336. RABBITS COMING OUT OF HATS

336. RABBITS COMING 

OUT OF HATS

The wonder of a million 

things is the same as the

wonder of one thing : I 

stood around taking it

all in. If I can return to

the Staten Island Ferry

for a moment, I wish to

add that the perceptual

basis of all that, (see

previous chapter) as

I broke it down after 

repeated seeings, had 

the same elemental 

quality as the rest of

life - thus the connection

of One Thing to the All.

Viewing Reality as a 

farther-off fixed point,

everything before it, in 

the 'foreground' as it 

were, was (and is) always

in motion, and is what we

react to in our daily living.

Spinning and moving.

Life thereby gets its

weird perspective, and 

the Staten Island Ferry,

by the obvious way

all of that happened, 

was in actuality a 

scientific trip through 

that premise. If properly 

explained, it could have 

been a wonderful school 

trip for any bunch of

5th grade kids. Of course,

the stupidly sanctioned

'school-teacher' crowd

of today can't think like 

that; they'd rather have

their kids dragged in and

pushed around in some

dirigible-inflation of 

poor information and 

lousy air like the 

Liberty Science 

Center, where they 

can get their science 

delivered instead as 

propaganda and

kiddie-fodder and 

go home happy and 

gleeful. I daresay

that's what passes 

for educational

protocol today.

-

It would do no 

great dis-service to 

the world of today 

if we simply got 

back to essentials, 

and broke down a 

lot of the unseemly 

crap that gets sponsored 

and established by 

government services  

-  grown way out of 

proportion and into

realms where it no 

longer has any business 

and was never part 

of the original

American plan at 

all. Like any of 

these Science 

Centers and Zoos 

and Hands-On Museums.

It's all such prattle. Back

in 1967, of which I'm 

here speaking, man 

when I hit the streets 

of New York there 

was no soft landing 

or safety net. It was 

real, and it was a 

forest fire. There 

was no one there, 

for any of us, to 

guide us along 

and soft-talk us 

into what we 

should or should 

no be thinking about 

things  -  or if there 

was it kept far, far 

away from the 

sort of crowd I 

was mixing with.

Listen, I'm a veteran,

but of many different

kinds of things; and

I never got anything 

from it. I had a friend

who came back from

Vietnam, completely

drained and voided of

any personality  -  

haggard and drawn 

and crazy, with a look 

in his eyes like he just

dropped his infant 

baby down a coal 

chute by mistake.

Yeah, that scary. Years

went by, I'd see him

here and there. He 

was completely 

unresponsive,

spinning around 

town on his bicycle 

like a mad hatter. For

thirty years plus, no 

one would give him

the time of day. That

kind of veteran. Then 

one day about ten 

years ago I bumped 

into him, quite by

accident, and he was

all cleaned up  -  they'd

cut his hair and his

wild beard; he had a 

brand-new Chevy truck,

which he called 'my 

Baby.' I asked him 

how was everything, 

and he responded with

happiness. The soldier

re-hab people had taken

him in, cleared him up,

fixed and mended him,

to the point where, he 

said, he now felt 

perfectly right

and normal. Which

all meant trouble to 

me, but which to him

meant normal and

happy and right. I

was glad for him, 

at that level anyway, 

even though secretly 

I was sad they'd

taken back another 

one into their 

infernal system. 

But anyway, he 

said he was about 

to embark on

a round-the-world 

plane jaunt, on 

regular commercial 

jets, with free passes 

all, and maybe six 

or eight stops along 

the two-month journey. 

It was all paid for, the 

travel part anyway, by

government stipend, 

available to all military 

vets as part and parcel 

of their completed 

treatment. So he 

was going off, and 

thrilled by the idea

 to finally get to 

'tour' the world.  

I thought of myself 

and my little battles 

with those same 

bastard authorities

in 1967 at Whitehall 

Induction Center on 

Broadway; (same

induction year as

this guy,  as we were

the same age, or 

within a year),

and I just laughed. 

Yeah man, I was a 

veteran too, but 

of what, I couldn't 

say. But I do hope 

Kenneth enjoyed 

his jaunt.

