RUDIMENTS, pt. 948
(coming down easy, lord god almighty)
You know how someone
always wants you to level
with them? I quit caring at
about 7:15. There are always
too many variables, and no
way of ever knowing for
sure that you've got your
point across. It's just, after
that point, a deep, chancy,
hole. That was most often
the kind of gray area I
always lived in, even when
little (young). Some say
'Libra' - you're all like
that; others say, 'You're
too sensitive.' Who knows
what about any of that?
-
My eyesight has always
been different - I can see
all those burn marks and
nicks and things that others
miss. It's not always fun.
This morning I was standing
under a line of fir trees, which
were slightly blowing in the
wind. At one level, the usual
swooshy noise that fir trees
make was going on, and then,
at another level, with the wind,
there were groans and creaks
and almost song-line music
sounds also emanating.
And....I got to thinking. I
began wondering about this
entire Creator/Creation thing.
Doing ONE thing at a time,
I'd imagine, didn't exist in
this God's kingdom or things
by fiat. Perhaps it was all-at-
once? Or just outside of time
and any considerations of it?
BUT, how much of this did or
would this Creator have known?
Take the fir trees, as an example.
Would Creator X have known
of the wind, and the swoosh;
probably, yes? Or just the trees?
In addition, would Creator X
have also know that, in addition
to the swoosh and wind, there
was another entire level of
interactive 'music' that was to
be achieved? Would Creator
X have tried all these sounds
out; to know that, instead of
music some vile strings of
curse words would not
emanate instead? That the
rubbing branches would not
burst into flames? How much
of this was concept? How much
was conjecture, if 'God' even
does conjecture? Anyway,
the wind (that same wind?
Or does sequential time divide
things up so there are always
'different' winds?) was blowing.
It was nice moment and then
I hear some lady screaming.
I'm at the river-bend, Raritan,
and just off a ways there's a
dog park. She's screaming,
'You pushed me! You assaulted
me!' Way out of control, I
could tell, instantly. A guy
had come in with his 2 dogs,
the lady's dog got a bit aggressive
over the new entries, (they were
all 'small' dogs), the guy had
gotten pissed off, swept the
ladies little dog up and quite
nearly threw it at her, during
which time it did come off as
him pushing the dog into her
chest. He then 'ordered' her
and her dog to get out! It was
not developing very well, and,
in the interim, another lady in
the large dog park starts yelling,
'I called 911!!' The doom bells
began ringing. The guy's freaking
out; two cop cars swiftly arrive.
-
I knew nothing, and had seen
nothing; did not wish to be
questioned, implicated, or
pointed out as a witness. 'The
hairy guy saw it, the bum was
a witness.' The bum was not.
The big scene took ten minutes,
the people were separated, some
sort of a review was written,
and I kept on walking.
-
When each of us had arisen
that morning, was this already
in our cards? Or was this a
chance meet and a chance
happening? Was Creator X
here aware of this small plight?
How free is free, how wrong is
wrong, and how right is right?
Sometimes I think there are
too many songs playing at once
for there to be any music at all.
Was that figured in too?
-
I guess I'd have to say I've always
been touchy about time. Like, as I
opened this chapter, I said it was
7:15 or something. Right now it's
1:04. That's already into the next
day. I kind of hate sleep, except
for the dream quotient parts of it,
which I always enjoy, read into
carefully, and try never to get out
of. Reverse-step backwards. I
like it there. It was always my goal
to stay up right through as many
nights as I could - I mean, cleanly.
No drugs or amphetamines. That's
just BS cheating. I liked it straight
and natural, and I got it done any
number of times. 2 days was about
my limit, then everything got hazy,
groggy, and I began losing interest.
Which is a bad sign for a writer-type.
Missing too much of what's around
you can be deadly. It's important to
be on full-alert. What starts happening,
to drunks and addicts, I've noticed,
is that everyone begins writing like
Hemingway. Ernest (that's a wordplay),
short sentences. Direct head-hits with
little flourish. And you know why?
That's because they tire. The mind
tires. Its discretion for detail is
lost. Bravado takes over. The fire
is dwindled. Long-views, like any
outside vantages, are gone.
-
Do you see what I just did there,
in my maleficence of spite and
ill-will? I mimicked a suicide. I
acted a Hemingway. Not good,
mind you, but I did it. That's an
up-two-days binge and all on
dry matter. I used to walk the
docks, when there were docks,
and there'd be all these sheds
and almost lean-to's, all jumbled
together at water's edge; trucks
and guys hanging around, boat
noises, and those really cool
nighttime harbor whistles and
bare lightbulbs glistening off
the swaying water. I was there
one day, I sense it was afternoon,
with my father - who'd come
in to the city in his 1960 Chevy
station wagon, sky-blue, looking
for me; making sure maybe I
wasn't dead or something. How
he ever thought he'd find that
out just by cruising around is
beyond me. But, this time he
knew where I was. So we're
sitting around, watching stuff
happen (this was the years when
the elevated West-Side Miller
Highway still ran overhead, along
the waterfront, and you could
freely pork or dump a car or truck
there, under the overpass roadway.
