RUDIMENTS 881.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 881

(oppressive regimentation)

Every so often I get to thinking

that the biggest problem with

religion - well, I don't even

know if it's religion : a sort

universalized version of it

maybe - Christian versions

of it anyway - is that the idea

that everyone on Earth is

being watched over by 'God'

really just doesn't seem to

wash. And I apologize for

that, and for stating the

obvious, but on the evidences,

all levels of evidence, it seems

not to be, or, if it is, it's a

bad and bogus bargain. ('He

said, while stepping over the

bones of the dead').

-

While I was in New York City,

I never heard any of that stuff.

It seemed about the most

irreligious crowd I'd ever been

with - lots of things go one

there, but I'm not so sure they

include 'Providence' in any

of it - unless of course, if it's

maybe a trip to Rhode Island.

Don't mistake me, there are

plenty of churches and pit-

stop religious edifices into

which people dip and kneel,

and, of course, there are the

world-famous showplaces of

religion too - St. Patrick's,

the Cathedral of St. John,

Riverside Church, and myriad

other interdenominational

churches. What's funny is

how they are usually made

use of by either the very wealthy,

the tourists, the travelers, and

the immigrants or the recently

arrived. Those people still

take their religion seriously,

except for the wealthy, who

do it because the society pages

and their tax-deductible very

public donations and acts call

for it. Otherwise, to be truthful,

the churches don't much want

you around, people in need, I

mean. They are generally kept

locked. The 'solace and sanctuary'

aspect of them is removed (though

they still keep their tax-exemption),

and their elders and Reverends and

Bishops and Cardinals and Pastors

and all the rest hob-nob and kiss

ass with the best of them. They

attempt to become their own

sorts of 'Society' doyens; I guess

for the good of God and their

church. It's all poppycock. I

won't go so far as to say there's

nothing good anywhere;

but there's not.

-

Here and there, as at St. Francis

of Assisi, as a for instance; a

westside church someplace over

by 17th, there'd be a soup kitchen

or a free food dispensation daily.

Homeless and the needy would

be lined up for an hour or two

sometimes, awaiting the opening

and the entry - food was given,

some prayers and things pronounced,

but it was simple enough. There are

others too - I don't know how much

longer that nucleus of assistance

will go on, these small churches,

and larger also, are struggling. The

people in need just seem meaner

now and more alienated, but, over

that, they also seem to inhabit a

different place, one much more

formless and without rules and

sequenced latitudes about their

own beings. It can't be called,

exactly a sense of 'entitlement,'

but it seems like that. In reverse

maybe. What does a person, in

any case, owe to their fellows?

The world has certainly changed

and fallen apart.

-

We let other devices come in, and

they've never left. Troubadours,

like messengers, are never much

welcomed in. Here's a point: Just

looking around you - a revised

form of fascism stares back at you.

Even on the streets of New York,

which is slowly turning into a

large, giddy, shopping mall

anyway. A police superstructure

atop society props it up as a

wooden beam supports a rotting

structure. People can no longer

spell, as they cannot listen. There

is now something that permeates

society, everywhere, and I don't

quite know what it is, though

it represents nothing to me.

Ignazio Silone has it thusly :

'There is a sadness, a subtle

sadness that's not to be mistaken

for the more ordinary kind that

is the result of remorse,

disillusionment or suffering;

there is am intimate sadness

which comes to chosen souls

simply from their consciousness

of man's fate.' To avoid it, people

feign an exaggerated gaiety, an

awkwardness, the passions of

entertainment, vice, or games,

or women. Or, even, a false,

brutal, politics. Food. Country.

All without meaning, or need.

They become, as chance may

have it, policemen, hip-monks,

terrorists, clerks, or war heroes.

The gay/happy, false mask of

something amidst a truer desolation

and desperation. Like putting up

Christmas lights on November 15.

Like cooking shows at every turn,

with weird people doing weird

things, and eating them while

they talk. As it goes now, thrift

and personal industriousness are

considered injurious to society;

the soldier's heroism is either

forgotten, or unwanted. Morality,

in any case, has no longer any

solidity or certainty. Nations

have made huge mistakes, and

truth no longer exists. Everyone

has allowed their lives to now be

ruled by the powers and decisions

of distant and unknown men and

women. Nebulous qualities

of the unreal and the fake. They

can make us rich, or poor, these

imaginings; have us live, or die,

in our beds or along the road.

Incinerated in an instant, or

wiped from all consciousness

by a stupidity unknown. There

is no longer any self-defense,

because there is no longer any

'self' and any means of 'defense'

have been taken from us.

Tyranny and injustice are

very difficult to defeat.

