RUDIMENTS 209.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 209

Making Cars

I used to think someone always

had it in for me  - then that feeling

went away, and I turned it around

and started feeling that way myself

towards others, and then it all got

turned over again and headed back

at me, over a course of years. And

then miraculously I was a 'grown-up'

and it hardly mattered any longer.

Free-standing barricades, something

always in your way. I'd talk to people,

like even those NYCity draft guys.

trying to drag me into their cycle of

mayhem, and I'd see in their eyes that

they were probably just as scared as

I was, and perplexed too, about the

whole idea of what they'd gotten into

or were promoting. I'd probably

busted up their entire picture by

showing up as I did. Intransigent

about my own goals and features.

They, of course, didn't know it, but

I'd further rubbed it into their faces

by showing up on a bicycle and

leaving it downstairs at the lobby

doorway. In 1967 no one but a

madman, no 'adult' aged person

anyway, rode a bicycle. Everyone

was comfortably positioned into their

addiction to swoop and power, cars

and travel, even if it meant an extra

55 minutes of traffic time waiting to

get in or out of the city. Beats me what

they were ever thinking about. Now

there are traffic lanes and special curb

areas and rideways for bicycles, and

they'll even gladly rent you one for use

along your way. Back then, as I tunneled

along Broadway, I was probably as

apt to get run down as I was to get

shot in Saigon. There were trucks

snorting and taxis turning; every which

way up and down  -  you had to look

both fore and aft to be sure there was

no hammer coming for your head, let

alone people  -  who weren't aware these

things existed. Anyway, Chinese and

Vietnamese, they rode bicycles all

over their countries and cities. So it

was my way of rubbing it in. I lost

more than I lost my life  -  thinking

ahead  -  and I was certain I'd not 

have that happen. (I wrote that 

awkwardly on purpose, just like 

that, to show that there are certain 

places 'between' words, wherein ideas 

and conclusions can slip, just by

writing wrongly and opening up

that rare space of illogic, where 

these things thrive  -  like war and 

armaments, battles and sides). Why 

utilize the ineffectual 'right' way, 

when you can do it wrongly and 

have it handled with power?

-

In fact, I once told a friend of mine,

Jill, in a poetry thing I used to teach

and present, at Barnes & Noble, that 

I wanted to write a sentence someday 

that no one could understand, and 

yet they'd be able to glean the meaning 

of and from. It was a cool idea, and I 

still harbor it. So, watch out. The hand 

might come for your maestro and your 

music would be had.

-

The problem with America has always 

been its lack of ideas. Any ideas it did get

were always derivative. I used to to say

America's favorite philosopher was

Schopenhauer, but they pronounced it

'Shopping Hour.' Good joke, right? Except

that no one ever knew what I was talking

about. And anyway, it's OK to work with

derivative ideas but I'd figure you first

should at least know they're derivative, 

and from what. World as representation,

and the rest of that Schopenhauer stuff, 

is really raw and a difficult way to get 

oneself through life, but face the facts

about it and you've got something to

work from. 'Working from,' in this case,

means a lot, creating space and life.

Everyone always talking their way

through things without saying anything.

Stand on any train platform, or sit in any

short-stop restaurant, and all you end

up hearing is the usual dimwit patter

of who's doing what, where, to whom,

and the weather too. It's always the 

same and I notice it all the time. 

Self-announced phone assholes have 

only made things worse. Everywhere. 

If you simply keep detracting substance

from everything, from everyday life,

and do it by supposedly the most

'advanced' means to date, all you're 

doing is destroying life because it's 

on no real path except the arc of 

trying to sell more of the newest 

and latest thing, and probably the 

one that you don't yet have. There's

no salve to that conscience. Why

even go on living? It used to be that

we'd laugh and scoff at the sloppy-bag

ladies at supermarket check-outs who

would peer into and then purchase

those weird newspapers and magazines

arrayed at check-out  -  'Martians Ate

My Children,' or 'Proof That Elvis

Is An Alien,' or 'Michael Jackson Is

Alive and Well In Setaucket.' Now

everyone does that and no one says a

word  -  or that's all they say: words.

The same string of empty, nonsensical,

vapid, useless words that maybe I'd

use to write my sentence that no one 

could understand but which would 

have massive meaning too. You 

may remember, way, way back and

somewhere here, I wrote about my 

philosophy teacher at Elmira College

to whom I said I wanted to find

the word that would make the entire 

world come crumbling down. I thought

it was monumental as an idea. He said,

'I'm sure many writers have had the 

same idea.' (Hey! That balloon I was

holding used to have air in it. Where

all the air go?)...

-

I like quiet spaces: Like my Chinese

friend Liu, in Chinatown. He used to

come out each morning and hose down

the front of his little store  -  the sidewalk,

the gutter, the front, the glass. Sometimes

he'd find things from the night before, I

guess items lost in the dark  -  though

it was never really 'dark'  -  you learn

that quickly in NYC  -  'dark' is but

a concept. Other times nothing. He'd 

say it wasn't of any difference to him

whether he found anything or whether

it was messy or needed doing or not.

It was more the exercise of his moment

within the doing of it, each day, regularly.

The front of his store had an overhang

where he sold Chinese newspapers and 

other 'imported' 1970's items. Chinese

stuff, for the local Chinatown community.

They were funny like that  -  and I loved 

it. Very partial to their own stuff, when, 

back then, it was exotic and difficult 

to get. In the same way as bicycles,

no one had access to much of that

stuff and it was, as I said, strange and

exotic. Only limited access. Chinese

people wanted, like brushes and combs,

FROM China. I'd go to that store too  -  

the things were cool, and really cheap, 

like 60 cents for a 12-pack of 

Chinese pencils; or pins, soaps, and 

scarves, or gloves and little dishes; 

even playing cards and toys  -  

nothing I'd use or need most often, 

but just cool things in cheap packaging, 

with peacocks and flowers on them, 

for logos. They hadn't yet advanced

into that modern export world of 

perfect packaging, logos, and even 

transliterations. They'd have toothbrush

cases that said things like 'One, wrap,

teeth scourer clean.' You knew what

they meant to say but, whew man!

Scissors. Paste. Yes, combs and brushes. 

You had to see it to understand what 

I mean. Anyway, he was very 

meditative about all his stuff, and 

it was really a lesson to watch   -  

spraying the sidewalk, or he and his 

wife setting out the papers and magazines. 

And there was, in fact, a store just 

uptown some, at 23rd, in the old base 

of the Flatiron Building that was 

even cooler, and intense, in the 

same way his place was laid-back. 

It was called called China Books 

and Periodicals. They had Chairman 

Mao stuff, little red books, quilted 

jackets and endless revolutionary 

tracts, usually in either French, 

English or Chinese. Sometimes 

I'd buy a 20 cent French tract  of

their usual revolution gibberish, 

just to see what I could get from 

the attempted read; like a language

lesson. One time I proudly bought 

a Chairman Mao Red Star pin, 

really beautiful, almost jewel-like, 

for my beret (which I wore during 

those years, or some of that time). 

I pinned it to the right-side front, 

and it just sort of hung there, and 

dropped the hat just a little at that 

point. Really cool, and I was highly 

stylish too. Revolutionary jerk that 

I had pretensions of being.