1
There’s Mountain Dew surging seemingly infinite energy through my veins. Reason seems to have died somewhere between caffeine and more caffeine. My heart is palpitating at perhaps an unprecedented rate, not to mention the possibility that I could slip into a caffeine coma at any random moment. I’m suppose to be doing some astute activity, perhaps writing a paper for one of my classes or studying for one of my upcoming final exams; but instead, I’m playing chess online and losing in ego-crushing fashion. So in light of all this I logged off my chess account and opened up a Microsoft Word document. And so here we are. What have I learned about the Beat Poets? I’ve learned that they were, perhaps more than anything—misunderstood. Allen Ginsberg had to go to a loony bin, Jack Kerouac never received the literary recognition that he deserved, Neal Cassidy was a madman that no one got, and the list continues on and on and on like the high fructose corn syrup and carbonated water pulsating through my bodily system like currents of wild electricity . I think this is how people go brain dead. Ah! So the Beat Poets, they were misunderstood. Okay! I had no idea who these crazy cats were before this class. I signed up for the class, honestly speaking, because I waited to the last minute to sign up for classes, and when the classes I wanted to take were already full, I figured…ugh…why not 1950’s poetry. I never had a class with Professor Corrigan before and I needed three credits. So it seemed like the right thing to do.
2
I was expecting the class to be held in a traditional classroom setting, where we listen to lectures, or at least pretend to, take notes, or at least pretend to, etc. Then I found out that the class was going to be conducted in the Avant-Garde spirit, where we meet at someone’s house and discuss the readings that we’ve done. All cutting-edge stuff! I was waiting for this opportunity a long time coming. And it was finally here. Every assigned reading soon became eagerly awaited. I was vigorously devouring every text like a homeless man consuming a Big Mac after a few days dieting on nothing but booze and nasty food at some rundown shelter. I learned so much at perhaps an unhealthy rate. I neglected my other class assignments because I couldn’t get enough of these radical poets who traveled across America and abandoned military duties to read in libraries and stripped down naked at poetry readings and lost themselves to prostitutes, alcohol, and drugs. They didn’t give a fudge about what you thought about them. They were journeymen intent upon arriving at that holy, vulgar destination where Jesus and Herbert Huncke held hands and sang melodic songs of blessed crudeness. They were angels and demons swirling through the toilets of their minds. They were the tips of samurai swords.
3
They were stretching the rubber bands of acceptable society, and sometimes the rubber bands snapped. They wrote stuff that brought them to court. They were despised very much so as degenerates and lowlifes. And this is what I find so beautiful in them. A lot of society was throwing literary tomatoes at them, but they fought for the freedom of expression. They were artists passionate about full-expression, passionate about questioning their own sanity, or lack thereof, in the hopes of arriving at something greater than their every day hum-drum existence had revealed to them. We don’t read about the Beat Poets because they conformed to what society deemed appropriate; but rather, we read about them because they had something important to say regardless of the approval of society or not.
4
Now I’m beginning to feel tired. My fingers are typing at a progressively decreasing rate and my mind is starting to sense that fuzzy, hazy feeling that leaves you wondering if you were ever adequate enough, if you were ever intelligent enough, if you were ever clear enough to make something of your life. Everything is blurry and my mind is floating like clouds intent upon running away from one another. I like clouds because they drift, unsatisfied with a sedimentary existence in the firmaments high above. I sense the sugar crash but I write despite the weighted eyes, despite the short-circuiting neurons, despite the great seducer—sleep—whispering drowsy beckoning syllables directed somewhere near pillow, mattress, and quilt. Spirit that gave Jack Kerouac the strength to write On The Road in a three-week stunt of literary madness, literary genius, grant me the same strength though I’m deprived of serotonin and nutritional substances.
5
There’s a lamp shining O so bright though my roommates are trying to sleep. I love all the poetry gatherings that we had. I love all the coffee we drank and the pasta that we ingested. I love all the profound conversations that we had. I love my fellow classmates. I love the Beat Poets. I must confess, I’m in love with myself as reflected through the Beat Poets. It’s a happy, sad reality. I relate with them in almost every way, barring the prostitutes, alcohol, and drugs, so not really, but still, very much so. I’m scared to take another sip of the large iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts that I have laying on my desk in my dorm. The orange straw seems to be gravitating my lips toward its circular brim.
6
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, bless your soul. Thank you for writing such great poetry and for publishing Allen Ginsberg’s Howl. Thank you Derek for you awesome pictures on your blog. Thank you Professor Corrigan for teaching this amazing class. It’s three o’ clock and my body and mind wants to shut down, but there’s an inner voice that compels my soul to continue to spill streams of consciousness despite the alluring temptation to still the savior fingers typing shit.
7
Because of this class I want to travel the world and write great poetry. I want to visit Cold Mountain and shave Gary Snyder’s beard and kidnap Lawrence Ferlinghetti, if he would be okay with that. I want to be myself more than ever, because the Beats were themselves, and not some phony byproducts of ‘normality’.
