RUDIMENTS 1149.

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.

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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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