-

Jerry Ottinger was some guy I

knew. He used to say he was a

Playboy Philosopher, by which

he meant to say that he could

understand a woman just by

looking at her. 'Reading her,'

he'd say, 'is as easy as pie.'

I'll admit, I never much knew

what he was talking about or

what his task really was. Maybe

he had one, maybe it was just

talk. A lot of time he hung out

at this fancy-sort of bar called

El Quixote. It was connected

to the Chelsea Hotel lobby,

if you used that way in, or

knew of it; so of course it got

all their notables, eventually.

But it also had a regular, glassed,

street entryway and a big sign.

People with their special corner

and tables, and secret bevies of

idolizers and hangers-on. Like

a Studio 54 maybe, of a rotted

mind. Trenchant weirdos, and

flamboyant strange characters;

dishevelled, lumpen-proletariat

intellectuals too. Cowboy rangers

let off the rodeo range, still

with their lariats and spurs,

and often chaps as well.

-

Every so often I'd go in there

just to sit. The big deal drink

of the place was, supposedly,

their Bloody Mary, probably

because most people in there

were still nursing hangovers

from the previous night (or day).

I'd get, sometimes, a beer or

two, and once or twice I also

did order a Bloody Mary -

just to see what the myth

was about. I wasn't impressed:

let's call it tomato juice, with

pepper and vodka, and maybe

something else, who knew? They

also were known for their Sangria.

Nothing was cheap, and it was

a painful place. But this Jerry

guy always acted like a big deal,

and I liked to watch him. He

was big on Tarot Cards, and

shiny, black clothing. Beats

me. He had this little routine

he did, with laying the cards,

or some part of the cards or

whatever, out on the table,

enticing someone for a reading

at like 15 bucks, and he'd go

on some stupid spiel. They

usually fell for it, all mystic

and full of information. And

sometimes there were guys

involved - maybe suspicious

guys along with one of these

females he was 'reading,' or

single, lone, men - always

very sad and sorrowful too -

wanting him alone to read them,

only. I think he treated everyone

the same no matter. It was all

subjective stuff - some of the

females would go crazy wide-eyed

to him, like he was seeing their

soul or, as he liked to put it,

'seeing them naked.' Yeah, well.

-

I always thought the Tarot Cards

were ancient, ancient things and

had some real magic. Well, they

weren't and they didn't. They first

popped up like around 1500. The

year. Called 'Tarocchi,' they

were just another pack of cards

in the card-crazes that were then

sweeping Europe (I guess people

has discovered leisure time,

since all the ogres and demons

were finally dead? Except in

Transylvania?)...By the way,

'Tarrochi, in Italian, meant

'foolish.' When soothsaying

took hold, sort of as a reaction

as well against the organizing

of churches and approved states

and all that, cards among the

little people of the villages,

burbs, and oddball hamlets

splattered in every nook and

cranny of what we now call

'Europe,' (I think, and Bore-us

Johnson notwithstanding). In

those places, besides the diseases

and pestilence, there were a lot

of really dark characters, some

who never saw the light of day.

Had fangs? Slept in coffins?

The new fascination with all

things Egyptian, as well,

brought out the 'occult' and the

'ancient.' Stories were made up

about the influence of the cards

and the ancient, spiritual meanings

behind everything. Even today's

regular playing cards, the kind

gamblers and strip-poker types

use, back then had been given

mystical and mysterious qualities.

Along the Rhine River, before

it was straightened and channeled

and all, there were villages hidden

along the banks, filled with what

became known as 'fortune-tellers'

who, so they claimed could read

back to you, before it happened,

your life! Based on the simplest

of cards, numbers, suits and sets.

Everything meant something. By

the late 18th century, people such

as (2 names, random), pastor

Antoine Court de Gebelin, and

Jean Baptiste Alliette, (both

French, evidently, by today's

standards), popularized the

'mystery' qualities of 'les

Tareaux' to establish contact

with the past and future.

-

Gebelin, in 1773, wrote a book,

entitled, 'Le Monde Primitif' in

which he stated that the cards

were created by the Egyptian God

'Toth,' to share ancient wisdom.

And, by ten years later, Alliette,

using the inverted name Etteilla,

became a major 'fortune teller.'

That's all she wrote, as the saying

goes - from that point readers

claimed to be able to use the

images of kings and beggars,

heirophants and fools, angels

and devils, to build narratives

(for money) suggesting

outcomes. And here we are,

speaking, (I think), of outcomes -

oppressively regimented, and

sorely lacking. ('Better flip me

another card, Jerry, before I

toss this lady down. You

rogue you').