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RUDIMENTS 1162.

RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,162
('head down...don't look up')
Well. Here I am, seemingly now
relegated to a back-bench burner.
My dog is dead. I'm in the process
of a long, tedious uproot; boxes
and carting. My mind and spirit
tells me I can get through this,
nicely, with compunction, and
with a positive, creative field
of endeavor. I work for light
like that.
-
Pulling - no, tugging - from
the other direction is all the local
eastcoast, NJ, semi-ghetto way
of living that I have to jam against.
It's a startling fact, realizing that
upon returning here each time,
after 4 or 5 days away, this place
appears decrepit, beleaguered,
under assault, poor, morose,
and wasted - with little quality
anywhere. I trace my eyes, while
driving, internally, as they leave
the hills and mountains, the
solitary singleness of the small
roads, the twists and turns, all
between gravel and dirt, rut and
redstone. It's a different world,
entire. And the two no longer
mesh. I take my leave.
-
It's a very strange feeling, this
tug between places. Yet, it's a
good feeling, because I can sense
the destructive tendencies now
apparent and coming to fruition, in
places like Avenel and Woodbridge.
Things I've been yelling about for
5 years now. To no avail. Every
turn I make, there's a new leveling,
a planned new strip of housing and
crowded building - trees and nature
by the cartload being destroyed,
ambient local temperatures rising
because there's nothing left but
pavement, macadam, concrete,
masonry, glass, crowded roads,
and parking lots (lest I forget,
dead shopping strips and malls).
That doesn't even include most
of the implanted people. There's
something nice to be said (well?
Is there?) about loud, big-butt,
obnoxious people? About the
walks and caterwauls of treacherous
folk talking over every nook and
cranny? Bags of fast-food and
high-caloric intake crap addicts
storming through a supermarket
tidying up the aisles by gorging?
Loud noise? Beefsteak-steady
feed-lines? Concert-music all night?
Nope, nothing here for me. What's
behind all this is the local political
gumption of duplicitous fast-buck
artists acting as officials, mayor,
council, agency, inspectors, and
suppliers, bleeding into one another
and handshaking-down this town.
Shady Acres turned into Shakedown
Street. 'You wanna' build here? I
get cut in, on macadam and paving,
on the brick contracts and the trucking
in and out.' Early-deal real-estate
contracts get done in the dead of
night, with a rotating-door Business
Administrator's Office hiring slugs
and contract-thugs. At every turn,
a hand is out.
-
The end result is chaos, and a paucity
of quality, good taste, wisdom, and
any sense at all. The operative factor
is Corruption, with a capital C.
Getting into this decrepit hell-hole
of a place is the easy part; any
subsidized pig-wallow farmer can
steer you to the right agency for the
likes of Station Village, Bunns Lane,
or any of twenty new projects just
underway. Getting out is what's
difficult - unless you're a finally
caught political dweeb, getting
hosted out in handcuffs, FINALLY,
and chucked into the back of a
lawman's car, with your head
down and making no eye contact
whatsoever with those you've lied
to, stole from, and corrupted.

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