Ask Nothing.
The Best Antique I Ever Found
And
How I Found It.
By
A. Picker
Chapter Eight
Where
I am is White Plains, Westchester County, New York. Specifically where I am AND adjusted to it’s delightful and
proper historical context, is JUST cresting the top of Chatterton’s Hill, the
once “right flank” of General Washington’s army. Here, on October 28, 1776, the “Rebel” (American
Continental) army fought the either “crucial” or “lame” (historic opinion
differs) “Battle of White Plains” for a brief fifteen minutes around ten in the
morning. Understandably, there was
considerable foreplay to the fifteen minutes that consisted, principally, of
the British army marching to and then around before the base of the hill in
splendid red uniforms and shining steel accouterments while firing uncounted
numbers of “solid shot” cannon balls “over” the heads of the Rebel army so
...that... after peeing their pants from the first barrage, the Rebel army
pretty much stood around and watched the cannon balls ascend and then ...
descend harmlessly behind them, bounce once or twice and... roll down the hill. This last is a very important point to
me... TODAY: These cannonballs may
still be and “are” ‘dug up’ during ‘construction’ ‘on the Hill’ to this day.
There
was also considerable afterbirth to the “battle” for after the British (and
Hessian) troops ascended the hill (meeting “heated resistance” and “galling
fire”) and drove the Rebels from it in an “organized retreat”, the whole battle
shifted to General Washington’s central line of shim-shod (old corn stocks
pulled up by the roots stacked so these root dirt balls “faced” the “enemy”)
fortifications in what is now north central White Plains. A single cannon shot, from the Rebel
army, the FOLLOWING DAY is the only reported “action” to take place after the “taking”
of Chatterton’s Hill for each army managed to bluff the other into an “I don’t
know” kind of standoff that, after this ONE LONE CANNON SHOT, caused both
armies to decide to leave the area.
Although the battle was over in physical fact the extended printed road
as to “who won what” began it’s construction and, like so many substantive
publishing highways in history, is still under construction.
Therefore,
when I hook right on top of the hill, as I do often, I cross a midpoint of the
Rebel line and drove directly into the ascending British (& Hessian)
army. “DAMN!” is my mental moment
particularly as this, ah, battlefield ...ain’t no National Historic Shrine and
all I usually see as “visitors” is a group “skip school” teenagers drinking
...beverages... out of brown paper bags AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING. Intersection after intersection of
quite residential homes bless the crest with.... otherwise... NOTHING....
NOTHING .... NOTHING to show “a battle was fought here” (except for this stupid
little kiddy play ground that does have a bronze plaque to “mark the
site”) This state of affairs
LEAVES ME ALONE in the kind of historic vignette I have come to cherish... OF
NO ONE THERE, NO ONE CARES and LEAVE ME ALONE which is EXACTLY what has
happened ALL the time I’ve ever been “there”.
WHY? Because it is NOT an accident that I am
“here” and it is NOT an accident that “this area” ...(that, in my opinion AND
ABOUT 200 YEARS worth of other people’s opinions... is “LOADED” with “great
American history” but is, in fact, in advanced neglect... “THANK YOU!”... as a
visitor shrine)... is a “special place that is calling me”. Oh shit on you and grant... GRANT YOU
that I would NOT have thought it possible myself but have come to discover
(“SURPRISE-SURPRISE”) that what started as a “gut” “feeling” similar to ...MANY
I have employed in the past... HAS panned out to be... JUST what I thought it
would be: VIRGIN TERRITORY.
What
is virgin? To me. Well: Here at White Plains I found an area of our Nation that (1)
is loaded with authentic historic place & time that (2) had been over the
centuries very precisely accounted for by professional and lay history buffs
(WHO ARE FOREVER MUCH better & smarter then ME so don’t you’s ah start the
whine-butt stuff on me that I’m being “arrogant” or such cause, believe me: YOU know more about this then ME.) that
has, as our millennium cross the second threshold (3) fallen into grave
neglect, disinterest and, my favorite; lost to history. Kiss me, set me free at the site and
LEAVE ME ALONE to dance in the full moon of unnoticed American history and I
WILL WHILE...you watch TV?