-

That's what that 

whole fixed horizon 

thing is about  -  

how that distance 

stays the same but, 

right in front of 

us, all things change 

and transform. Life 

is a magical realm, 

and I had trouble 

distinguishing the 

magic, one trick 

from the other. 

Rabbits coming 

out of hats is 

one thing; acceptable, 

sort of. But I had 

hats coming out 

of rabbits, which 

made lots of things 

really difficult 

for me.

335. THE GREAT WATER-RIDE FRENZY

335. THE GREAT 

WATER-RIDE FRENZY

The long reach of

a life, a single life, like

the water surrounding

an island, will both

completely encompass

that life, and free it.

Often were the times

I would steal away to

the waterfront. Like

Melville's Ishmael,

I'd walk to the very

edge and simply stare

out to sea. Not for me

alone so much of his

heavy words rang out.

'Dark November of the

Soul,' and all that  -

rather it was just the

breakaway from

confinement that

enticed. Like a 

too-tight coat or 

jacket constricting

the shoulders and 

arms, there were 

times when living on 

land was just too

confining for the

light I'd see.

-

The Staten Island Ferry,

at that time I think, was

five cents. For that tiny

amount, unlike now

when it's free but you

have to disembark at

each end and wait to

re-embark on the next

ferry, you could remain

on the same boat for as

long as you chose, and

just ride back and forth,

over and over  -  night

or day. One fare. There 

were certain ferry riders

too who actually did 

this. It was a haven. 

Especially at night : 

deep, chilled, river 

fogs, cloaking the

waterway and

allowing only the

passing glimmer of

harbor lights, other

boats, and the lights 

of the tankers, tugs, 

and work-craft. And

always, somewhere as

you passed, the lit lamp

of Miss Liberty, fogged

in or cleared, opening

out the harbor. The eye

could see far then. I

would just sit there, for
both the return trips and

the departures, back and

forth, in a sort of floating
study-room; with the clang
of the gaggle of chains and
gates, and the little waves

slapping the bottom of

the big-beast diesel ferry.

I would thrill, each time.

at the end of the NY bound

trip, to the approach of

the crowded and massed

buildings at the bottom

of Manhattan and the

sometimes raucous, the

almost crash-land, of the

ferry into its docking berth.

Two much turbulence, the

wake of another large craft,

a little too much speed into

the docking area, and the

pilings and the very pier

would gnash and grown

as the ferry smashed its

way in, with its people

aghast at the turmoil.

-

I think back now, and it's

all so funny what solitude

means. What the 'solitary'

aspect of life then was.

That's all gone now : today's

version of this same scene

would  -  I am bold enough,

and sorry enough, to say  -

involve idiots. Involve a

hundred eager-festive

moron hands with

hand-helds and cell

phones and the digitized

means of recording the

scene, while retaining

nothing at all, and

experiencing less. Life

is dead-matter now, all

comatose and made stupid.

Life now seems to 'go on'

while people are busy

doing other things. The

distracting annoyances

of an everyday.

-

For what? For what 

gets passed on? 

Absolutely nothing  

-  the style and the

art and the moment 

of the craft have become

the craft itself. Finalized 

and fitfully comatose, 

the people witness now

their equivalence of the

moon-shot landing onto 

the crevices of nothing 

at all. Yet, they cheer it 

on and continue with 

their vapid babble and 

thrustless thrust. Like 

bad sex in a water-machine.

-

From within the cabin 

and confines of the 

Staten Island Ferry,

which probably held

200 people, if filled, 

and with its 24 or so 

automobiles, if fully

stacked  -  (this was 

back when they 

allowed cars on

the ferry. Since 9-11 

that no longer goes 

on. Long time ago 

already)  -  the entire 

trip when properly 

observed took on 

a feel and rhythm 

of its own. First, 

there was the ceaseless 

hum and power-sound 

of the large diesel 

engine pushing 

this through the 

waterway, no small 

task, and one which 

took much power; 

riders had the choice

of all the indoors here, 

with seating and 

coffee and snack bar;

itinerant musicians 

set up with their 

saxophones or guitars, 

plodding away, 

over-topping the 

noise, or trying to, 

and collecting thereby 

their nickels and 

dimes and quarters. 

