Thursday, October 20, 2016

Roughshod - Part Three - "Rancid"


Part Three


            If the culture (Part Two, at the end) is (vague suggested framed) empty
            And the empty is rancid...
            And the rancid is the precious
            That defines the culture...
            Where is the old New England home?
            At the beach?
            “My flip-flops”.

            That is what it is:
            Your flips and your flops.  Baby sitted.  Needy.  As chairperson of your board of committee to decide the ‘could be I think I like’ as postulation lending to position and leading to an action that has no substance, heritage or foundation of anything at all in your new old New England home:  You are the dust buster sucking the dusts of soul out of the last cushion corners of the old New England home’s new “sofa”.  You have achieved ‘good riddance’.  Vanquish the rancid residue of the last of old New England and its homes.  Close them up and comeback
            Next summer.
            “The carpenters are redoing the WALLS this WINTER”.  The carpenters sold me the “TRASH” in the “ATTIC” you “THROW OUT THAT”.
            They are no fools.  Fiendishly empty they made sure of your house.  Not home; an empty house.  “We may want to retire here but we don’t know yet”.  I like that:  Appropriately vague.  A little roughshod.  But a declaration.  None the less.
            You are not in New England and you do not have an old New England home.  You do not have antiques... for yourself or for your house.  What you have are not antiques.  I told you before (Part One).  They are “I like”.

            When I first discovered for myself that old New England homes “were” and “stood” and... well... one such as I could walk by them on the street’s sidewalk and peek at them.  I thought.
            I did not feel... although all this was feeling.  I did think... I think; an “I think”?  No... not quite.  I did not say “I like”.  It was, the homes to me, “vague”.  And I knew they were rancid.  I knew that because I lived in one; an old New England home... and it was rancid.  Generations of rancid.  I grew up in that filth.  I learned to walk by those homes of filth.  I learned to peek at them.  Every day was a Halloween and every night was Witches.  In old New England homes.  But that was buried in the filth.
            What I grew up in no one ever mentioned “painting the (interior) walls” ever.  That was just never done; painting walls or mentioning doing that.  Once every one hundred years... and mostly so old that it was “wallpaper” anyway.  Old... brown... filthy... water stained, peeling... “wall paper” with the “trim” “last painted”... during World War One.  Actually... before... World War One.  The wall paper and painted trim were “always that way”.  And one couldn’t tell this or care because the rooms were “full”.  Anyway.

            The rooms were ‘full of antiques’.  I know now.  All kinds of old and... very old... and even ‘very old older’... rancid... filth.  The chair that my great grandmother died in was ‘still there exactly the same’... as like... “from the Civil War” the same.  The cat sat in it.  Sort of.  If I sat in it I was told to “stop rocking”.  That spoke... I moved on.  Every thing was piled up in corners and there was plenty of it:  Old rancid filth.  No one ever said they ‘like it’ and they were not even ‘vague’ about the antiques either.  It was rancid.  And filth.  That was “there” and that was

            And that... was culture:  That was the culture of the old New England home.  NOT the “a new kitchen”.  NOT the “paint the walls”.  NOT... the “sanding the floors”.  It was dense ‘put away’ rancid filth “everywhere in there” culture.  When I went to the tool bench in the shed off of the summer kitchen, I easily found my great-grandfather’s crooked knife set there as he had ‘always did’.  I used it (for a task at hand) and put it back.  It, therefore, was always there.  The ...CULTURE... of that crooked was always there TOO.  It’s history, heritage, design, social standing, purpose, place and ...memories... were there:  Its CULTURE.  That formula was understood as an ‘applied’ to everything; all the ‘filth’ and ‘rancid’ “in there”; the ‘this old New England home.  No one had ‘cleaned it out’.

            I quickly learned to do that; clean out old New England homes.  There was just that:  “So much stuff”.  “In there”.  Each of them.  Old New England Homes.  And there were lots of them too; the ‘homes’.  So I did that and having actually “LIVED IN” one “TOO” helped me to naturally understand all the rancid filth:  Understand the... culture.  And that made me even better “AT IT”.  And I still am.... “damn good”  “at it”.  I would take a crooked knife off of a tool bench where it “WAS” and take it outside and put it in my truck cab; take that tool away ‘forever’... in my work of ‘clean it out’ (the old New England home) to... well... get that old home ready to be a “NEW” “HOUSE”.  For you to “I LIKE”... and vague... too.
            Did I know what I was doing?
            I already said:  “Every day was a Halloween and every night was Witches.  In old New England homes.  But that was buried in the filth.” (from above).  I knew that when I noticed the crooked knife...; before I ever even touched it.  I destroyed the rancid filth of old New England home culture... with devastating precision.  I had great, great, great-grandfather’s father’s Colonial New England chair “outside” and “in the truck” before and without an any “YOU”... “knowing it”.  And I never said a word either.  Old New England culture... lock, stock and barrel. 

            What does that mean?  What.  Does.  That.  Mean.  It means “assemblage” and that... in this context; the old New England home and its culture, means that this “THAT” is an assemblage... and that... I know that.
            Lock:  The mechanism that ‘fires’ the old gun; an “old musket”.  The lock is fitted into the wood on the side of the gun.  It is often ‘signed’ with the mark of the ‘lock maker’.  A lock maker, most probably English (“London”), made gun locks and sold them preferably in bulk to ‘traders’... who traded them in smaller lots to smaller traders who... traded them to...
            Stock:  The wooden rifle stocks were hand carved from local cured hard wood (maple, walnut) to receive (“mounted”) the lock and ‘support’ a ‘the barrel’.  These stocks were made one at a time by hand often by ‘smaller traders’ or ...even... actual ‘stock makers’ who ‘supplied’ them to ‘local (smaller) traders’.  Or a just... ‘made one at a time’.
            Barrel:  Gun barrels were made by gun barrel makers, preferably in “London” with these barrels usually maker marked, sort of.  They were sold in bulk, shipped to and then purchased by the... trader who assembled the “lock, stock and barrel” into a “trade rifle” who put his assembled rifles in a wagon and... traveled farm to farm endeavoring to “trade” his assembled rifles with small farmers for ...pretty much anything that could get a deal done...  One “gun”, one swap, one trade... of an ‘assembled’ trade rifle.  This assembled fabrication ‘went into the (old New England) home and never came out.
            Until I “cleaned it (these homes) out”.  That is how I know that it is ‘not there’ anymore:  I cleaned it out.

            The home was full of rancid filth that I cleaned out.  Once so fundamentally disturbed there was no “going back” or “fixing that”.  No.  The walls were painted. The floors sanded.  And new things “I like” ‘put in there’.  The once old New England home that is now only a new New England house became a “closed up for the winter”, etc.
            This “etc.” is the bricks and mortar of the phrasing “This essay is about antiques and the roughshod directives of discerning them.  It is about old New England antiques and the effect of roughshod lines in the sand with protruding nail heads that have gained traction to...
            To what?
            To destroy them (old New England antiques).”  (From Part One).  Do you see (understand) that a ‘something’ has been destroyed?  That this ‘destroyed’ is not a “I fix” by “I like”?  Roughshod riding over (“trample”) old New England home antiques... has created an “I like” that is not what the old New England home... and their assemblage of antiques... actually ever were... or are... or may be “restored” to be.  The broken and trampled old New England home’s antiques may not be put back together again...:
            Or may it?
            Is there a severe discipline with a support body of solid information that allows a lifetime ‘study’ of the actual assemblage of ‘the antiques’ in an old New England home... and that this may too be ‘collected’ “at an affordable prince”... too?

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