You
can “fuck me” after I “fuck you” on this.
You ain’t there; you ain’t been there ‘cept for a “drive by” MAYBE. Your knowing eye has not trespassed and
then PILLAGED the slope of American history that I began a DECADE AGO of very
precisely choreographed immersion IN.
IN. IN. Suck on that word: IN. I went where I wanted to go: INSIDE.
Here
we must split (divide in two) the word “inside” to ...attempt... to convey my
absolution, my addiction and my passion.
For these be the words for my happy home of historic paradise where I
...prefer... to live. I will use
other places and things from my experiences to try and convey “why” I am “here”
(in Westchester County).
The
first division is “sense of place”.
The second division is “sense of object in it’s place”. These two form the unity of an “it” for
me that is found... “in”. Sense of
place began long ago in rather small chunks of space and time but has now grown
and developed into a full fledge “ability” of mine to “be” “there”. The first large project I
developed and executed was, now thirty years ago, along the Connecticut River
between Vermont and New Hampshire.
It serves well here to demonstrate my ...absolution. The Connecticut River runs north to
south between these two romance filled, pretty and historic... “states”. I prefer “land masses”. Along the rivers edge on both side one
may find “old”. Old to me began as
a stray into the valley while in high school. There, along this river’s edge, I found the romantic taste
of Davy Crockett’s coonskin cap on my lips... “for real”. It was not the first time I had tasted
the taste for I “be one” with it since I “can remember”. It is here I CAN recall, that... it was
the first time that this taste of coonskin became a... dynamic... in a large
area.
I
learned that the river... when frozen in winter... was THEN (“the past”) used
as, quite literally, an interstate highway NORTH for the expansion of
settlement. This wide frozen
direct route “up” allowed for an unprecedented amount of “stuff” to “make it”
there. OLD stuff, intact, as
delivered from the OLD HOMESTEAD to the new. “Huh”. My lips
smacked; dribbling the drool of that flavor. My eyes looked.
My heart beat. My hands
reached for and TOUCHED history left, lost and LINGERING alone and along the
edge of this great ice highway. I
learned to hug that river’s edge.
To WALK so slowly along it’s EVERY nuance. TO KEEP MY EYES OPEN for the slight peculiarity and creased
LEAF of the old moccasin encryption called “history”. I breathed the air... and I touched the SOIL of the dead
White Man’s scalp dripping blood while his WIFE bore his CHILD by brook in the
woods “to my left”. Blessed are
those who learn to roll this pebble of time between their toes and DAMNED be
them that say that I, a PIRATE of this VERY SOUL, be encapsulated by it “for
the money”. You know nothing about
what you speak.
In
the woods, by the river, I watched for the shadowy ghost of the emancipated
Robert Rogers to float by me at HIS moment of glory. I log cabined and Indian trailed myself from home to home to
tavern to intersection to barn to woodshed to well house to “THERE IS WHERE THE
old road WENT” and down into the soul of “it” “in”. Brush the granite boulder with your hand but be careful not
to damage the lichen of “it” “in”.
I did this so very consciously that the eloquence of its non-verbal
expression remains one with me to this day and THAT only perfects my skill
while “the rest of you” stare in a bewilderment? For such lame souls I refer you to Francis Parkman’s
divining dissertations on “visiting” a “site”; a pathetic yet landmark eulogy
to “it” “in”. Go on: GO.
Before
my hands and eyes I found, ever more precisely and abundantly, the residue of
material history. Certainly every
engraved powder horn bearing a map to “Fort Ti” has been found? No, it has not. That’s right: It STILL has not.
And this I learned too. It
has taken me decades to fully appreciate the scattering of objects, their
sinewy hiding placing and curious ...locations but be I one to fight AGAINIST
such odds? No.
