposed to be this 

way, and in 1967, it wasn't either.

Besides the continually-festive

deaths of Vietnam, there was a

current of, let's call it, 'silence'

amongst the populace. New York

City, in fact, teemed with silent heads,

undergoing their transformations

while all around them the world 

erupted and little was commented 

upon. Oh, there was plenty of 

stylish noise from the top, and 

maybe the bottom, but the mass

of those 'leading their lives of

quiet desperation,' to paraphrase

poorly, just moved along, slowed

to a crawl, like a deadening and

thickening lava. I couldn't tell if

it was a film of some droning

wonderland, or an actual timeslide

of lessening matter beginning to

solidify and decay. Everything

was all mixed up and all over too.

Like an anti-oxidant, ahead of

its time and with no one aware

of it yet, the good was trying

desperately to fetch out the bad

and heave it, but, like the holiday

season itself  -  turtle-necks, hats,

Nehru Jackets, muscle-cars,

mini-skirts, snide sex tales and

newly-lurid details of social

and personal life  -  the world

was aflame, and tame, at the same

time. BUT, like Einstein's own

relativity, it all depended on

where the viewer stood.

-

What has arisen now is the 

simple aggression of acquiescence,

and from that there is never any 

returning. Believe in nothing

except that which you first

make your own.

13,288. FLAGRANT VIOLATIONS

FLAGRANT VIOLATIONS

Like having dogs on the runway

at some Linden Airport revel, the

sounds of the seasons abound.

-

The language hasn't been English

for ages, but we get along fine

with the gobble. Fast talk the

slow guy in line.

-

A girl walks nearby, wearing a

terrible Christmas sweater : Who

dresses these folks, and what are

they thinking? One of her breasts

bears a blinking red light.

that the runway too?

-

Name tags on the staff, with blinking

lights around the counter, and everyone

knowing everyone else. The chatter.

One flagrant violation of space and

time, to me. I'd say. Do you agree?

13,287. WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS?

WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS? 

Santa Klaus is slumming to town.

Well, since you asked. Fuckhead.

I'll make mention of a few...Why

isn't anyone noticing? Every Laurel

and Hardy Har Har day I post away

and get nothing back. Why isn't there

someone out their listening, to notice.

To see. To read? Some pot-boiled

extra-terrestrial spoon-fed manx

finally seeing all the shit I do?

My. Klaus, it's up to you. And,

since you asked too. I want my

money packed in bags, and my

contract written in two.

13,286. HIERONIMOUS BOSCH PEARS

HIERONIMOUS BOSCH PEARS

I ate one and the blood came trickling

out, an image of some ancient appeared,

like a chalk-drawn imagining in some

Lascaux Cave, and then the smoke

from the Heavens came downward.

Garden of Earthly Delights? Ah, for

sure. I was propelled, eagerly, into

the ether-sphere of wantonness.

13,285. RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,105

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,105

(like living high on the hog?)

It's funny how things stay in

your mind. Sometime in the

mid-1970's, I can remember

(I think) a show that was

called 'Fernwood Tonight.'

The name Louise Lasser

comes to mind, as a star of

it. I don't remember much,

except that maybe along

with Martin Mull (another

long-lost name) they'd 

combined to make one of 

those 'breakthrough' shows

of the sort that used to get

everyone so apoplectic. It

was sort of a leftover hippie,

or hip anyway, approach 

to reality  -  the kind that

people, amidst all the 

turmoil, were not really 

used to nor happy with at 

all. Ironic, self-aware, and

a touch of put-on too. But,

anyway, that was how it 

was. A confusing time which

sort of fell between cracks,

I often though of that 'show'

as one of the last moments

of what had previously pass

as 'America.' To me, anyway.

I believe, at this time, I was

in Elmira  -  but even that's

now hazy and unsure to me.

Maybe it was Columbia

Crossroads  -  all I recall 

is watching it, when I did, 

on some pipsqueak-sized 

9-inch plastic TV with a 

fuzzy picture. That was in

the time before my father

in law visited and bought us

a new color 'Quasar' by

Motorola; a big-deal name

in color TV's at the time.

He wished to see that year's

Word Series  -  which actually

was the motivation behind the

purchase. For those days, it

was a big-screen too, something

like 16 inches, or so.