It was real east then, and, as
they would say now, real
laid-back). All of a sudden he
springs up, all agitated and
excited, and rushes over to the
nearby hot dog guy at the cart.
Turns out, it's 'Tony Mantovani'
or some guy from Bayonne he
grew up with. They hadn't seen
each other in like 4,000 years
and it was great, old, homecoming
day from that point. I got called
over, introduced as Number One
son, all sorts of geographical
crap exchanged, life-tales, 'where
you been, what you do now Andy,'
stuff. It was OK, but after that
time this Tony guy always knew
who I was, which I didn't much
like. But it got me a free hot dog
here and there, which was good.
It was cool to know my father
knew a hot-dog vendor! And
my father was always funny
about stuff. Like friendships,
and names too. To him the
whole idea of being a friend
was a constant 'present.' Time
never existed; like with this
Tony guy, it was as if only
10 minutes had elapsed and
and they were still 14. And
names too - Tony was lucky
because he was already a Tony,
but anyone else, instantly, got
the shortcut name. Robert
was immediately 'Bobby.'
Joe was 'Joey.' Ed was 'Eddy.'
you might as well always have
been born with a first name
that ended in 'y' - as far as
he was concerned. Mostly it
was OK, no one ever really
seemed to mind, but, to me,
to be honest about it, I detested
my father for given away his
low-class status by doing that.
Like at the Studio School once,
I introduced him to this rich guy,
Bontacore du Montpassant,
from somewhere in France
or something. He starts to
immediately address him
as 'Bonny.' Not really, just
kidding, to produce a point.
-
So, anyway, I'm going to
go on here with lots more
stuff, but these right now
particular recollections are to
show how I became 'religious.'
I don't know what else it's
called; it's not about any of
that defined church-crap, or
doctrine, or any of that. That's
all secular junk you can heave
out the nearest window. That's
all the 'Devil coming in the
name of the Lord stuff.' I'd
rather pace the stage at Carnegie
Hall naked than have to put up
with any of that. Real 'religion'
is different. It's spiritual, and the
sort of thing that fills the lungs
with fire, but doesn't burn
them a bit. Next chapter is
my theory of Creation, as
revealed to me, perfectly, and
it all proves that nothing really
exists at all. You'll see.
(coming down easy, lord god almighty)
You know how someone
always wants you to level
with them? I quit caring at
about 7:15. There are always
too many variables, and no
way of ever knowing for
sure that you've got your
point across. It's just, after
that point, a deep, chancy,
hole. That was most often
the kind of gray area I
always lived in, even when
little (young). Some say
'Libra' - you're all like
that; others say, 'You're
too sensitive.' Who knows
what about any of that?
-
My eyesight has always
been different - I can see
all those burn marks and
nicks and things that others
miss. It's not always fun.
This morning I was standing
under a line of fir trees, which
were slightly blowing in the
wind. At one level, the usual
swooshy noise that fir trees
make was going on, and then,
at another level, with the wind,
there were groans and creaks
and almost song-line music
sounds also emanating.
And....I got to thinking. I
began wondering about this
entire Creator/Creation thing.
Doing ONE thing at a time,
I'd imagine, didn't exist in
this God's kingdom or things
by fiat. Perhaps it was all-at-
once? Or just outside of time
and any considerations of it?
BUT, how much of this did or
would this Creator have known?
Take the fir trees, as an example.
Would Creator X have known
of the wind, and the swoosh;
probably, yes? Or just the trees?
In addition, would Creator X
have also know that, in addition
to the swoosh and wind, there
was another entire level of
interactive 'music' that was to
be achieved? Would Creator
X have tried all these sounds
out; to know that, instead of
music some vile strings of
curse words would not
emanate instead? That the
rubbing branches would not
burst into flames? How much
of this was concept? How much
was conjecture, if 'God' even
does conjecture? Anyway,
the wind (that same wind?
Or does sequential time divide
things up so there are always
'different' winds?) was blowing.
It was nice moment and then
I hear some lady screaming.
I'm at the river-bend, Raritan,
and just off a ways there's a
dog park. She's screaming,
'You pushed me! You assaulted
me!' Way out of control, I
could tell, instantly. A guy
had come in with his 2 dogs,
the lady's dog got a bit aggressive
over the new entries, (they were
all 'small' dogs), the guy had
gotten pissed off, swept the
ladies little dog up and quite
nearly threw it at her, during
which time it did come off as
him pushing the dog into her
chest. He then 'ordered' her
and her dog to get out! It was
not developing very well, and,
in the interim, another lady in
the large dog park starts yelling,
'I called 911!!' The doom bells
began ringing. The guy's freaking
out; two cop cars swiftly arrive.
