Skip to main content

RUDIMENTS 1157

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1157
'somnabulance'
The sleepwalker's a pretty good guy:
he wears a mellow yellow, and strikes
the band on high, running between
the ancient aces and figurines on the
bottom of the sea. Sometimes I think
the only person I'm at war with is
myself: juggling anima-diversions,
or wiggling this way or that. Over
along the ittle highway some crazy
guy has a cactus stand. Selling them
potted. Stupid-looking little things
too. Maybe a foot high, for the
less-pricey ones. I used to have
interest in such items, 'succulents'
and jade plants. I grew 40 of them,
over time, and each time they'd
send out the air-roots, a clipping
was in order and I had twice as
many. 'Two became four and then
four became eight.' That's called
'exponential' growth, for those
of who out there who've studied
economics. It's always been the
bane, in population terms, of
people who disliked immigrants.
The hordes coming in, having
eight kids. In 15 years, those
same eight kids have 8 more,
and so on, and the next thing you
know, in 30 years there's 64!
-
Well, on paper anyway. And that's
only assuming one-kid offsprings.
If those original 8 kids, following
parental example, breed up, then
have 5 or 6 each, then it's a high
number, and a real mess. All those
kids then needing housing, assistance,
and all the rest of the lower-class
crud that happens. But, that's
America? Home of the brave and
land of the 'freely taking all they
can get?' Sure. Give me your tired, 
your poor, your huddled masses 
yearning to breathe free; The
wretched refuse of your teeming 
shore.' That Emma Lazarus was
a real wipeout!
-
Yeah, you're probably wondering
how or why I got onto that subject.
It happens. My mind rages. I get
around. I used to think about all
that while walking    in fear for
my life  -  in any of the worst
ghetto areas in the worst of
NYC's nightmare years. 'Oh,
him? Yeah, he got stabbed to
death by a wretched refuse.
What was he doing up here
anyway? He shoulda' stayed
downtown. 
-
I always disliked math, but
the idea of 'exponential' came
the 'exponent' in a fraction.
Right, I know, that tells you a
lot. it never told me anything
either. Like the 'Miracle of
compound interest,' at banks,
I never got that either, but now
they've taken even that away.
Sucker-bums can have some
pennies, to buy candy.
-
You never see a poor person, or
a ghetto urbanite, scurrying
around  -  with their yoga mats
and those yoga pants and things.
They should have, actually,
Yogamats, like there used to be
Automats: you plunk down your
money in the bin, and a little
window opens and you can grab
your main course  -  enlightenment;
or charity; or general well being!
Hey? Wasn't he in the Civil War?
Anyway, the poor have little need
for such tantric tactics; it's rather
the fool's stuff of the texture-culture
of big city or effete sophisticates.
See-through Lulemon leggings
and all that. That's the idle-beam
transparency of stupid minds, if
you ask me. I never got the gist
of all that until I started seeing
all those 6am Princeton lasses
scurrying sround at daybreak,
with teir rolled mats and silly
pants and tightly-earnest and
determined looks. Paradoxically,
all keyed up to go relax. it got to
be a pretty bad joke. The yog
studios had 6am hidden back
doors (the one by D'Angelo's
did anyhow), and in the early
morning what usually looked
like a crummy freight entrance
doorway was a'buzz with young
ladies, mothers, students, and
newly marrieds intent on finding
that inner peace that only a
directed yoga, a freight entrance,
and the ultra-hip and only very
right clothing can bring forth.
-
I wondered the incentive: what
the heck was Princeton about
anyway? Was it a place, one of
normal protocol? No, it most
certainly was not. It bore the
unmistakable imprint of class,
and it's underling class had been
relegated to the old backwater
streets down the bottom of
Witherspoon. You could bet
your culottes there were no
yoga babes prancing in from
there; they were too busy
cleaning tables and getting 
the day set up at Theresa's
or Olive's. Prime-time
eateries, both. I can only
wonder what's going on now,
but I don't really even have
the interest enough to generate
interest in finding out.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

RUDIMENTS 997.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 997 (at the bongo club) I never had much direction, or what direction I had I gave to myself, be it good or bad. On looking back now (seems that's all I do these days) I sense that I was easily swayed and was often quite zig-zag in my ways. (I don't mean zig-zag in the sense of the Zig Zag rolling papers guy, which papers were used for rolling joints, and which name I was often told by a guy I worked for once, that I resembled. Well, the person of that name anyway, shown on the packaging). Fact is, I never smoked much pot. Maybe three or four times. It never interested me, whereas this guy who said it smoked pot like other people ate chocolate. I was around lots of that stuff, and more (pot, not chocolate). First off, pot was for babies. Beginner's stuff. The kind of people I knew then who were potheads were all in a sort of stalled, infantile regression, and their pot-smoking only dragged them deeper into place - they neve...

RUDIMENTS 329.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 329 Making Cars When you get out of Nancy Whiskey Pub and roll yourself down to Puffy's, that's a whole other story. Or was then; it's been a while now since I've been there. Puffy's used to have, displayed in its front window, an old photograph, maybe 16x20 inches, framed, and that photo showed old Hudson Street, maybe about 1935, when it was a working-class street, lined with small shops, lofts, and factories. All for the kind of guys who used to work there, and drink at Puffy's. Across the street was the Western Union Building made famous by the writings of Henry Miller, and, nearby, a Bell Tel place and, across from Puffy's at the corner exactly, the grand, old, 1880's building that was once the headquarters of the New York Mercantile Exchange. (In the 1920's and before, someone in my wife's family line was the President of that Exchange, go to find out). That building was ...

1130.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,030 (otis redding?) I used to sit in John's house and look at things around me  - it was possible there to think of it still being, say, 1924. Mary and he kept a severe and steady, old-format, household. I'd sit there and think to myself that this was 'quality,' the way it maybe used to be. There seemed to be, kept by John and Mary, a transcendance to things, some quality that was above everything and realized the old days  -  before plastics and gilt had a claim to the storyboard of everyone's life. Of course, it wasn't conscious, they didn't have an awareness of it; for that was their characters and it was ingrained. The lens they looked through to see and partake life was of it, and they realized not. It only stood out so grandly to others, like myself, and was remarked upon often; like visiting an old catacomb in an ancient village. Something like that affects everything else aroun...