-

Funny how things churn and 

turn, and half the time now

I can't even clearly recall the

incidentals. That famed

'retrospective' view being

20/20 is really a crock with

some frilly underpinnings. I

was enmeshed in another sort

of reality, and all it did to me

was make the falsity and the

preponderances of falsehood

and stupidity stand out more.

It began to hurt. In that hurt,

my self-awarenesses grew,

instead of withered. When a

person  - especially one of my

nature and age at that time  -  

begins 'feeling' that hurt about

things and seeing behind facades,

it's not too far off from nursing

either anger or insanity  -  out

of which period most criminals

and outlandish fakers grow.

I had been seeking peace, and

had thought I found it  - farm,

cows, distance, and separation.

Louise Lasser somehow turned

into Mrs. O'Leary's cow, and

suddenly my metaphoric 'Chicago' 

was burning down around me,

all over again. When that happens,

if the person  to whom it is 

happening can retain some form

of self-possession, all that can be

done is to take stock and start

all over again. And I mean again.

This time I had a kid, a wife, a 

house, and a stinking, normal, 

job. When the fallen fall some

more, it's said here's not much

more distance to 'down,' yet,

for me, it was a big drop, and

it was staring me in the face.

-

My little bank there was Chemung

County Savings and Loan. They

held my mortgage, and next to it,

back then, was Marine Midland.

That was another bank, which

name I really dug, for some 

reason. So I opened an account 

there. It was down the street,

up the street actually, from the

old Mark Twain Hotel  -  which

at that time was just about on its

last legs, since the glory days of

that old-style manner of travel

and lodging had faded, to be

replaced by strings of highway

motels with faux-regal names. 

Route 17, at Elmira, was struck

with a few of them, quickly.

Coachman; Ramada; and Holiday

Inn too. A real bunch of nothing.

Dunkin' Donuts moved in too.

For a decaying joint like that

area of Elmira, off to the highway

side of 'Downtown,' all that stuff

became a big deal, and a likely

place of employ for the previously

unemployed  -  chambermaids,

waiters, maintenance people and

whatever else. At the same time

the fabled and long-historied

multi-story Mark Twain Hotel,

at the city-center, adjacent to the

fabled Beecher church of Abolitionist

fame, and the old site of the Mark

Twain Elmira Mansion too (which

location had become a strip-mall

set at am angle to the street), had

been relegated to an auction and

a liquidation sale of its contents.

We went in; everything you could

imagine, of 150 years of hotel

use, was priced-marked and sold

off. We got a few measly things; 

mostly marked with the Mark

Twain Hotel name  -  like the

creamers from the restaurant table,

and some other (cheap) items.

Back then, 2 bucks was a big

deal to throw at something of

such inconsequence.

-

The guy at marine Midland,

funny as it was, looked at my

accounts and situation and said,

'I don't know how you're doing

it (meaning our frugal resources),

but it's enough to make it work.'

Strangely paradoxical statement,

I thought. And then  -  piece 

de resistance!' - he comes at me

with the 'latest' thing. A Marine

Midland Mastercard (actually at

that time they were called 'Master

Charge,' not yet the new named

'Mastercard,' which effectively 

shields the idea of incurring debt

to the user). Credit cards, up there,

were a new deal than, and he 

presented this one to us as a 

life-saver and a likely God-send.

Of course, we bit. Got the card,

and sallied off. Never before

had living been so easy. I

wanted to go back to the Mark

Twain Hotel and start buying

(charging) everything I saw.

13,284. MADE AT THE FISSURE

MADE AT THE FISSURE

The Cadillac tires were flat;

some awful car named like

Nathan Detroit, from 45 years 

ago. We picked up a rider in

Durham Grove, Nebraska, and

I remember the guy said he'd

pay some for gas and buy us 

a lunch. He forgot to add it 

was a bullshit sandwich. 

What a waste. We got

nothing from him.

13,283. IN ALL THAT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE

IN ALL THAT DOESN'T 

HAVE TO BE

Living like this within a world of objects,

I'm expected to sit and stare? Observe?

See? Is that why I managed to be? As

a witness of some reserve, to say little?

Me? How distant that achievement would

be. I loose my tongue before armies.

-

Looking not askance, I note the field

before me : remnants of things from a

relieved, now, past. Last year's twigs

and branches, it will all soon be. The

tired trails of the animals who are no

more, the ones I do not see. But, have

I ever, really? In all that doesn't have

to be, I see my manifold expectations.

