ONE MILLION YEARS TO THE DAY

239. ONE MILLION YEARS TO THE DAY (actual aversion/actual achievement - but oh what a view!):

The hardest thing is being truthful and knowing what to say when you are - for being truthful can cause pain and be painful and many of the supposed effects of it can cause other repercussions not often welcome and partially for that matter not too many people go around saying what they will being 'truthful' to the matter and it's like you always hear people say about little kids and five year olds and stuff how they're 'truthful' and just say what they will because they don't REALIZE the results or repercussions so for that instance it's seen as excusable innocence and light-hearted sweetness and mirth the 'innocence' and joy of childhood and the 'child-like' qualities of the young - and it's OK at that level but by the long time of adulthood it's assumed to be over or better be before trouble starts - prophets have always been truth-talkers and seers and soothsayers have always managed to tell the truth but not many others do - there are so many millions of ways it's avoided that every mark and every twist of a sentence uttered bears the tracks of avoidance and caution - except maybe when the doctor (if he dares) finally says 'you're gonn'a die' - that's a portion of truth-to-the-face to be reckoned with (finally) at last - but outside of those moments it's mostly unused this TRUTH idea - interesting but too deep has potential but too scary uncomfortable but too much to deal with : so we just let it go : and anyone sitting around the old train-track junkyard campfire is going to be ready to tell SOMETHING SOME AVERSION and all along the way it's hard to get to the truth of the point or even to the point itself - shielded as it always is by lack of truth : what are we and where to are we going what have we become and how and why ? anyone want to talk? (it's as if someone says 'he doesn't know how to act' when what they really are saying is 'I don't LIKE the way he's acting') and anyway there's no diet BETTER than death so that's that - lines of cars and a few motorcycle police lined up at the entrance of the tunnel outgoing and the lines of cars are so long that a few blocks away there are NO cops and still plenty of cars and the avenue hookers are going door to door at the cars looking for anyone seeking a suck or a fuck - anything they can do quickly maybe thirty bucks or so and they're not afraid APPARENTLY to speak the truth if that's what it can be called - door to door truthtelling with no shaded areas in between : guys in cars alone awaiting fixation or traffic to move - how's it all done ? I'll never know but I'd bet they pull out of traffic first - all those beleaguered sidestreets along the Javits Center area as I recall had gutters literally lined with cast-off sloppy condoms and you could count them as you walked - but this isn't how I started off here REMEMBER I said the hardest thing is being truthful and if that's not by now an inside joke a pun a double entendre of Shandian proportions I don't know what it : cute is what you make it I guess.
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You've got to have a God you've got to have a source for that God you've got to have an origination for that idea of a source for that God and then you're needing an originator for that source - a reductio ad absurdum which then tacitly involves all matter and the essences and ideas of matter and presence and then space and function movement place and time and an essential cause-and-effect relationship somehow worked out both mentally and upon some other form of a physical plane within properties of tangibility as reality and at the same time self-awareness and factors of evidence trait and removal - time wherein the 'whole' then goes and a source for that too - where the sources each end up then in turn leads to myriad fusings of other ideas gelled together as perhaps alternates of that 'one' reality (or not) which quest for oneness then presupposes a primary presence or primary function which in turn demands senses of deniability and argumentation which demands aspects of refutation and exchange - absolute essential regarding illusionary movement versus true direction and space/time encapsulated within ideas of visibility vision obviousness and directness : this reality will then leave a trail (or trails) of itself in shades of history legend myth and moral each inhabiting the work between tall-tale and tell-tale - whatever the difference - markings and evidences on a globe or paintings within a cave-wall somewhere - what are our original scratchings ? what stories we tried to weave as a silent people eons ago if we did what language drew forth from it - verbalizations OF those selfsame pictures perhaps or illustrations instead of thoughts not yet vocalized or made tellable - fantasy fusion with fragment and figment as we decided what to believe (with guidance ? without guidance) and by this time I wasn't doing anything myself except banging nails and hauling hammers biding time wallowing in sin scrubbing old ideas clean - as I realized it was easier and easier to be vague and far away and more and more difficult to be precise about anything : above my head the pliant shares of others spread their claims - pompous retractions or genteel soundings about love and infatuation and I saw the men at the gym going in but forgot something about it HEARD the loud music pumped for their exercising but forgot all about that too : watched graffiti grow on the wall like spiders and wondered at once of its need or effectiveness 'hating the sin but loving the sinner' as they say and I thought of that as much as I could but never made much sense of it : I went up to a hilltop along Copper Mine Ridge just to look down into the valley below where there were cabins and small houses with winding roads through the woods and small ponds and streams leading to them - nothing large or really outrageous but instead just what I could see as many minor and meandering items all pulling together to make the local countryside wet and green and wide and verdant (not 30 miles from the heart of NYC) - I sometimes wished to be living there myself with a small place for my own use a two-room hut or any cabin of sorts perched bestride a path or the wooded by-ways which hikers passed or something along the old and now unused railway bypasses - piles of old stone and dirt a few rusty old rails and a shed or a track marker - some old mysterious orange markers with some numbers on them or some directional arrow or an arrow-shaped arm which went up or down based on the pull of a metal lever nearby - water towers atop steel trusses and the ruins of what once must have been a small station or a dropping off point for something or other in days long past - EVERYTHING was a marker a signifier and tried in its essence to MEAN something or at least LEAD to another thing - and I found that to be the situation I was in as well -1967 and 1968 and all the years since having amassed their times and gone - deaths and murders fury and mayhem noise and havoc and all the beleaguered and sanctimonious shrillness of packs of wolves or hyenas at large : everything sly and miserable snarling and hungry and I thought 'how could a mind find peace?' and the only peace I could find was right back where it wasn't before - within the maelstrom was the very 'peace' I'd left - townhouses blown to bits bomb parts and dead people in the streets and bodies in the basement with cops and FBI guys chewing Chiclets with aplomb and some other guys with hammers a'bleeding were knotting a fence - throwing out the empty lots where before all the buildings had stood and I stood (in my turn) transfixed at awed alike by the danger AND the escape the cunning and the lethal ERROR of all the ways I'd see (there's no pallor like the pallor of the grave) and one last time ONE I decided brushing my teeth looking down over Delancey Street alone and forlorn and forgotten (but oh ! the view the view!).