Those outside, on 

their open-air boat

ride, took one sort 

of trip -  exciting, 

nervy, energetic  -  

while those who 

stayed in cabin 

enjoyed their own 

equivalent of 

transport through 

strange territory 

with a sort of 

mumbled, boring 

and very 

institutional-like 

auditorium sitting 

amid badly-painted 

walls and worse 

posters and notifications. 

The surly, the drink,

 the dead or near-dead, 

riding their forever, 

they too were 

usually perched 

in their corners 

cursing the mob 

or sitting out the 

frenzy in their own, 

more odd, frenzy. 

While children 

wailed and mothers 

tried keeping peace 

with pretzels, 

mustard and hot 

dogs handed out 

to the brats.
-
It was all like passage,
like a steerage compartment 
on a simplified immigrant 
crossing. You paid your fee
and you took your bag, often
not knowing from where
you'd left or to where you 
were headed. Gendarmes
there were, but they were
heedless of most things.
As a passenger within,
to gaze out the window
on a cold, Winter night,
or better, late afternoon,
meant seeing the pace of
land against water. The eye
did get accustomed, in
almost some  bio-rhythmic 
way, of the speed of the
 craft as it skirted the 
water : nothing ever 
seemed straight and
a viewer too would soon 
feel accustomed to the 
slow twirl of the ferry, 
against the fixed visual 
of the land off starboard, 
or whatever  -  the turning 
and the passage, and thus 
the speed, became visual, 
translated back, into 
sense and information 
and feel. I often tried, in 
this way, understanding 
my own relativity against 
the hard matter of the 
world. As we passed Miss
Liberty's graceful hulk, at
speed, I'd see the channel 
behind her, the Kill Van 
Kull, in passing, and know 
I was born, right there, 
but unsure where  - as all 
was churning, in a turn, 
swirling some in a 
boat-board frenzy of 
water-speed and 
water-fix. All things 
standing still, while 
apparently moving 
together. Enough! Enough, 
thought I, of this mental
gaming. Just live! Go on, 
straight out! People lining 
up for their snacks and 
baubles nearby made me 
realize that  -  though I may
have thought so, this was
 not really the place 
for deep thoughts.

334. THE ART STORES GAVE ME THE CREEPS

334. THE ART STORES 

GAVE ME THE CREEPS

In the Studio School

I was  -  yes, alas, even

there, the odd man out.

The some-other-kid

from nowhere. Just

getting by. There

were a few really

privileged types

there too; they'd

'lounge' with

me sometimes,

but only because

the downstairs

'lounge' I'd set

up was also my

free room and

sleeping area.

Nobody really

knew that, outside

of the office people

upstairs who'd

allowed me to

stay  -  and a few

others who just

knew I guess

because they

knew me.

Anyway, it

had a bathroom

and a sink, there

was a record

player and even

a table, and two

nice chairs, so

it was a nice

place to just be

-  looking out

through the glass

at what was then

an open-air

connection to

the grassed

courtyard

between a few

buildings. That's

all been blocked

off now, on both

this first, and the

second, floor  -

which once had

like balcony-windows

with a staircase

on each, from

which to descend

like a debutante,

if one wished.

All gone. So

people would

come down, we'd

listen to records,

talk stuff, music,

people, art, ideas.

Completely neutral

and non-committal.

You didn't need to

be a 'friend' or even

know me; I didn't

care and no one

else did either.

One day, as I

was saying, this

rich, privileged

guy, older than

us mostly, by 7

or maybe even

10 years  -  tall,

wealthy looking,

slumming his

way along the

Studio School,

for fun I guess.

I remember he

had a real normal

name, like Stephen

or Steven; and it

was never shortened.

He came in with

this huge deli-sandwich;

at the time it probably

had to cost some

astronomical sum,

like $5.95 or $6.00.

Most sandwiches were

maybe .75 cents.

He opened it up, cut

off like one fourth

of it for himself,

and just gave me

the other part.