13,282. DE-BUNK THE AIR OF ALL IT CLAIMS

DE-BUNK THE AIR 

OF ALL IT CLAIMS 

(nice day for white wedding...day?)

Such purity barrels gloom along its

sordid way. I can't laugh, but I can

smile. Awakened at dawn, that 

noisome scud of metal scraping

something called a roadway half

ways distant carries my hearing with

it. Around here you can hear such 

things a short mile off. I scratch

the lantern which is my head, and

wonder : Is it another language I

do not yet understand? Or just one

spoken badly by a creature of this

land? Why scrape and bother all

this fine new white? Nay but 

should one not just let it be? 

13,281. RUDIMENTS, pt.1,104

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,104

(three degrees? the pointer sisters?)

New York City used to baffle me.

Quite often I'd run headlong into

some weird thing that, from my

clap-trap suburban silly-town,

I'd never before come across.

Each year the NYSubway system

would have a contest. I think it

was just called 'Miss Subway,'

for whichever year it was. Mostly

white girls, until about, maybe,

1969 (guessing) they all looked

geeky and pathetic, but in the

standards of those days no 

one would have noticed. There 

was something they did with 

head-shots in those days that

strained the neck of the person

being photographed  -  it sort

of gave away the stress and

the enforcement they operated 

under, and it was very unbecoming,

even if the girl was some sort of

flabbergasting beauty. They used

to all be displayed on horizontal

posters in subway cars, along with

the usual ads for ointments, creams,

beauty treatments, facial surgery,

psychologists, assistance phone

numbers, dentists and bras. How

anyone was supposed to properly

function in such an environment 

of seedy crapola, and decide on

which one to 'vote' for as Miss 

Subways was beyond me, but in

any case it was all so strange. I

couldn't understand the communal

simplicity which underpinned it.

My idea of NYC, of course, had

been the underside of all that; 

some more dark and doubtful 

underside of life; Thick black

coffee, and berets and Gitanes,

as it were. By contrast, these

Miss Subway things were the

equivalent of a trashy candy-shop

opening its doors for free pickings.

-

At one point, somehow I had heard,

erroneously, that a girl-group named

'Three Degrees' were Subway Girl

contestants (even though negroes),

who had somehow made it to a 

recording contract, and had some

big, crazy, song out called 'When

Will I See You Again?' It was

fascinating to me, even though,

as I mentioned, it was wrong; they 

were Philadelphia girls. I don't

know how the stories got mixed.

But, again, like the Pointer Sisters

as well, it was a cultural osmosis

thing which the USA at that time

(it's slightly different now, with all

the Internet and cellphone instant

personal access stuff) majored in.

No matter where one went, there

was presented a specific wall of

junk matter  -  any person had

to face it. It was, of course, a

massive fraud, ranging from The

Jeffersons to Sanford & Son to

the Strawberry Alarm Clock and

The Monkees. And that was only

the pop culture end. Think of the

same thing underway in intellectual

matters, politics, philosophy and the

social sciences. I was determined

to stand off from all that, and did

so. But, in the back of my head was

my still-stunned observation that

NYC schlock was present and

underway, at all times, in the same

manner as was Avenel and suburban 

schlock. There was no distinction,

and geography mattered not. In

1967 that's how it all got profered:

Vietnam, LBJ, the funk of the

'Great Society' subservience stuff,

General Lewis Hershey, dead guys

in Army boxes coming home

lifeless for one of the worst causes

in the whole, entire world. At TV and

theater, morons glibly playing at

Christmas cheer, family togetherness,

and roundhouse punches to the guy

of any intelligence. Empty, vapid

ghettos were NOT just buildings

and places. They were also people.

-

When I close my eyes (proverbially,

not really) I can still see, taste, touch,

and small the NYC of those days. It

was like nothing in the world, nothing

I'd ever imagined or been led to expect.

Most of it was Winter scenes, which are

still good, to me: I'd have endless walks,

in cold, early mornings, dank with Winter

solid wetness, or ice or slush; any of

that sometimes maddening city-interfering

natural phenomena. I'd learn the streets

and alleys, while seeing them in what was

probably their worst exposures : cold and

snow, frost and ice stuck onto sagging

cars, dank, dead piles of black snow

scarred by traffic. Buses, trucks, and

cars, dripping with road-filth. It was a

world apart from any I'd ever had before;

living in new space, like some alien

creature in a new-found environment.

-

I look now! [see link below]! Miss

Subways is a man????