11. FLEET OF FOOT

#11. FLEET OF FOOT

I once knew a girl who lived in

New York City. Whenever we'd

visit with each other, we'd talk

about various things. She had

a grandfather who'd written  -

many years before  -  a book

entitled 'Lincoln, Master of English.'

It was about, yes, Abraham Lincoln,

but not about his Presidency or his

politics or the issues of the Civil War,

or any of that. Curiously, and

interestingly too, it was about, as

the title suggested, Lincoln's command

of oratory and biblical cadence and

the enrapturing forms of language

and voice he used. He lived in Nutley,

as an old fellow, with his wife, in a

very nice stone house. Probably

quite expensive too. We visited once,

and I found them each to be very

pleasant, and grand conversationalists

too. Years later, as I'd re-tell of this to

friends, and others, we'd usually always

end up remarking on the basic incongruity

of that title and subject, and then it would

dissemble into jokes, usually instigated,

of course, by me. The sorts of parody

things that went like : 'Stalin, Great

Badminton Player.' Or, 'Hitler, Very

Skilled Bowler.' I won't go on, you

get the gist. The idea was to take the

concept and the person out of their

usual context. Not mass murderer,

just a person renowned for something

else. 'Idi Amin, Wonderful Gardener';

'Pol Pot, Practiced Gourmet; Saddam

Hussein, Great Checker Player.'

-

Anyway, this girl, the author's

granddaughter here, used to always

amuse me  -  with her views of urban

life versus the sort of lives lived here

in these 'hinterlands', hereabouts, I

mean : New Jersey. She'd once remarked

to me that she couldn't understand how

we could live in situations where the

door opens right to the outside, (being

used to hallways and apartment levels

and stairways and all herself). She

remarked that she didn't think she'd

be able to do that, it would be too

scary and seemingly so dangerous.

I'd say 'Well, it's not exactly like we

have lions and tigers, fierce, running

about. And anyway, they'd have to

get across the lawn and driveway first.'

(Leave them laughing, I always say).

-

When I was in the Studio School, I

hung out a lot with a girl named

Judy Tenenbaum, now a big-time

artist under another name. Whenever

I'd be hopping a bus or train, to run

home a bit, a day or two here or there,

to Avenel, she'd always refer to it as

my 'going out to visit the provinces.'

She too was a life-long New York City

person, (in addition to her travels to

France and Maine and Germany, and

all those other far-flung places she'd

hit) and she referred to anything not

NYC as 'the provinces.' I always

thought that was odd too. She wasn't

much the kind of person you could

joke around with, so I never really

played around with the concept or

responded with any sort of biting

anti-humor or anything. I'd rather

have thought she'd then just snap

my neck than laugh. When you're

a strange kid, as I was, in different

places, you develop (or I did anyway)

a skill right off of 'reading' people.

So you know what's up and who can

take what from you. It's a way of just

being careful and sensing things  -

the way a dog sniffs the air again

each morning, sometimes in almost

the same spot (no 'Spot' pun there),

just to again be sure of the place

and the situation.  I developed that

skill quickly and early on. New York,

I found, was not the sort of place

you want to be caught crossing people.

You need to learn how to intuit, and

read, situations right off. (That's a

lot of nothing over a 'provinces'

reference, but I'm a cautious guy).

When you ain't got nothing, you

got nothing to lose?' No, that's not

exactly right, you still have plenty.

-

When I first got to New York City, 

in this same vein, I entered very

quickly the underside of what is to

be called 'urban life', I guess, by a

stretch. Essentially homeless, 

walking the streets, sleeping in 

Tompkins Square Park for a time,

all that stuff. The first time I did

actually 'work', to get some money

and get something started, I hoped,

I found myself working with a few

marginal at best characters. This I 

did very gingerly, with some 

trepidation for sure. The one guy

who befriended me, right off, was

a hulking Native-American-Mexican

guy, named Jose or something. He

was big, tall, fierce and brooding.

