RUDIMENTS 626.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 626

('second that emotion')

I never was able to learn what

we were supposed to take from

history; not even what history

was. History never really existed;

it was more just what people

ended up saying it was. Stories

and facts and figures were as

changeable as the wind and every

so often, as styles of thought and

social ideas altered themselves,

so too was History altered. The

good guys became the victims,

the victims became the sainted

ones. Like Christopher Columbus,

as an example - the poor sucker

these days can't do anything right.

(As I write this, it's nearing St.

Patrick's Day and I'm fully

expecting, soon enough, the

blow-back on him too to begin.

Imagine that anti-Nature brat,

driving snakes out of Ireland!

Who did he think he was? The

snakes were here first, long

before us. In fact, I think there

was some sort of snake even

in the Eden story). Failures like

us abound; but only the winners

write the History.

-

It's like the people who say you

have to go through the lows to get

to the real highs. I never agreed

with that either; they obviously

never dealt with any real lows or

they'd not be mouthing such

prattle. That's pop-song bullshit.

That's all that is. For me, I was 

lucky most of the time there was

no straight-edge around I could 

quickly grab - even though that's

BS too, because if you're intent

on going down, anything in the

kitchen-utensil drawer will do.

No search needed. Anyone, such

as me, whose favorite song for

many years was a suicide-ditty 

called 'Dress Rehearsal Rag,' was

lucky just to keep on living; glad

for any sort of time, the highs and

the lows, I never cared. Never had

the time or the notion. ('But if you

feel like loving me...I second that

emotion'). Smokey Robinson or

close. Well, anyway, I never made

it to the top, but at least I made it

through. Screwed up, distended

waste of a life, and piss on ya' too.

-

Once I got way up into that solitary

Pennsylvania Hill country, I was able

to loosen my straps some, get out

of that nightmare strait-jacket I'd

been living in. New York City had

been great fun, a massive and 

wonderful experience of learning

and presence, but everything had

changed right under my feet. I was

in some predicaments, the whole

town had heated up, it was never

the same, I was a complete idiot.

I was still broke. My emotions and

nerves were flagging, and I knew 

Death was calling, or just around

the bend looking for its dime with

which to make the call. I still never

answer phones. Don't even keep one.

I always found there's a major and

important difference about the stare

of the death-eye. When it's looking

at YOU, it's already too late. Friends

and enemies have gone down in that

flood, from any sort of violence,

mistake, overdose or betrayal you

can think of. I saw it twenty times,

most especially later in my own 

years in the biker world of the

never-shifting allegiances of 

life-long loyalties to one weird

group or another. Guys went totally

mad over that stuff, and I just

walked. One time I was mixed

up with a club guy, a real, major,

veteran one-percent dude. I was

told he was so renegade that he 

lived underneath the Goethals 

Bridge in Elizabethport in some 

sort of shack or another. But 

the guy had acolytes and followers 

and, damn it all, when he talked, 

even fear listened. There was just

Death in his eyes and everywhere.

He'd done that already, and had

done time for it too. He pipes up

to me one day, in a big Expo-Hall

Swap Meet thing we were involved

with, and takes me aside. Not asking,

just takes me aside. We'd known each

other only a little bit previous to that.

He says (I'm condensing this, and

cutting it short) he'd like to bring

me in, in to his club, under his

sponsorship - which meant, as he

put it, if I ever fucked up it would

come down on him too, for being

the sponsor guy. And he'd have to

kill me. Oh yeah, that simple and

forthright. None of it left me 

much room to maneuver, except 

I somehow maneuvered into

'No thanks.' In Biker lingo that 

is. I never saw him again, but

it always lingers for me as an 

uncomfortable 1990's moment 

to remember. ('If you feel like 

giving me a lifetime of devotion...

I second that emotion') - Smokey

Robinson again, or close.

-

Switch back - please - 20 years.

In Pennsylvania, (high-top PA,

I used to call it), there was not

much of that sort of rotted out

ethos. Life here was mostly still

given its purposefulness by the

work and needs it demanded.

People mostly didn't have time to

fart around with deeming what

social values were to be so

rigorously enforced. You were on

on your own, in a more pure, more

early-American way. You helped

out when a neighbor was stuck,

you got along, you laughed and

goofed with others, if that's what 

it took. But at the end of the day,

when you took your boots off,

it was mostly just you. Sponsors

were for TV shows. You tried to 

not have to answer to any one, and 

you trod well your own path and the 

rest be damned. The idea of having

to pay the dues for someone else

who was riding your back was

unheard of. (Well, OK, except

maybe for the farmers' bankers). 

-

There was a wiry, thin, little

road twisting up to this local

height, called Mt. Pisgah, and it's

marked on maps and all; there

wasn't much of anything on it

along the way except for, here 

and there, hunkered between or

along things, small cabins and

houses where strange people lived.

Alone. And 'hermetically sealed,' 

let's call it. Not much got in, 

and not much got out. I don't 

know what information ever 

got up or into there - maybe 

they didn't even know Nixon 

was President or any of that 

stuff, though I guessed they did.

Nor did I ever know what they

did for money, for food, etc.

There were a few stores around,

over to Troy and East Smithfield,

but each of them was 6 or 10

miles out. Whatever. These guys

were tough - probably they

bundled their grievances; even

if I never knew if they even

tolerated a neighbor or any

interaction. There were yet a

few broken-up and shattered 

communes around, but these 

guys were none of that. They 

were old, and long ago they'd

definitely already gotten their own

disillusionments, and any 'young 

hippie kids' they saw around

most probably just made their

blood boil anyway. I always

thought maybe I should have just

built a hut and moved up to there

somewhere instead. All that's

disappeared now, all gone. Up

atop Mt. Pisgah now is all the 

usual Parks and History Dept.

fanfare, a statue of some Injun

looking out, with his long, probably

mythical name. and thoughts. Llike

they know. Honored in the breach,

as it were, this noble savage now

elevated by Death to a pedestal 

of his very own, with a tales of

glory bullshit story trailing out

behind him. All hail, America.

I second that emotion?....