RUDIMENTS 390.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 390

(avenel : must be 

something in the water)

Not to press all the same

points but the next thing my 

father did (I was 10 and helped

him do it) was blow out the rear

of the house and extend it with

a large, extended, new room.

That too took about a Summer

and into October. Mainly just

using brawn and hammers.

He trenched the large rectangle

for footings, we poured the

concrete in, with the bolts and

all that sticking up, then base

boards went into the cinder

block wall and the bolts, etc.

By the time we were done 

with that, it was a big extended, 

wooden floor, to which the studs 

and wood and all was added for 

the walls, and roof. I was always

busy  -  sometimes uncles came

over and help for the day, I'd

pitch in, whatever. And then, one

day, we were ready! We destroyed

the interior wall, just blasted it

away. That was the fun part,

until of course the miserable

clean up. But, anyway, there it

was, zen like and silent, never

really spoken of, just done.

-

I used to think  -  what to take

away from that? What did it all

take? Magic? Determination? 

Did he really know all this 

stuff? Tearing  down walls, 

and building walls? If so,

how? It still confuses me  -

a multi-directional awareness

of many things is necessary

to get that grasp. Like the

fox and the hedgehog story,

almost. I think I'm more a

hedgehog; very heavy on the

one thing. But maybe not,

because I can be sly like a

fox too. Of course, there's

always the hare and the tortoise

analogy  -  the hare, darting and

rushing; the tortoise dutifully

staying at it, plodding along.

That would be me. It wins,

I think, or what's the point

of the story? The funny thing

(and I still notice items of

this nature) is how my father

and I never communicated any

of this. We were never that close,

so as to sit down and compare

notes, or for me to just ask,

'How'd you do that? How'd

you know all that shit?' I have

known other families, more the

monied and educated types, 

where that sort of talk is 

normal, where the son will 

say to old Dad, 'So, Dad,

really, what the fuck were 

you thinking when you did 

that?' The brusque informality,

the coarse ease, was never 

there. The monied folks always 

seem to have it easier; less

tension. If I had ever 'cursed'

informally like that to my

father, I would have died and

it would have seemed totally

artificial anyway. The air was

always distant and frosty. 

(I should talk : With my own  

grown son I'm a terrible 

example of that. In fact, I

probably represent more 

bad things than good in this

whole Fatherhood rap). But,

nothing to be done about it

now  -  my character is cast.

-

I don't like direct contact 

much. I guess I got burned 

out on all that long ago. That

all makes me nervous  -  even 

if I do an overly good job of

papering it over. Avenel always

seemed like a direct-contact

place to me  -  people always

jabbering and talking at you.

I'd been in other places where 

it was never like that. There

were parts of NYC where

everyone and everything was

silent, even the dogs. It's not 

like that now  - young people

have made sure to change all

that noise stuff, and earlier too;

I don't mean just now. Frankly,

I think it has to do with simplicity.

There were sure some complicated

people in New York, and I never

ran into much of the simple kind.

Everyone seemed dense and deep

and troubled; on a quest, in search

of something.

-

I never knew which was good and

which wasn't. Or better or whatever.

Using my father as an example, I

knew that he felt that complicated

people weren't worth spit. Where

that left me was pretty obvious.

'Uh. Dad, where you put in that 

exit doorway? I forget.' It's sort

of like 'when the house is on fire,

get out of the house.'

-

One time my father, while sitting

around the table when two of my

friends were over, and just sort of

talking, pretty much amazed me,

in an odd sort of way. I can't put

my finger on why, or what had 

happened. It was a certain, very

unique, moment. Firstly, for his

own purposes, he asked me to 

name a few people I totally

respected. When your own

father asks you something like

that, it's pretty weird because 

of course one's first thought is, 

'shouldn't I better include him?'

It was an Avenel moment for 

sure, and I choked. I muttered,

'Oh, all the best of them are 

dead.' Whatever that was 

supposed to mean. Then he 

asked if any of us had read

Karl Marx. What? Karl

Marx? Dad? I nearly gagged.

Now, he didn't say he did, but

just asked if we had; if that

makes a difference, I don't

know. As one, we all said a

sort of 'Yeah, parts, here and 

there....' We were all speaking

bullshit, by the way. Then he

begins a talk about the Kurds.

This is 1975 maybe, at the

latest. No one outside of the

State Department or me had

ever heard of the Kurds, or 

their plight. (I knew a little 

about it, but only from reading

deep and tedious news articles

here and there, and stupid-ass

publications like 'Foreign Affairs'

quarterly or the early New Republic,

which covered this stuff). No one

knew much what to say, as we

were each more surprised

than anything. 'What's with

this?' we looked at each other,

'This guy and Marx, and Kurds?'

Goes to show, there's maybe a

surprise coming each time you

flip up a card.

-

But, anyway, total madness set 

in, and I had to live with all this 

stuff. Very difficult for me to

admit, last thing I really did

for him was bail him out of

jail in Toms River, putting

up my house for that (short

period of time) and driving 

him back home, in the dead

of a full-moon night, along the

Garden State Parkway, and

listening to him tell me how

the Russians were on that

moon because we let them, 

and how they were watching

our every move, from there.

He meant Soviets, but he didn't

realize that. Yes, Madness wears 

a seatbelt too, sometimes. Now

the Soviet Union's gone and  

-  alas  -  so is Dad. I forget,

what's the exit for Avenel?