I
ask nothing. Left alone, which in
truth I have been for over three decades, historic introspection has combined
with in-the-field excursions to, until “death do we part”, allow me access to
... “it”, LITERALLY, “in”.
Mumbling contemporary Yankee Doodle-ing I’s ah “find it” here, there,
UNDER THERE, behind that and always, always... where no one else ...was at. Each time “it happened” as I once,
decades ago, decide this sensation “was”, I learned to stop myself and capture
“it” “in”. Today I suppose one may
utilize the technical aberration of the expression “virtual reality” to
describe what is in fact a reality that I do very consciously “virtually” WHILE
I’m THERE: “IN”. As the experiences mounted in my
repertoire of time travel I learned to adjust my original mystification with
the process to understand that not only was I... I the one who instigate ‘em
but that ... I... could “see ‘em” coming ... and going. This marked conscious development
greatly enhance the ride and, again, as vignette piles upon vignette, makes me
“better” at “it”... ESPECIALLY when I’m... “in”.
Hold
on to your lost objects because here we go. What I have just attempted to convey is that I consciously,
knowingly, ACTIVELY seek out “places” (ranging from large land masses to tiny
little crawl spaces BEHIND the chimney) to “work” in my own special way ... for
a ...delight only me... and my wandering wonder to be “in” “it”. Along the way, it is of course necessary
to, well, let us say, PAY OUR WAY so here and there some of the “so much” of
the... I ask nothing for... is gathered and, as I say, “processed”. Do I care what you have to say... let
alone “want” for ... your “collection”.
Please.
Most
people, thankfully, DON’T collect anything so manage to rid themselves from ME
before we need engage in the nastiness of paying my way. After those I find only a handful left
and of those, most are marginally capable of comprehending materialism, its
products and ...it arts. Bolstered
by these factors; the commercial realms of “don’t know shit” combined with
“(he-I-they) buys shit” has allowed me a defensive commerce that is “this is
not about money” and ... it is not about “a” object. It also goes along way to explain the often pointed out to
me “disdain” I am credited with blessing collectors and “other” dealers with...
. Well. I suppose it is disdain but ...I don’t not believe it is
commercially fixed. I believe its
source is found in the need to get rid of these “people” before I may BEGIN to
“do what I do”. To have a dealer
or collector around ...takes up TIME that I would, for life is short, spend on
my VOYAGE AT SEA in ... HIS-TOR-REE.
So: First I get AS FAR AWAY from “them” as
possible and MEANWHILE divine to enter a virgin territory of “it” that I ... I
believe to be an “in” “untouched”.
There is, in fact, an endless supply of these for it really just depends
on what one feels like at the time.
A roadside road house, “intact”, “totally original” and “untouched”
brings forth it’s treasure just as the private home of the woman whose husband
died and left her alone with “all” his parent’s “things” from “They were very
rich before the Crash. I’ve never
known what to do with all this but I DO think the paintings may be worth
SOMETHING now.”.
“Oh
Jesus” and if I say “fuck” too... then I guess I am LUCKY to be a pirate.
One
controls the vignettes and with remarkable power... may even direct the broad
travel toward the bigger scale themes.
Returning to Chatterton’s Hill, we find the theme of my travel to be the
American Revolution. Here, in
Westchester County and White Plains, I found an area that had been unbelievably
central to the actual activity of “the war”. Back and forth, over and under or, as THEY called it; “from
above” or “from below” Westchester was the wandering territory where all “were”
“in” “it”. Called “the Neutral
Ground” to designate this state of affairs, it has passed into history as such,
passed THROUGH history as such and ... PASS OUT THE RECTUMN of American history
to become one of the most splendid NEUTRAL GROUNDS of unorganized American
treasure LEFT unorganized. While
witch houses in Salem charge admission, tourist camera’s clatter at Old
Faithful, Mount Vernon cordons off staircases with velvet cables and the Battle
of Gettysburg is “fought” again each year... when one visits White Plains ...no
one is ... HERE.
