RUDIMENTS 421.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 421

(avenel - something to nothing?)

In my own way, I've always

loved liars. Really, you've

got to  hand it to them. I've

always thought that there

are so many dark secrets

locked within the potential

of each of us  -  we either get

them put of the way, ignore

them, deal with them, or

crash-land. Much of it remains

as taboos; one way or another,

things we cannot do. Face it.

We're totally constrained. It's

good to let loose now and then,

especially for going on as if

an expert on local theater, or

municipal garbage. Hey, wait?

Aren't they the same thing?

-

If you're going to steer 

something  -  I mean good, 

and steady, steer  -  you

can't just jump and sing. 

You have to know what 

you're doing. With all 

hands on each lever, 

and while manipulating,

but not just at top, not as 

only the figurehead; you 

can't be  leaving the more 

supple maneuvers to the 

'stupid guy' to get done

either. That's a recipe for 

disaster. I think that, in 

one way, that was what

was shattered by Mark 

Eneret when he burst 

through the shield around 

Ed Siegel  - the realization 

of which essentially just, 

on the spot, at the moment, 

destroyed him. So, OK, 

now we can argue all 

day over this, but, truth

be told, no matter. You 

cannot deny any of this,

or, anyway, I won't

let you.

-

When I left Avenel 

for the seminary, it was 

a distant drop south. 

I wasn't even sure where

I was going, geographically; 

it was just way down the 

Turnpike, a bunch, and 

long past that big, visible,

cobalt-blue chemical lake 

and also past that huge 

radar-globe installation for

tracking missiles. Astounding!

There were farms, barns, 

and space. One of the total 

weirdnesses of this world 

is that, when you're young,

space is somehow 'movable'

because nothing has yet taken

root. I probably could have

successfully gone anywhere. 

I had another friend, same 

situation, who went north. 

I go there often now, and 

see all his places, and

notice the differences  -  

Garrison to Beacon anyway. 

I think he made a better 

choice : seemingly he went 

TO a place, one recognizable

and with historic holdings. 

I went 'away' from anyplace; 

to sand and pines.

-

At the complete opposite 

extreme you can pretty 

much get away with 

anything if you use the

right words and formulas. 

It's all too easy. All you 

need do is act like a 

wild-west medicine

show patent-medicine 

guy working out of a 

covered wagon to make 

the ladies swoon  -  I say. 

They wind up loving 

all that stuff. And the

elixirs you can sell 'em

too. Stupid women. 

Nowhere in Avenel

had there ever been any

high vocabulary  -  that

I ever heard anyway.

People talked direct, in

an almost guttural manner,

and punchy too. No ideas

of mis-matched modifiers 

or dangling participles ever

passed anyone's mind. If

there was something to be 

said, they just said it, and

if that included any form

of foul oath, they said

that as well. I remember 

a friend, about 10 maybe, 

when I was perhaps 12, 

every fifth word out of 

his mouth was shit or 

fuck, as a base modifier 

with whatever ending it 

needed. And this was a 

10 or 11 year old kid. I was

floored; even moreso when 

I learned he and his brother 

(who was in my grade and

could hardly read) were

raised in a home where

only Albanian was being

spoken. That spooked me!

Facility with the English

language indeed! This guy

was good and on his own.

I'd heard a little of speaking 

in tongues, but this kid was

as if tongues were speaking

through him  -  and we were

standing right there, outside 

of schools 4&5, right where the

buildings met, and he couldn't 

have cared less. Albanian word

for decorum? Maybe not.

-

Then you get the even deeper

aberrations  -  the 'voices'

and the God-talk leading

people on, pushing to do

this or that, ascribing by

fire the right ways of the

world. I wanted no part

of that, and every zany

story I read of the past,

all those saints and sufferers,

just made me laugh. Theresa

of Lascaux, Junipera Serra,

popes and saints and misfits,

every from Joan of Arc to

Mother Theresa and

Augustine of Hippo, every

one of them as flawed as a

 mis-struck dime is flawed.

Valued, obviously, but only

because of the flaw. It's all

really just too much for a

regular mind, a regular

person to handle, and no

one needs to anyway.

That's the objective

basis of 'Freedom' and

'Choice'. Choosing not to.

I never wanted to live

in a world run by

superstition and fear.

But, it seems I do and I

must  -  power levers

are in the hands of

'others.' Frightful and

unseen others, just like

that 'God' who rumbles

thunder from behind

the jealous bush. The

only thing I've found

myself able to say back

to all this is :  nothing.

-

I thrashed around in 

the middle of all that 

for some time. Leaving 

home when I did was 

like going to a foreign

land. Blackwood, NJ. 

It always sounded 

British to me, but

it wasn't of that 

substance in any way.

It wasn't anything,

and  -  in so many other

ways  -  I'm still like that 

myself today. I came from

nowhere, went nowhere, 

and amounted to nothing. 

Does all this make me a 

nihilist? Is that something?