RUDIMENTS 391.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 391

(avenel slide show)

After a while all of life is

just a question of memory  -

what you have, what you

want to, remember. Not have

to, just 'have. It's like, in the

1960's, you'd get stuck at the

homes of people with slides.

And slide projectors. And

screens  -  that's all gone now,

because people have instant

and different means here of

grabbing moments; phone

snaps, on-line stuff, etc. There

are other ways, a million other

ways, of doing memory now.

Nothing really 'matters' any

longer. Mostly even if you

kill someone, or were born

a boy but want to be a girl,

whatever, nothing simply

matters any longer. Back then,

what I'm talking about, things

were way different. The Jones

family, back from California

and Waikiki too, had about

80 photos, as slides, and they'd

be determined to show them.

So you'd go over there, and the

room would be set up, the adults

would filter in, and us kids too,

and the lights went out, after

the drinks were poured, or

beer, and the 'slide show' began.

Each stupid one, with Mr. Jones,

and Mrs. too, and maybe even

the kids, adding their running

commentary. It took forever,

it was boring, and who cared.

In fact, it became one of those

cliched banes of all 1960's

household existence, those

slide things. The only thing

maybe that saved it for me, but

without any comment, was that

I'd get to see Caroline, or even

Mrs. Jones, in a wet bathing suit 

while they ran some beach area.

What was anyone supposed to

say? 'Caroline's got a nice bod'

going there, Mr. Jones.' Let alone

the wife. You'd get beaten with a

broomstick. Spare me. I'll buy

a magazine....

-

I used to think about things, I

mean besides all the Carolines

of the world. There wasn't really

much else to do in a place like

Avenel in the years I'm talking

of. If you listened to the Lovin'

Spoonful you were considered

weird  - it was all that basic. My

neighbor guy across the street, Ed

Bauer, he worked for one of the

Newark Airport airlines and he'd

every so often bring me stuff he'd

get; found objects, left behind,

unclaimed, whatever -  just little,

odd, junk; he kind of knew the

sort of person I was becoming,

and, in the same fashion as Mr.

Bomback from the other chapter

previous, bringing me the old school

window shades, to paint upon, they

each somehow had gotten into my

corner, instead of wrangling with

me as most others did. These were

the sorts of guys I liked. Soulmates,

though worlds apart. Anyway, cool

thing, one time he came over with

two record albums he'd gotten. One

was 'poet' Robert Service reciting

his 'poems of Alaska.' Some crazy

stuff that was. I'd never heard it

before, nor even of it or him. He,

this Robert Service guy, turned

out to be kind of a joke, but

whatever. I've never heard of

him again. (This was like 1966).

The other one was gold. Michael

Olatunji, an LP of 'Drums of Africa.'

I found out more about him. He was

a famed and real African musician,

flamboyant clothing and rhythms,

and he had a big following. It was

just tribal drum stuff, with some

'music,' I guess, thrown in. Cool

thing was, some little time later

he was actually on tour and I caught

his show at Columbia University,

live. Just like the record : people

loved him cheering and stomping.

This whole African tribal thing I'd

never known of  -  it wasn't primitive,

just raw and authentic. He was pretty

cool. He died some time ago, I

remember the obituary and the

follow-ups. Babatunde Olatunji,

I think it was.

-

When I got back home, after 

getting the old exit papers 

from the seminary, for that 

bit of time left to finish regular

high school I had a little room 

in the attic area of the house   

- one of those attic rooms my 

father had built. It was small,

but I liked it, and the one window,

if I opened it, led me right out 

to the slanted roof of the new 

section of the house. I'd go 

out there often  -  with a

book or a pad or a sketch-sheet  - 

and just sit. It faced rear  -  the 

tracks and the area that used to 

be the prison farm, now those 

miserable retard-village huts.

I'd just sit there and watch the 

trains roll by. Go to be I almost 

learned the schedule, from 

watching all those home-commute 

trains. In the dark, it was totally 

cool too because I could see 

the inside illumination of the

train cars  -  all those people,

sitting in their light, moving 

along the ground and not even

realizing it (actually, that's a

writer's conceit, because I

really have no way of knowing

what they thought about or

not), as they each read their 

newspapers or magazines, 

or  -  for my  fleeting moments 

of glimpsing them  -  just

seemed to be staring 

straight ahead.

-

All these silly trains really

meant something to me, and 

when the time came for me to

beat it out of town, even though

I really, really, wanted to be the

train guy instantly, I ended up,

for reasons I forget, on the bus

out of Carteret. It was only later,

and with a vengeance, that I got

into the train thing. Back then

believe you me, trains were 

adult. Maybe 75 cents, I forget, 

to NYC, maybe less. At some 

point it did cross the one dollar 

mark. But  they were real, 

and reserved  and quiet and 

clean. You just 'felt' important 

by being there. Nowadays 

(I still ride the trains), they're

they're noisy pigsties, even the

'quiet' cars, which is a joke.

Food smells and drips, people

endlessly chatter, in other 

languages too, hordes of

Hondurans  -  to be alliterative

about it  -  and mobs of Mexicans 

too. And they don't shut up, nor

do their 20 kids, and they simply

apparently, don't care or disregard

regulations as well. But it's OK, 

because they have that right. 

I suppose. Like I have the 

right to suspend their posteriors 

out the nearest traveling train 

doorway. Life's somehow become 

Calcutta, (or Mexico City then), 

everywhere, and  we've now 

allowed it.  Carry on, 

Toonerville Trolley.

-

What a long, strange trip it's

been, I guess that works fine.

I like things, even though I

disdain things too  -  slide show,

Avenel : Here's me, at the train

station. Here's me at the old bench

that used to be at the corner by

Rt. One and the old (small)

firehouse. Before it became a

condo. Here's me walking into

Murray and Martha's. And here's

me again, back up on that roof.

thinking about things, picking up

on everything I could before I

split this gingham-dress, 

horse-manure pretense of a

place for good. Here's a slide of

trees: Did you know that trees

compete with one another for

light and nutrients, and that

they support one another when

a tree is sick or injured, and that

they communicate threats to one

another be sending out electrical

impulses or by releasing chemicals

into the air? Here's one, from the

old marsh-meadow along Avenel 

Park, (gone now, hundreds of 

apartments) : The daisy closes its 

petals, or even droops over, if 

rain is on the way, and the

flowers of the swamp water-lily

close when they sense rain, often

hours before it arrives...Yep, life

is just a question of memory. What

you want to remember, and what

you choose to forget.