Just like that!

I guess I wolfed it

down, because I

remember him

saying to me  -

'I don't believe

I've ever seen

anyone eat a

sandwich so

fast.' I probably

did look like a

complete fool,

but, thinking

quickly, I replied,

'Well, what else

is there to do

with it?'

-

People came in

to hang out;

without any

structure, like

I said, It was

just a common-place.

Like every pipsqueak

college winds up

with some dumpy

intersection they

can call their

'Quadrangle',

referred to as

the Quad,' for

identity, so this

little nowhere

room acted for

the Studio School,

not that it needed

it. It was hard

there, always  -

the Studio School,

I mean, not the

room  -  to make

that concept-separation

of that place from

the rest of NYC,

which was, in

reality, the real

'Quad' that we all

fed off. That was

why we were there.

Eighth Street itself,

back then was a

crazy strip of history

and leftover intensity.

Only 10 years previous

it had been heart-and-soul

center of an entire

other universe of things.

Folk-singers, beats,

intellectual vagrants,

heavers and haulers,

innocents, lackeys,

and hams. It had all

run down. maybe the

last, best thing left

was the Wilentz Book

Store nearby. I've

written about it

before, all those

activities and people,

so I won't belabor

it right now again

(just you wait,

'Enry 'Iggins, just

you wait')... You

could step outside

at any time and

be in a better

place than you'd

ever been before.

Out past Eighth Street,

a person could pretty

much go or get to wherever

they wished or wanted.

All it depended on was

a person's grasp of place.

My own grasp was

getting pretty good.

I'd landed there blank,

and was soaking up

everything at a furious

pace. In every direction

I turned, I'd be someplace

else. Nobody around

me seemed to be

experiencing that.

-

The art supply shops

around, down there,

were really good and

thorough, but they scared

the bejeezus out of me.

Not just because of the

money, which for me

was scarce and in-between,

but mostly because of

the people. I was out

of my element there too.

These clerks and store

people, they treated

art supplies as an option;

a selective choice one made

by taste and opinion. It

wasn't really that at all.

It was a necessary thing;

brushes and paint tubes

cost money, and they had

to be kept up  -  and that

doesn't count the stretcher

bars and canvas and solvent

and things also needed.

Right by us was a 'Utrecht'

art suply store, along

Fourth Avenue  -  which

is what the Bowery turns

into by name after Astor

Place and which, also

by name and after Astor

Place, became 'Book Row,'

which was the name given

to all those ancient and dusty

book shops placed there in

a row. Biblo & Tannen, 

Abbey Book Shop, etc.

The book stores, I could

slide right into; the art 

stores gave me 

the creeps. 

-

But, no matter.

I'd picked up a few

sidekick friends here and

there; people I found 

interesting and I guess

they as well found me 

interesting. Two of them

were San Francisco guys,

well, three actually, but one 

was only for like two weeks.

The three of them were 

stand-out different fro

the New York types. All

that California sun and

softer living stuff did make

a difference, it seemed. Like

a Diebenkorn painting, just

reflecting more the sky and

light and water and color, 

all that they did and how 

they went about it. Of course,

one of the three being old

Jim Tomberg, of whom I've 

already gone on at length

about, (you'll have to go back,

far back, by chapter numbers 

here, for the Jim Tomberg

section), the entire group

was well-shaded by his

presence. Can you say

'Madman?' The others were

far weaker characters, as

far as that intense and

boisterous aspect of strength

and power. Ed Rudolph, a

really solid guy, was (he 

always reminded me of Peter 

Handke,  later on  -  an Austrian 

playwright). Ed used to say 

my drawings, back then, which 

were large and heavily penciled

 with streaks and jagged lines 

(and not much else, actually, 

now as I look back), always 

reminded him of wartime.

I guess. We never really

saw eye-to-eye on that

stuff. Ed was into, even 

back then, video and

electronic arts, which I,

in my turn, detested. 

So, all that wartime stuff.

we had to call a truce.

But, referencing that

sandwich again, I once said

to him, 'Yeah, but did you ever

see anyone draw so fast?'

He didn't get it.