RUDIMENTS 821.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 821

(I'm ok now; it's all over)

My setting always seemed 

to be at 'Catch-all' and that's 

the way it went   -  I roved 

and picked everywhere. In

the time I spent growing,

it was often a pointed 

decision for me to strictly

stay on course. The last 

thing I ever needed was 

a 'country,' and I'd not 

select this one  -  if I had

to opt for a place. In any 

case I chose my battles 

and struck back as needed.

One thing I found out was

that you can't 'sift' for

truth; it either is or isn't,

and, if it is, then it's so

apparent that no searching

is in order, or needed. At

about this time, up at

Broadway and 19th or 

18th street, the very first

concept/working version of

a Barnes & Noble 'Superstore'

was in place. I didn't exactly

know it at the time  -  to me

it was just a cool deal; a new

idea. A monstrous, organized,

well-priced, and bargain-racked,

store with multiple cash-registers,

record albums, and tons of

books. It was a sort of Heaven.

Putting aside all the corporate

babble that came later, (over

750 stores), the idea in its

raw form was to be, at base,

a walk-through, informal

format, open-space, wide

warehousing of books, and

arranged by categories too.

That was a new idea for me.

I'd gotten used to the hit

and miss format of book

buying  -  in those 4th Ave.,

Book Row places that lent

themselves to nothing as much

as solitary stealth in the pick

through piles and piles of 'old'

style books. There wasn't

that much help given. This

store introduced the idea

of categories  - which to me

was a new and infinitely

interesting view  -  Philosophy,

and its sub-categories; The

idea of criticism, as in 'literary'

criticism, ('LitCrit), to which

I'd always beforehand referred 

to as 'Books About Books'

was there in big numbers -

all those studies of author and

titles, the amassed work of the

varied writers and critics sort

of deconstructing each other,

tearing asunder arguments

and concepts. The books 

themselves all seemed fresh

and modern, some even

colorful...unlike the Biblo &

Tannen representative book

dens that otherwise lined the

lower areas by Fourth Ave.

and Bowery. It was an 

eventful moment.

-

Later on, right across the

street, on Broadway, they

opened a textbook outlet,

which was even greater  - 

a person could specifically 

course himself through the

working title-lists for any

course  -  which of course,

(Jeez, all these accidental 

puns), meant free rein to

go at it. I had little interest in

80 per cent of the categories

I'd see  -  math and sciences,

outside of Lewis Thomas

anyway  -  but was able to

stay with all else that I

wanted. I drowned myself

in Moby Dick's bath-water,

as it were; rehab with Ahab!

(I called anything that drained

Avenel out of me rehab).

-

Knocking my head against walls

was not something I cared to

do. I was determined to make

all that the past for me. Inside

the Studio School, it was

pretty apparent to me that

others were better educated,

already, than I'd ever been;

they were more worldly, and

had so much less of the poor

and half-baked, 'sentimental'

religious aspect which my own

upbringing had been battering

me with for years; in and out

of seminary school. All those

exposures, in fact, had made me

quite 'medieval' by contrast to

their far bolder secularism. What

a dumb spot to be in. A light

went on in my head that then

immediately led me to one of

the stronger convictions I'd

ever had  -  that millions of

lives are wasted by subservience.

Subservience was the primary

gauge of success for Authority

to use in order to show results.

They wanted you to be a 

medieval drone, tripping and 

bowing, doing nothing on 

your own but looking for new

orders and systems to follow!

For them, that's an answered 

prayer! Back at home, as a

kid, all that going to church

folderol, catechism, communion, 

confirmation, rites and recitations

and rituals, Father this and

Monsignor that, it was all on 

the order of those old vassal

states and church fortress 

villages once dotting their 

'Europe,' building nation-states;

holding everyone in place so 

that the newly-allied combo

power of 'Church' and 'State'

could establish its steamroller

over people  -  Holy Roman

Empire, Papal Viceroys, and

the requisite oppression and

'martyrdom' by the usual ruling

class could smite the peon into

that needed subservience.

Divine Rite of Kings? Or

Divine Right of Kings. Mix

it up with hidden church riches

and the gobbledy-gook of

other rituals and languages,

and before you know it you've

got yourself a country. And,

as I said in the opening, I

wanted no country.

-
All those dark, dour and
stretched old men  -  estranged,
solitary, serious, creased  -  poring
and craning over old books along
Book Row : With their canes and
magnifying glasses and bag lunches
and slow steps, often were in
their old suits and clothes from
what seemed like 20 years back;
in turn it being an older and
more serious time. Life like
that was odd, as if it were a 
long rubber-band stretching 
and closing, drawing things 
back and forth with it. These
men were one step away
from the same sorts of men 
along  the Bowery, a mere 10 
blocks down the way  -  those
who had fallen, tumbled, failed. 
The rubber band had let them 
go, and booze took over from
books. in fact, it seemed to 
me, that if you lifted the island
itself up, on edge, these book
men who slowly start their
slide down, easily merging
into those booze-men all
staggering along the old
Bowery hotel-streets
-
As it then turned out, in the

varied places I ended up after

those days, I eventually became

my own producer, editor, writer,

composer, and study-hall guide,

pretty much just as I'd envisioned

it. I never needed any hangers-on

and I guess I never sought the

applause or I would have gone 

after it. A part of me deep inside

wishes I had, but I always kept

this dumb notion that as long as

I was working steadily to amass 

the work, at some point someone

would find me. Well, that never

happened, but I've always

remained a 'free man in Paris,'

and I always wanted to be ready

if lighting struck. But I guess

my rod was always too good

and the current was carried

off. Least I know, it never

hit me. But I'm OK now too;

it's all over.