I sensed trouble. The story that did

eventually percolate up to me about 

him  -  from him, in fact, since on 

one else would much talk for him  -  

was that he was there from Colorado,

hiding out, where he'd pushed his 

wife out of a speeding car as they 

were going around a steep curve

on a rugged hill. Quite a story, yes,

but all the usual questions and doubts

that would arise normally were just

left unsaid  -  because of this guy's

demeanor and ways of being. No, I 

would not be the one to say, or to

scoff, 'Yeah, right, while you were

driving, at speed, one hand on the 

wheel, I suppose? And she went

willingly? Right out the car, at your

request, no clutching, no clinging,

no struggle?' It would follow, if so,

that I'd probably be the next on his

list of victims. At that point, such a

person rules his own domain, no 

questions. I harbored my suspicions,

but kept quite about everything. The

raft-load of jokes I could have hit

him with was endless. 'Oh, really,

did she bounce when she hit the 

rocks? Have you ever heard of 

Tempura House? It's a home for

lightly battered women.' After 

this they just start turning what's

called  -  or used to be called  -  

'off color'. So I'll stop, even 

though I don't think that 

concept exists any longer.

-

One thing that strikes me, as I drive

around now  -  this is New Jersey stuff,

no longer in New York City here  -  is

that, when I was a kid, everything I used 

to see was wood  -  houses, garages, 

workshops, all that. All was made

of wood  -  if a little old, it leaned or

sagged; if the paint was a little old, it

had faded, or peeled or shipped away. I

remember distinctly the way old colors 

would change over time  -  beaten by the

sunlight, faded by endless days and as the

porous, thirsty wood again absorbed or

engulfed the color and paint, almost as 

if back into itself. Wood was a real and 

a solid thing. My doghouses were always 

of wood; my father had built sheds and 

things, always of wood. It would dry-rot,

break away, fall off in pieces, give you clues

to itself and have all those stories of the

times and adventures it had gone through.

Wood was like the people it represented :

all those old, serious folk, plodding along,

intent on task and quiet in their ways.

That's all gone now. I look around, and

everything is plastic or vinyl sided, not

even metal anymore  -  all the shades of

color or plastic tans or light blues. The

plastic ages badly. Even fences are

plastic now. That's some serious

difference  -  the entire tenor or place

and atmosphere changes by that. The 

roadways and the rows of houses, 

everything is different now. The world is, 

or seems to want to be, lighter, more 

colorful; playful, less serious by far  -  

nothing long-lasting, everything fleeting 

and ephemeral. Even the jokes, and the

music and the 'literature.' It's all different.

People getting thrown out of cars? There's

probably a reality show about that 

somewhere out in the provinces.

10. MONOPOLES AND SILVER FOX

10. MONOPOLES AND 
SILVER FOX

I don't know what to tell you; I never

know what to tell anybody. My life is

as dumb as a cinderblock, so don't 

look to me, except perhaps to tell

you where the best free parking is or

something like that. Here's an example

of how I think  -  I'm pretty certain

it will show how how, in most ways,

I'm just stuck in a pliant ditch of

not thinking as others think: All 

around us now they're putting up

these 'monopoles'. They are tall,

singularly tough-looking power-line

towers slowly replacing those old 

1920's steel things that look like

Erector Set towers. The old is old,

and these newer ones bear the 

presence of a totally different 

time and place. All that is as it 

is, I neither care the need for 

them or the practice of accepting 

them (hideous, gross, awful).

My point is, when I myself see 

one of these things, my first 

thought, right away goes to the

mechanical physics of them. The

roundness. At the bottom, they are

pretty large-circumferenced; a big,

round bottom, so to speak. That 

is placed onto the ground into a 

concrete holding structure, prepared

and pre-dug. I always wonder the

mathematics of the relationship

ratio  -   what is the ratio of the

bottom, round, to the very top, 

round? Is it a fifteen-to-one step 

down? Ten-to-one? Five-to-one? 

