RUDIMENTS 1033.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,033

(oh dad, poor dad, mama's hung you

in the closet and I'm feeling so bad)

I still find myself getting 

mad about all sorts of things,

and it's mostly, apparently,

the kind of things others are

not much phased by. I used

to fight back, and push, but

now I guess I just let it go.

The world is too much for 

me, all the chigger-bastards

are already in control, and 

there's not much else I can

do. Everyone I used to know

is starting to die off. In and

of itself tht's not fun, but

it only gets worse. It's a

quite curious moment when

you come to this  -  let me 

explain: When all the people

you currently 'know,' like on

a weekly basis, let's say, in

the everyday course of things,

are easily outnumbered by the

same sort of people, once living,

who have now died off. As a

person  -  one singular human

being  -  you don't really 'know'

when that moment hits, but

eventually, unless you're like

some big-deal superstar or

legend or famous person, it

somehow dawns on you. You

know more dead people than

you know alive people. As the

living peel away, one by one,

into the sanctums of the dead,

they're not really replaced. 

Or not much anyway, and

certainly not enough to keep

that number static. I should

know. I should also be 20 again, 

because I'd sure like to see this

all unfold one more time, when

I'd have a better perspective

on it.

-

My Father was a pretty nice guy.

Giving, in his way. There were

two very different sides to him,

and you needed to be careful to

watch for which side was coming

out. That took some skill, and it

took time to learn too. You had 

to watch for the signs, or have 

a sense of what was coming, so

you'd play to that side. Or flee.

He was very volatile, or even

'go-off-able'  -  and you didn't 

want to be there when that

occurred. He often made weird

comments, had a real thing about

displaying 'Manliness,' claimed

the Russians (though he meant,

in the 1970's 'Soviets) were

already on the Moon, watching

our every move (?). I think,

maybe, his problem was that

he only liked himself. Manly,

brusque, blue-eyed, strong,

peasant-stock rural Italians.

He hated Poles; Jews; Homos;

guys who dressed up and wore

hats; train-commuters; men who

used briefcases. Jeepers, certainly

today he'd be all nutso-crazy

over all the indeterminate sex,

trans-gender, rainbow-nation

bullshit everywhere. He'd

probably be a mass-killer.

My aunt (his sister) used to

say she would never drive

with him, in a car, because

he drove like a cowboy. When

I was a kid I figured cowboys

drove cattle, so I never knew

what she meant, though I later

learned she meant reckless and

speedy. 'Jes' gettin' the cattle

to San Antoine', Mae; sit tight.'

-

Fun stuff. In his work career,

he got in trouble a few times

for punching people out,

fighting, and  -  one time  -  

in fact was taken to court

for supposedly going after 

some fellow upholstery-shop

guy in Newark with a pair of

shears (which, I also learned,

meant scissors). Nothing ever

came from it, that I knew of,

(I was about 6), but 'we' were

supposed to be getting sued and

all that. My Mother was wailing for

days; but then it all disappeared

as an issue. I figured the poor

guy must have been a Polish,

gay, Jew; and God help him if

he was black or trans-gendered.

Those were some days!

-

Besides the thing about the

Russians being on the moon,

he always had this other 

debatable opinion that we

quarreled over, often enough.

It was the equivalent of our

father/son talk, which I never

got. But I learned all that crap

later, in the seminary, from

freaking priests who wouldn't

know, on that count, what they

were talking about if their sisters

were sitting next to them, naked.

What a way to learn the essentials.

Anyway, it was about maggots

and dead bodies. How this

entire subject ever came up

enough to be serious and

germane enough for him to go

on about a lot, I never knew. But

his theory was that, when you

die and they bury you and all 

that, under the ground your

body produces maggots that

consume you. The thing was,

he claimed that we each already

had the maggots or the maggot

potential, within us, and they 

self-produce, as we rot, and

they consume us. No one puts 

them there, they're not from

the soil, or anything like that.

They're just inherent, in us,

already, as part of some of our

genetic make-up waiting to

happen. (I hope you can follow

this). I used to tell him that

with all the embalming and

draining that's done to a dead

body, that couldn't be, and

besides that, where would 

the latent maggots, all fat and

sated, go after consuming

us? They'd die in that same

sealed box we were in. Human

life is bad enough on that count,

speaking of what's-the-use, but

why the heck do it to dead-end

maggots too? I never knew what

his ideas behind all that were,

but I guess he knows now. And 

to date, thankfully, and I hope,

as of this  writing, I don't.

-

Dad's are funny creatures, and

I know my turn at that bat was

a miserable wreck. But there was

nothing else I could do. I didn't

even like life, so why would I like

any of its offshoots. Parenting?

Boy, what a burden that was.

Probably because the damned

Russians up there were watching

my every move. Right?