-
I knew nothing, and had seen
nothing; did not wish to be
questioned, implicated, or
pointed out as a witness. 'The
hairy guy saw it, the bum was
a witness.' The bum was not.
The big scene took ten minutes,
the people were separated, some
sort of a review was written,
and I kept on walking.
-
When each of us had arisen
that morning, was this already
in our cards? Or was this a
chance meet and a chance
happening? Was Creator X
here aware of this small plight?
How free is free, how wrong is
wrong, and how right is right?
Sometimes I think there are
too many songs playing at once
for there to be any music at all.
Was that figured in too?
-
I guess I'd have to say I've always
been touchy about time. Like, as I
opened this chapter, I said it was
7:15 or something. Right now it's
1:04. That's already into the next
day. I kind of hate sleep, except
for the dream quotient parts of it,
which I always enjoy, read into
carefully, and try never to get out
of. Reverse-step backwards. I
like it there. It was always my goal
to stay up right through as many
nights as I could - I mean, cleanly.
No drugs or amphetamines. That's
just BS cheating. I liked it straight
and natural, and I got it done any
number of times. 2 days was about
my limit, then everything got hazy,
groggy, and I began losing interest.
Which is a bad sign for a writer-type.
Missing too much of what's around
you can be deadly. It's important to
be on full-alert. What starts happening,
to drunks and addicts, I've noticed,
is that everyone begins writing like
Hemingway. Ernest (that's a wordplay),
short sentences. Direct head-hits with
little flourish. And you know why?
That's because they tire. The mind
tires. Its discretion for detail is
lost. Bravado takes over. The fire
is dwindled. Long-views, like any
outside vantages, are gone.
-
Do you see what I just did there,
in my maleficence of spite and
ill-will? I mimicked a suicide. I
acted a Hemingway. Not good,
mind you, but I did it. That's an
up-two-days binge and all on
dry matter. I used to walk the
docks, when there were docks,
and there'd be all these sheds
and almost lean-to's, all jumbled
together at water's edge; trucks
and guys hanging around, boat
noises, and those really cool
nighttime harbor whistles and
bare lightbulbs glistening off
the swaying water. I was there
one day, I sense it was afternoon,
with my father - who'd come
in to the city in his 1960 Chevy
station wagon, sky-blue, looking
for me; making sure maybe I
wasn't dead or something. How
he ever thought he'd find that
out just by cruising around is
beyond me. But, this time he
knew where I was. So we're
sitting around, watching stuff
happen (this was the years when
the elevated West-Side Miller
Highway still ran overhead, along
the waterfront, and you could
freely pork or dump a car or truck
there, under the overpass roadway.
It was real east then, and, as
they would say now, real
laid-back). All of a sudden he
springs up, all agitated and
excited, and rushes over to the
nearby hot dog guy at the cart.
Turns out, it's 'Tony Mantovani'
or some guy from Bayonne he
grew up with. They hadn't seen
each other in like 4,000 years
and it was great, old, homecoming
day from that point. I got called
over, introduced as Number One
son, all sorts of geographical
crap exchanged, life-tales, 'where
you been, what you do now Andy,'
stuff. It was OK, but after that
time this Tony guy always knew
who I was, which I didn't much
like. But it got me a free hot dog
here and there, which was good.
It was cool to know my father
knew a hot-dog vendor! And
my father was always funny
about stuff. Like friendships,
and names too. To him the
whole idea of being a friend
was a constant 'present.' Time
never existed; like with this
Tony guy, it was as if only
10 minutes had elapsed and
and they were still 14. And
names too - Tony was lucky
because he was already a Tony,
but anyone else, instantly, got
the shortcut name. Robert
was immediately 'Bobby.'
Joe was 'Joey.' Ed was 'Eddy.'
you might as well always have
been born with a first name
that ended in 'y' - as far as
he was concerned. Mostly it
was OK, no one ever really
seemed to mind, but, to me,
to be honest about it, I detested
my father for given away his
low-class status by doing that.
Like at the Studio School once,
I introduced him to this rich guy,
Bontacore du Montpassant,
from somewhere in France
or something. He starts to
immediately address him
as 'Bonny.' Not really, just
kidding, to produce a point.
-
So, anyway, I'm going to
go on here with lots more
stuff, but these right now
particular recollections are to
show how I became 'religious.'
I don't know what else it's
called; it's not about any of
that defined church-crap, or
doctrine, or any of that. That's
all secular junk you can heave
out the nearest window. That's
all the 'Devil coming in the
name of the Lord stuff.' I'd
rather pace the stage at Carnegie
Hall naked than have to put up
with any of that. Real 'religion'
is different. It's spiritual, and the
sort of thing that fills the lungs
with fire, but doesn't burn
them a bit. Next chapter is
my theory of Creation, as
revealed to me, perfectly, and
it all proves that nothing really
exists at all. You'll see.
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