RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,149
(tomorrow I start with King David)
I'd always figured that the one
thing a man - or any person -
had to do was make peace with
his or herself, come to terms,
find that 'point' as it were -
Where things settle, and much
of the strife is gone. My father,
speaking from my own experience,
never attained that. There was
always a personal struggle at the
forefront, whether anger or just
anxiety. He was always at it with
someone, over something. I, yes,
tried walking away from all that,
and hopefully I've succeeded, but
once that sort of genetic gets
established, it's difficult to be
rid off. Everyone's got something
of that to deal with.
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You know how, growing up, or
at some later point, there'd always
be some old guy around to whom
people referred as that 'nice, calm,
old man.' I knew a few; always
doing nice things, for others, with
a smile, willingly, peaceful, settled,
and calm. People read that, from a
character. It's quite easy to see, as
it stands out - and it's always a
crowd pleaser. The modern day,
with all its nose and bluster and
traffic and lines at Taco Bells and
the rest, does all it can to destroy
that quality. But some old guys
maintain; keeping it steady and
real. It's a gift.
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The funny thing was, for me, the
only way I found able to achieve
that was by solitary pursuit. Study.
Reading. A bit of research. Surmise.
And then writing, or 'producing' a
product from what I'd garnered.
I've written here, countless times
(not really; that's pure exaggeration),
about old guys I'd run across or
mingle with along the westside
of Manhattan back in those old
days of my being there : the
craftsman guys, the leatherworkers
and the machinists. Those who
took care of carts and horses.
They were, seemingly, as settled
and steady and gentle guys as
could be. It was weird - never
really a harsh word, just more a
sort of resignation, About things,
as I'd never seen it before. In my
growing up, all those suburban guys
along, say, Inman Avenue, as little
as it was, as economically generic,
they were all low-level striving, for
something. I never knew what; and
my own father, again, was a perfect
example of that. His life, it almost
seemed, was always the hunt for
the perfectly acerbic, but he never
attained that. The angered evasions,
instead, would grow and fester, and
become worse, because they were
never aired; he'd just seethe. I'd
seen other men like that too. A
person truly acerbic at least knows
how to spit it out, how to give word
to his barbed feelings. At least they're
aired then, and somewhat cleansed,
as in lancing a boil. The 'pressure'
gets relieved, and there's a lot to
be said for that.
-
I, on the other hand - and like
so many of those other guys -
internalized, went down into work,
dug into a task. It's different now,
because I've groomed a habit of
cerebral intent, of conceptual
manufacture, which brings other
things forth; which is good. Not
always tangible, but good nonetheless.
I'm through with the 3D world, let's
say, and that seems to be the only
way the world is going now:
Virtual Panic speeding along
on the way to nothing. So, in
my own way I'm no different
than some machine-shop maniac,
with the difference, if there be,
being a head bent down into
information, not 'hardware.'
In the old sense. Jeez, how
computers have screwed
things up. Five hundred years
of science and technology,
mostly all through military
applications first, give us what?
Gaming kingdoms, virtual
realities, easy access to junk
information, slanderous and
vile entertainment crud, porno
out the pores, and one small
scrap of link to any (maybe
verifiable) information. But,
we got to the moon; where
maybe Neil Armstrong's urine
is still floating around?
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You can look that up.
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