I can never tell. At what point does

the tip-factor override the stability

factor? How broad have they 

figured out that the bottom must 

be to properly support the graduated 

height, in storms and winds, etc., 

and who and by what means was it 

all figured? Computerized programs? 

Real-world experience?  I'd love 

knowing all that.

-

Is that sort of thinking different? I 

don't know. If there are others who

read this to whom that same line of

thinking initially occurred, I'd actually

like to know that. I have trouble at

time focusing or landing in on the

'essentials' of what I see  -  I mean the

appearances and realities of them. I 

figure you're just supposed to see 

things like these, accept them, and 

not try to think them through  -  so 

that, over time, they just become part

of the fabric of your life. I remember

being a kid and seeing those things,

as if they were giant monsters traipsing

all over the landscape. For the longest

time I couldn't figure them out, and it

was only later, after learning about things,

and the Tennessee Valley Authority and

Rural Electrification and things like that,

when I finally realized that a grand, huge 

and interconnected power-grid had been 

placed over everything, in some strange

and almost secret format, to step up

and step down and transport electrification,

for people's toasters and televisions and 

all that goofy house stuff we just take for

granted. Without that grid we'd still be

lighting fires, in a sense. Those big, 

marching figures carry themselves to

all sorts of places  -  over hills and 

valleys, down and up, towers along 

rights-of-way torn and mowed and 

cleaned through everything we have.

Of late now, it's monopoles; so I guess

the beat goes on.

-

You see, out in the real world I'm 

kind of helpless. Not yet used to 

things, as crazy as that sounds. I am 

hesitant in situations where I have 

to interact with others, or be

introduced to others, get my 

'point' across. I shy away, as 

much as I can, from that sort 

of thing. It all just doesn't much

work. Or so I say anyway.

-

Yesterday I made mention of that

barn and the 5 cars that were left 

there, the Mercury Turnpike Cruiser 

specifically. It was all kind of dreamy, 

like a sequence you can't quite put 

back together the next morning. I

used to always refer to all this as my

'Ruritania'. A far-away retreat. It was 

only a bit amusing then to realize how

these left-behind automobiles messed

with that concept. Like having a delivery

truck full of apples pull into the Garden

of Eden to make a delivery. Here were

5 leftover cars, sunken into the soil and 

just rotting away, each probably 5 years 

past their last use. Mercury, Corvair,

another Mercury, Ford, Chevrolet, and

then, in another location about 300 feet 

away, a couple of trucks. I was surrounded

by cast-off, leftover steel; iron-age monsters

cluttering up my Eden. What would I do?

Well, I'll tell you. We used them for target

practice. it began with cans and bottles 

set up on the tops of the car, and then cars. 

From a distance, firing at them, eventually 

windows were shot out, and holes in the 

facing sides became fairly prevalent. 

We'd shoot from farther away, and then 

closer up. Idiot stuff, the way time is 

somehow passed in the middle of nowhere. 

Who'd have ever thought we were making

 a statement? Blowing the Industrial

Revolution to smithereens! If only. It

was all unsaid, and all my occasional

visitors got to shoot. Eventually, yes, 

when rubble just became nothing more

than rubble, it was all carted away. One 

car at a time, dragged off to a local wrecker.

The trucks? They just stayed there.

-

A far cry from Walden Pond then, you night

say. But, not really. My intensive eyes were

open and ready at all times for each bit of

awareness and knowledge I could get : there

were mysteries everywhere. Weird objects

in the evening fields  -  deer, running bears,

foxes, whatever. One by one our geese and

ducks began disappearing -  only after a while

did a nearby farmer drive over to tell me there

was a silver fox they'd been seeing, sunning 

itself often on a not too far off tree stump.

The fox that had been feasting on our geese 

and ducks. The fox that these farmer guys 

were intent on eradicating. Which they did,

in short order a few days later. One less

Summertime fox, and a nice silver-fox

hide for someone. (They skinned and sold

it for what to them was a satisfying and

happy sum). I plinked dead cars. 

They plinked live foxes. What's

the difference there?