Except
me. Actually there are a real lot
of people here but... a lot of ‘em are kids on drugs and ladies shopping for
shoes in Land Rovers or ... the average guy with the average girl with average
house and the average kids hoping to pay for the average car and still have
enough for the ...average “that” “too”.
Door after front door of street after side street of building after home
after intersection after “EXIT 1/4 MILE TOLL BOOTH AHEAD”.
Now
there is one more touch I add to this background canvas before I cease to
accommodate you with “why I am here”.
A great enhancement of my travels in the virgin historic lands I
...choose... is that most, if not ALMOST ALL... AT ALL TIMES... people
“there”... “don’t care”... or even “know of” what I have been
communicating. THAT IS A
FACT. And I don’t stand around
talk’en up about it, believe me.
“FUCK ‘EM” and “I’ll, ah, TAKE THAT, thanks” pretty much covers our
relationship merged DIRECTLY with as invisible a “visit” I DO make... as
POSSIBLE. I know that no one knows
or cares so consciously attract as little attention to my, ah, “work” as
possible. It is only here upon this
page, I believe, that I am first recording the actual conscious intensity of my
motion to be “in” “it” although this reflects decades of actual ACTION TAKEN of
my life. EVEN THOSE who be “in the
trade” or such... MOST USUALLY fail to understand the deep mystical involvement
of my travels. Generally they
resort to the superlatives of disbelief and disgust such as “your crazy”, “your
an asshole”, “what do you do with that shit” and the always pleasing “If you ever
get anything good....:”.
What
is good? If I am bad.
This
“I am bad” I have been informed of for years. Therefore: All
the more reason to be making that second “hook right” around the block. Then a THIRD hook to ...drive by Son of
a Bitch & his dad to prove for sure that it is “only a bed” that is “left”
to be “put out”. It was and,
well... one of them boxes of coffee cans tipped in the back so I had a
clattering going on “back there” (the now filling space in the back of the
‘burban) that sounded like I had the tins cans tied to the bumper and just got
married. I hadn’t just got THAT
but I had just got PAID. Here is
found one of the principal compliments of “I am bad”; this “getting paid”. I’m gonna do this once here so the for
the REST OF THIS BOOK I don’t have to elaborate the details of every piece of
SHIT I pick up and YOU will just have to use YOUR FINGERS to count up and
concluded that “Shit: The guy can
actually do pretty GOOD doing this!” of “HOW DO I MAKE A LIVING” kind of
figuring.
The
coffee cans: Three boxes with
approximately 12 to 15 cans ca. 1957-1962 (uncounted: I NEVER COUNT THIS SHIT) with “the lids” and a few “more”
“without” ‘em. The “complete ones”
are a quick “six bucks” ($6.00) each to “tourists” in Maine... in the summer...
in the “store” OR... I could “sell all of ‘em” to one dealer but... fuck that
cause I DON’T MAKE A LIVING FOR “them” (principal compliment of “I am bad” #2)
so... prefer to “sell to the end user directly”. Conservatively, twelve times three is thirty-six times six
dollars each is $216.00 total and deduct HALF to “maintain my lifestyle”
including the 100% taxable “capital gain” of all these FUCK’EN OLD CANS...
leave $108. POCKET CHANGE and ...that is only ONE GOD DAMN PIECE OF SHIT...
“from the trash” even excluding the friggen “old vanity” thing I got “there”
“too” “first”. How are your
fingers doing? AND I WON’T do this
again: YOU DO IT ....YOURSELF....
in YOUR neighborhood of choice.
This,
ah, practice... goes a LONG WAYS to getting rid of the need for me to have
to... spend much time... “associating” with my fellow dealers who generally
“hate my guts” and other brilliant self made expostulations of their commercial
understanding of why I’s the way I am.
Fuck ‘em.
