RUDIMENTS 575.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 575

(call me when you're done)

There's always been a 

cartoonish aspect to my  

life and some of things I've

done. Not by design, but

more just in the manner by

which things have occurred. 

I've always called it 'timing,'

in the sense of 'bad' timing.

There are certain 'lucky' people,

I think, who are blessed with

good timing  - in the room at 

just the moment when Joe Blow

strolls in and they start talking

and it results in a job or a 

contract or just a connection;

or on the train he or she sits

next to someone and they start

talking and it's the cousin of

someone whose uncle is running

a start-up and seeking someone

for just that qualification you've

just explained. Things like that.

The move you've wanted, the

thing you've just been thinking of.

For me it's always almost been the

opposite : I'll find some great old

place, a perfect and picturesque

ruin out in the woods somewhere.

Photographs, storyline, everything

perfect. And then, a month later,

the place is suddenly cut bare and

torn down and 6 new homes go up.

I call it the 'kiss of death.' That's

always and only been my touch.

Almost as much as the perfect

time to be in the exact same spot

when a train comes through.

Couldn't have timed it better!

-

Henry Ford or somebody said

'Success is 10% inspiration

and 90% perspiration.' He also

said, 'Cut your own wood, get

warm twice.'

-

One of things I noticed the most

about living in New York City

was that you don't really have 

to do much. Apartment dwelling,

of course, cuts all the onus of

tasks and cleanup and yards and

all right out; there's always

someone other who does that

stuff  -  and 'ownership' in much 

the same way, in the city, still

doesn't allow you to do much.

It's not as if you have an acre

of ground around you, fuel to

gather, grass to cut, logs to

trim, or even tools and a 

garage to tend to. Mostly,

then, you wind up mostly

worrying over where to dine,

what to eat, which park to

skulk around in with the kids, 

or  -  if so inclined for the

better  -  which cultural venues

and entertainments to sop up;

usually costing money. But

then so too does your food.

You just kind of, over time,

lose touch with the rest of

life, or, maybe, how the rest

of the people live.

-

Under the auspices of nothing

at all I got to know a fortune

telling gypsy lady, and her

daughter. The lady was about 

50 or 55, I'd guess, fat and

slovenly, not good for much,

really, as far as I could tell.

The daughter was better, only

because she was about my age

and slender, dark and swarthy

too. They had a small apartment

and storefront fortune-telling

place in the west 40's, right

by the ramps and all to Port 

Authority. Only once or twice

did I actually see a customer

there; the entire gimmick was

to bait a person in with like

an 8-dollar introductory

reading and then make some

pretension of surprise over 

the very fortuitous things 

they thought they were 

seeing, trying to of course 

entice the sucker into the 

next 10 or 12, or 20 bucks

for the 'next' level of the

reading, which was more 

apt to bring more valued 

information out  -  and maybe,

depending on 'how things

progressed' or 'how clear the

channels were,' a need for still

a third level of insight. It

was a racket, and sometimes

they got away with tall. Fala

(the daughter) sometimes

saying people went 3 or 4

levels deep. I guess it was a

gypsy-family racket, these

ways of getting livelihoods

and fortunes out of others.

Mostly it was the mother,

as 'Madame Rosa' who did

the work, but sometimes it 

was Fala too. They had a

bench, and a table and chair,

out front as well, and in the

good weather one or both

would sit out there, Mama

looking like a Gypsy terror

with beads and a jewel and 

scarves, black boots, beneath

a long, loose, flowing dress

of some native sort. Almost

scary, but they figured it to

be some odd but 'spiritually'

enhancing thing that would

bring people in. Fala still

seemed to have, at least, a

better connection to this (our)

world. In their little display

window was an Egyptian 

bust, Nefertiti or whatever 

all that is, with a red jewel 

in the forehead center, and 

the ubiquitous crystal ball

on a table, graced nicely with

white linen. A few crassly

lettered signs and such hung

around, announcing things

like : 'Madame Rosa, Fortunes,

Miraculous Cures, Answers

To Mysteries.' I suppose, if

they could have, they'd have also

sold spaghetti and meatballs,

or falafel, since the next two

storefronts in a row were a

pizza stand and some taco 

joint, booth outrageously

filthy and cramped, and also

overflowing outside onto the 

grease-caked sidewalk. It was

something. There were gypsy

guys around too, but they came

and went, and I don't know

what they did or where they

went. Economically, in fact,

I never could figure the whole

thing out. They certainly didn't

get any business off the Port

Authority Bus Terminal crowd,

because this was all behind it,

at the rear, by the trestles and

ramps. It was squalid and noisy.

I just didn't know. Fala never

told me anything either, and I

never pressed. There was one,

tiny, little enclave there, a sort

of corner niche of grass and tree,

between some ramps and a pillar,

and it was used as a small gated

park (it's actually, now, a dog 

run) and we'd sometimes just 

walk over to there and sit, and

talk  -  though I need say, she

was mostly as dumb as a brick

about anything outside of those

miraculous fortunes she claimed

to be able to see).

-

Only one time did she start on

me  -  same old crap I'd heard

before  -  I was special, she saw

a very fortuitous aura attending

to me, I needed to trim my

eyebrows (really) so as not to

have them grow over as one, 

and conceal my third eye's 

visionary scope. My eyes

together radiated grace and

creativity, and power. I almost

wanted to give her a fifty and

say, go on, keep talking, I'm

going to get a tape recorder.'

You know how they say, like,

who does a dentist go to for

his dentistry? (Why, another

dentist!); I felt like asking if

she'd ever gone to a fortune-

teller, and how'd it work out?

-

You see then, how it wasn't all

great shakes and wonderful times.

Some of it all got pretty deary.

One time in the late 80's, maybe

1990, I forget how it happened,

but two NYU film students

got me and asked if I'd mind if

they filmed that Miasma Arms

Hotel thing I'd written  -  or at

least the 7 or 8 opening pages

and scenes. They had to come up

with a project for their finals,

in two months or so, and thought

they could pull this off. I forget

how they saw it, in all honesty;

probably from me traipsing

around with it and talking about

it at bar or diner, like with that

Gilbert guy and some friends.

It was already ancient history

to me, and I'd moved along

since then. They needed to make

a 20 or 30 minute piece, and they

said the whole thing was perfectly

cinematic, and engaging, and they

wanted to try. I said go ahead, be

my guest. We went to some NYU

copy-shop place on 8th street, 

had 10 or 12 sets pulled, and I 

said (trying t act like I knew what

was up) : 'What's your budget?

Your gonn'a need a van, for that

van scene, the whole waterfront's

changed now, the overheads are 

gone. You need a coat for the

lead character, some darkness,

and how you gonn'a get the

diner scene going and the guy

wrecking the place?' They said

don't worry, they had it figured.

They also added in that the

barrel fire scene and the old

guys, that was all easy and 

could all be recreated over by 

Washington Street, by 12th and 14th'

All OK, I said, knock yourselves 

out, maybe call me when it's

done. I never saw them again. 

Was I wrong?