Tuesday, February 21, 2017

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.

Monday, February 20, 2017

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 
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.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

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.