RUDIMENTS 759.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 759

(it needs better icing than that)

Tycho Brahae had a metal nose.

His actual nose, or a good part

of it, was lost in a duel, and he

had - from that same duel -

a large scar up into his forehead.

It was said the nose was made of

silver or gold, but twice his body

was exhumed (once to check for

death-inducing poison, not found,

and another time to check the nose).

Apparently, along with the poison

story being false (a burst bladder

had killed him instead), the nose

was found to be of brass, and it

adhered to his face by means of

some sort of adhesive; often

replaced, I guess. Brahe was

an astronomer, getting some

things 'right,'and some still

wrong, as people of that time

did. He was, besides being the

teacher of Kepler, the last of

what are called the 'naked eye'

astronomers. Before telescopes

and lenses.

-

Be all that as it may, I'd never met

anyone before who had any interest

or knowledge of Brahe. It interested

me because I'd gotten used to seeing

those Civil War, Matthew Brady, and

others, photographs of the dead and

the wounded : Piles of legs and arms,

after amputation. Accounts of men

whose lower jaws had been blown

off (apparently a not so uncommon

field-battle event), and whose

tongues and saliva, therefore, before

they did eventually die, lolled about

and spittle flowed. Terrible, nasty

fate, I'd say. It was ghastly, as all

war is. I'd walk around the Elmira

burial and prison field (much of it

now turned over to other purposes).

One had to really dig and know

and search, to find, other than the

orderly graves, the rock and field

lines which delineated the old

prison fields and death and

execution quarters. The large

maximum-security prison, atop

the hill, of course, still stood,

and now houses (and still does),

the worst and most vile of New

York City's crime-timers. It really

must be faced off (no pun) that

this is one of the most terrible

situations extant. Only a dreamer

would still connect any of this to

the Civil War. Ergo, me.

-

You need to figure, in the 'modern'

day and age, what's the use of any

of this. For myself, I walk around so

alienated by the obtuse ignorance

of all I see around me that mere

suicide isn't enough. Like a

birthday cake, it needs better

icing than that.

-

So, as I was saying, (I think), at

first I wanted to connect these

southern black people to the

Confederate Prison camp as

their reason for being here

(Elmira), but then I realized

the folly of that. In fact,

the complete opposite. I

never dug for further info,

but just decided it must all

have been for the cheap labor

they provided to man all the

old industry that once was there -

like all those southerners who

went up to Chicago's industrial

stuff by traveling up Route 61,

North to jobs and money. In its

way it was still 'escaping.' The

same, I figured, with Elmira.

There was once some real and

powerful might in America's

industrial efforts, and millions

took forceful jobs in mills and

mines, industry and automotive,

from Gary, Indiana, and Chicago,

to New York and the rest. That's

now all died off and fallen away,

like dead apples off an old Hudson

Valley apple tree (which used

to employ, that apple industry,

thousands and thousands of

Italian immigrants).

-

If Tycho Brahe got a metal nose

out of his deal, I figured maybe

lots of those Johnny Reb prisoners

needed limbs and prosthetics too.

But that never gets mentioned

and no remnant of any large and

in-place prosthesis factory was

ever around. I mentioned before

about the one person I met who

ever knew anything about Brahe.

She was a girl, working with me

at Barnes & Noble. I was taken

by surprise one day. We found

ourselves both looking at the

science and astronomy section

with Tycho Brahe books. She

dove right in, a blue streak,

telling me all sorts of things

about him. The science aspects,

and personal-life stuff about

him. Funny; up until that point

I'd always figured him to be

Tycho Bray (by pronunciation),

but she quickly pointed out it's

Bra-hey, in correct pronunciation.

Goes to show, what you don't

know, you don't know. Her name

was Erica. Still is, I'd imagine.

She had maybe two or three tattoos

back then (20 years or so back).

Last I saw her, she's covered

head too toe with deep ink,

rich colors and art. Tattoo

haywire! A real walking

canvas.

-

The conundrum that is life has

always driven me crazy, and I

had a head start anyway. No one

ever calls people 'burn-outs' any

more - that I hear anyway - but

in some respects even though I

was never that, I carried many

of the same earmarks of your

average burn-out loser. But,

Heaven knows, it's all so

different, my version. At least

I walk around proud of my

accomplishments because they

exist, as profoundly intellectual

and creative statements reflecting

my evolved view of the life

around me. I've kind of come

full circle, and have ended up

now back where I began; to finish.

I've had people say to me 'How

can you end up so poorly, back

in a dump like that?' Well, to me

is the completion of the circular

life-rotation I was given, and now

I return to connect the other end.

No one around here - except

maybe for two or three people -

has a real clue to what I do, nor

does anyone here favor me with

their regards. I get no accolades,

no return, no local fame even,

for what I'm doing, because it's

like a bad smoke in a blizzard

of nightmare fires. No one here

can even see me because their

own shitty smoke is so dense.

The people around here who

are the mouthpieces for the local

powers are out and out shitheads

anyway. I wouldn't even want

to hear them nor want to watch

their little jerkhead pirouettes

around each other. Kissing lips

and frogs that turn to toads.

Like I said, it needs better

icing than that.