RUDIMENTS 789.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 789

(sidebar, bad weather, off track, detour)

As far as anything real

went, I was up to my

knees in it all. As far as

the rest  -  the imaginary

and the intellectual pursuits

and all that. I was overwhelmed.

There was a good period of

years there when I never

touched an art brush. I had

numerous typewriters going,

but not artwork. Living in

a new situation such as this

was, took a lot out of me.

I can't remember much about

sleep, but I guess I had no

trouble sleeping. I can't even

remember much about eating,

but  -  though I seemed to have

lost pounds  -  I guess I managed

all that OK. I was in a real

strange no-man's land, of my

own making. A corollary to

this happened to me just today;

which is about the funniest thing

of late. Here where I live now,

it's a regular street  -  houses,

curbs, and all the rest. I live

at the corner of two fairly often

used streets  -  people cutting

between the the other avenues

and streets, or the various people

living in this jumble here of about

6 or 8 blocks. I see lots of people

while out with my dog; they

wave, beep, stop to talk, etc. (I

also get my share of people

just coming by, to talk  -  I hear

all sorts of local issues and

ramifications, nothing good,

believe me, there are a hundred

gripes, everyone claims they are

not represented, and they have

ideas of what should be done,

which often seem to involve me

doing it. It's pretty strange,

because lately my hatred runs

deep, and it's the last thing I'd

ever wish to do, just before,

maybe, pissing in the sink.

More on all this in a minute).

My friend stops by today in

his truck  -  an acquaintance who

I see most every day, 15 or 20

houses off. We've talked before,

I know all about his life, as he

knows some of mine. Speaking

of 'no-man's land,' today he blurts

out, while idling in his truck, as

we talked. 'You know, I can't

figure you out. Are you a hillbilly

or a old hippie? I tell my friends

about you. I say, 'I can't figure

this guy near me out, he's either

a hillbilly or a hippie. I tell them

about you. So, which is it?' I

said,'Tell them, just call me

Popeye. I ams what I am.' He

got a big kick from that, and

said, 'That's it, then, Popeye

it'll be!' Then he said, 'I have

a 1940's lamp in my garage

somewhere, a Popeye lamp.

I'll dig it out and give it to you.'

-

That's a true tale. Just today.

The other day, there had been a

movie or something shown in the

park down the street, (for some
reason now, our faux-benevolent,
childish governances feel it is
incumbent upon them to provide
entertainment for the asses, oops,
I mean masses, but is there a
difference in this instance?), and

this other guy I know, whose house

backs to the park  -  he sees it all  -

came by bitching. It had been too

loud, they opened the large fence

and the only people who came

in numbers were the bums from

the new apartments; free movies

on us. Other than them, before

they slid open the large fence,

it had only been maybe 30 people.

He wasn't happy. Mostly because,

he says, because things go on in

that park you never hear about.

The happy assholes cover it all

up, say nothing about it, including

the chucklehead councilman down

the street. He said the night of

the movie, 6 cop cars and an

ambulance showed up, another 2

heroin overdoses in the park, up

at the fence, but the Avenel Street

gate lawn. He said it's not the

first. He said there were two

people, down for the count. It's

all got him way pissed off.

Another time I heard 'The

Mayor's a red-faced drunk.

You should find out where

he drinks, and take pictures

of that! He was handing

out awards once at School

4&5, was all off balance,

drunk, couldn't even handle

the papers.' Then, from still

others, I hear about his

blond sidekick who's getting

it all; etc., etc. See, I don't

care about any of this, he's a

schmuck. Even I know that.

At the end of May, at the Barron

Arts Center, he was presenting

awards. I got my awards, he

called my name correctly but

never focused. I could have been

Harry Potter for all his assness

knew. I handed him an envelope,

with a letter in it  -  asking for

public air-time, debate and

discussion time. Never even

answered, applies himself to

nothing. Now, if he ever steps

out to air things, or talk, without

calling opponents liars (which

he did that very night, speaking

to the assembled Arts Center

people  -  'It's election season soon,

you'll start hearing things, from

others. It's all lies.' And then he

said  -  to them, 'This is like a

town meeting! Thanks for having

me here!'  -  Town meeting?

Calling unseen opponents liars

before they even begin? Maybe

it was a town meeting for the

likes of the mutant hemoglobins

he deals with, but not real life.

Sorry.

-

The point is, if any of this stuff

is a lie, how is anyone to know,

if all he and his arch-cronies do

is hide what's going on? And

hide themselves too? If you

don't talk about anything, how's

anyone ever supposed to ever

know what's actually true? You

consistently treat people like

children, they're eventually

going to revolt like adolescents.

-

Sooo, the hell with neckties.

Know what I mean? Back in

my hilltop roundabout province,

the house was pretty good, by

the time Spring arrived. That

first Winter was long and

strange. And cold. I've already

written of the frosty air that

just kept dropping light-ice

crystals. I wanted to tell people

it all looked like a hoar-frost

each morning but I was too

afraid they'd misunderstand.

The hills and all else did thaw

eventually, and we got to

begin seeing the real contours

of the land and everything

which had been hidden under

the snow  -  what the real

course of the stream and

rivulets running through and

around really were. Sometimes

there were big surprises; we'd

see rocks and gullies; that old

1930's local dump, way about

back about 1/2 mile off; what

the real world looked like. I

liked it all, it seemed.

-

I was after truth-telling; always

have been. Truth hurts; most

people avoid it all because it

usually causes scenes, like that

previously reported Mayor thing.

Even the Popeye scene. What am

I? How could I even begin to tell

anything about myself with these 

50 years of events  - from my

side all truth. Pass me the 

Spinach? I'll show ya!

-

In a previous chapter I talked

about my nut-case acquaintance,

Jim Watkins, who'd started that

one day punching me around 

and throwing chairs. In my own

house; thankfully my wife was

not around for that. Anyway,

I'd said he was just released

from, I think I reported it as, 

the nut-house in Montrose. 

I was incorrect. The nuthouse

for that region was in Clark's

Summit. OK. Truth : Does that

make a difference? I passed

through Clark's Summit (not

so sure about that apostrophe 

though) and it looked like a

normal enough place to me.

In the way that hospitals look

normal  -  basic and boring, then,

in that apartment-block kind of

way. Right angles, square panes

of glass, etc. A real line-scribe

guy's dream. I could never

imagine that crazy, jagged,

out-of-kilter mess of a guy,

Watkins being in there, or, if

in there, being released. It's all

a manageable circumstance,

I suppose?

-

I think that hardest thing I

ever went through out there

was when a farmer friend 

of mine hung himself in 

his barn. In his early 80's!

Can you imagine any of that?

He couldn't take the enforced

updates and modernity an

expense and clerical aspects

of what he had to do, as 1973 

approached, to meet the new

standards so that his milk

would be accepted, through

the new creamery and all their

new systems. It scared him

right off. No one ever figured 

he'd do that to himself, but

damn if he didn't, from the

rafter, right in his old barn.

With all his cows watching.

Really sad day, that was.

Sometimes, yeah, truth hurts.