RUDIMENTS 548.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 548

(the whole world seemed coated in ice)

All a'thwart, and arms a'kimbo!

Whatever that was, it sure caught

my attention, or my eye, or my

interest. How do you get from

something outside to something

within? At 12 years old, I figure

most things are supposed to be

seamless, but this never was. I

got to places, but only in my

head. My own major endeavor,

at that time, proved to be fairly

useless. All the seminary stuff

was just a silly joke. Boys, and

guys after boys, hiding behind

the garb of religious while they

caterwauled with crosses. Now,

what, only 50 years later, give or

take, it's all coming home to roost

and finally a lot of those creepy

bastards, if not already dead, are

going down. Nothing out of the

ordinary for them. (That's a

double-tiered joke, because there's

a part of the catholic Mass called

the 'Ordinary,' and going down,

well that's pretty apparent.

-

The trouble I had in my life, and

it was a big error, was in just that  -

at an early age I took as authority

figures people I placed complete

faith and trust in  - for a short time

anyway  -  who turned out to be

steadfast and recalcitrant oafs. Both

together. They were men (Men?)

of their own self-presumed strict

adherence to principles that, in a

few short years, could not withstand

the onslaught of society and which

gave way  -  they left the priesthood,

brotherhood, whatever, married, and

all the rest, included same-sex stuff

too  -  which is of little consequence

here, except as yet further proof of

their breaches of confidence. I had

been misled, and pretty much my

life was ruined. Tainted and

wounded. Having no one to talk

to, really, I just stumbled along,

stunned at what I'd just gone

through. Never again in my life

would I ever believe the words of

anyone professing to me what they

were, in their own eyes and from

their own points of view. I saw

that it was all a changeable fiction.

The remainder of the world is

just lucky I didn't turn out to be

a killer. I was, however, sickened

to the very weave of my being.

-

I'll need to stop now, before I

put my fist in someone's face.

I'll need to step back, compose

myself, and get real non-committal.

-

St. Augustine (probably just another

asshole, but one here to whom I'll

give a momentary benefit of doubt),

said : "Think. What is time? If no

one asks me, I know what it is. If

I wish to explain it to him who

asks, I do not know. If Space has

three dimensions, Time has only

one  -  the moment we are in right

now. Time is a road without any

turn-offs..." I guess that's OK. I

can finish it for him  -  no turn-offs

or intersections, exits or turnarounds

or rest-areas or toll-stops. Nor does

it have any means of representation

except by its passing. Presentism

says only the present is real  -  we

can no more travel back in time

than we can travel to a place that

doesn't exist. Yet another school

says that past and future are just

as equally real; that the brain makes

its reasons in the present, and that

is all we know.

-

Solid funerals? Precipitous declines?

Is that all that's worth our knowing?

What's worth denying? Lamp paste, 

or lamb paste? Or lambaste? Hey, 

buddy, can you spare a line?

-

It seems like I'm living my life in

reverse, now anyway. I'm about 12,

too, right now again. I think. I hope

that's right, because right now I can

do no other for there's no other to

do. Everything is calamitous. Yet,

I remember it all, and I re-enter

it all because it's all still here from

the first time around. That's why

I'm here : Avenel : again. to re-live

what no longer exists. I died from

the pneumonia I caught there in the

park. Mannerisms like this will

make a great dresser out of me.

Salvation comes with Salada Tea?

Is that what that fellow asked of me?

-

At the very calamitous bakery too

they serve crumpets of worry and

dread  -  you can order either, or

both. The Ayes have it  -  at that

same bakery they also serve boxes

of read, and the eyes have it. I

cycle along the road of cold. No

one ever sways me much, they

stand and they sit and they stand.

People give themselves away,

just in varying levels of what they

probably see as ease but which

appears to me as awkwardness.

It kills me. Me. I can pull nothing

off; here I should be interviewing

the Master chef and I'm interviewing

a busboy instead. I like to wear

my watch and just sit here alone.

No one does that anymore. Certainly

no watches, and they've all got

a phone : staring at the crinkly

screen everyone things they're

the President, getting important

President messages; but who

the hell wants to talk to one

of them?  Overhead, the

incoming jets go by, and I

can time them, 3 or 4 minutes

apart, certain times of day. They

take their patterns; all the same.

It's truly a world of one. Sliding

over to Newark, or out across

the bay, for line-up to landing,

flaps moving slowly in a three

position way. It's amazing how

the engines change their rolling

thrusts for landing and the landing

gear come down. They drop as

low as they seem, so slow. On

Christmas Day, on Christmas

Day in the morning. As the song

has it. I'd rather hear the roar

of the jets than the alto screech

of a hundred high voices all

as one sublimating their jests

to be a Christmas pest.

-

So, isn't it sinful, the things I've

learned and the things that matter

to me. Nothing crashes anymore,

nothing; it all runs on in some

stupid and perfect harmony. I

think I'll vamp, and go home.

-

Once, when I was another fellow,

I stood in the street where it had

been snowing for what seemed like

days; wasn't really but seemed so.

It was 1961. The snow on the streets

had frozen up, and stayed there. Not

like now, when a plow comes in a

day or so and the mess starts being

cleared. This just stayed there; turning

a bit mushy in the day, cars rolling

slowly over it, and then night-freezing

and staying solid as the post-snow 

temperatures sunk. I was 10. We kids

loved it. The whole world seemed

 coated in ice.