8
The Beat Poets also sucked. They hurt a lot of people. Some of them had ‘ugly’ souls. Some of them killed people. These people weren’t exactly the people you want your children to model after, but also you do. They were grey. Alright! Fair enough. That’s better than black though, and white is too clean. So in some ways, yes, I would like the future fruit of my loins to model after the Beat Poets. Not in all their actions, but in some like their relentless striving after the brighter, better tomorrow. Speaking of tomorrow, I’m going to bed. I digress. Snore.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Gary Snyder
1
Okay. I’m expected to write at least one great letter before the shop closes. The problem is that I’ve waited way too long to do that. The other problem is Gary Snyder. He’s somewhat interesting. But is he interesting enough to inspire a great letter? Suspect at best. I read Gary Snyder’s Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems and Danger on Peaks. I liked a few of his poems, but most of them tired me. I would read, doze off, try to read again, doze off again (repeat fifteen times), finally succumb to the great seducer—sleep—wake up and then read again. That was the cycle.
2
I don’t think Snyder wrote for anyone but himself, and maybe that’s the point (as Ethan pointed out). It might have made for great poetry in his eyes, and respectably in the eyes of others far more qualified to discern great poetry than myself, but I opine that more than not, his poems were sapless. I wanted to want to enjoy his poems more. I tried Holy Professor. I failed. I succeeded. I don’t know. I want to like Snyder more, but I can’t. His poems are pristine, sure. And that’s pure and for that well done, but beyond that I feel wind and disconnect. I’m here in sunny Florida. He’s…I don’t know where. He’s seen things and describes them beautifully, at least it seems that way, but I don’t know or feel what he’s talking about. I can’t relate. I respect, but I can’t relate. I think of great poetry as poetry that has found a way to reflect the mountains of humanity off the lakes of reality. For that to happen that water has to be pure and still and able to mirror—show—something of the matter and something of the soul. And since that is my criteria for great poetry, my hands are tied; Gary Snyder didn’t make the cut. He’s an honorable mention. That’s all. Now my experience of it all: Past the above mentioned, if I were to intellectually reveal myself, then I would have to reveal that there were certain sections of his poems, and once in a while cold mountain, entire poems, that managed to awe-inspire, leaving me feeling O so nice. In Riprap he said, “Cobble of milky way, straying planets, these poems, people, lost ponies with Dragging saddles and rocky sure-foot trails. The worlds like an endless four-dimensional game of Go.” Alright, I admit. That’s great poetry. But that’s the exception in Snyder’s poetry. He feeds you solid, nourishing food, but never dessert, or at least not often. I want something sweet all the time (perhaps not the healthiest). I have a sweet tooth in the soul of my mouth. It’s decaying and rotting and in need of a dentist, but it has its needs. It knows it’s done for and wants to ‘sweet it up’ before it falls off. One occasion of the above mentioned happened in his poem Doctor Coyote When He Had a Problem as seen in the following: “Doctor Coyote when he had a problem took a dump. On the grass, asked his turds where they lay what to do? They gave him good advice. He’d say “that’s just what I thought too” And do it. And go his way.” Alright, that’s genius (I always spell genius wrong pre-spell-check) Up until this point in Danger on Peaks you’re reading a lot of poetry with nature words that you’re unfamiliar with for the most part, or words that you’ve seen or heard before, but that you can’t envision in O so cloudy mind, and more so, specific, esoteric words in poems that you try your best to imagine in your mind, but find yourself struggling and feeling inadequate as a pathetic English major far from a far cry from a wordsmith. Exhale. And so when I read the above mentioned poem I laughed. It was shockingly, unexpectedly pleasant and funny and genius in its location in the book. I commend Snyder for that.
3
Up until this point I’ve yet to admit something, Han-Shan rules (Billy Madison adopted reference…O’Doyle rules!)! Thank you Snyder for translating Han-Shan, you did a great job. Now step aside. Han-Shan’s poetry was amazing. It was enigmatic and concrete and paradoxical in nothing and everything. It was witty and poignant. It had what I wanted in a poem. For instance, poem seven goes as following, “I settled at Cold Mountain long ago, Already it seems like years and years. Freely drifting, I prowl the woods and streams and linger watching things themselves. Men don’t get this far into the mountains, White clouds gather and billow. Thin grass does for a mattress; the blue sky makes a good quilt. Happy with a stone under head let heaven and earth go about their changes.” Wow! Excited party of one. Here! It’s boastful and far-out and overall a beautiful poem. It’s the type of poetry good enough to make me cry. It’s man in nature completely at peace. That’s what I want. I don’t know about the rest of suffering humanity, but that’s what I want (sigh). The idea of a madman lost in culture and found in nature and at peace in the temporal passing to eternity has this vast, all-enticing allure for me. He’s chill for life—frosty energy or something to that like. He’s a lot. I like. He’s a lot. I like. He’s a lot. I like. O man! He’s a lot. I like.
4
For the record, I’m not anti-Snyder. I think he’s a good poet who sometimes produces a great poem or two. Furthermore, I think he’s much needed, but not much wanted. That’s all folks. I hope I wrote something substantial. If not, O well. I wrote how I thought Snyder would not write (insert laugh). Darn twenty words from a thousand.
Okay. I’m expected to write at least one great letter before the shop closes. The problem is that I’ve waited way too long to do that. The other problem is Gary Snyder. He’s somewhat interesting. But is he interesting enough to inspire a great letter? Suspect at best. I read Gary Snyder’s Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems and Danger on Peaks. I liked a few of his poems, but most of them tired me. I would read, doze off, try to read again, doze off again (repeat fifteen times), finally succumb to the great seducer—sleep—wake up and then read again. That was the cycle.
2
I don’t think Snyder wrote for anyone but himself, and maybe that’s the point (as Ethan pointed out). It might have made for great poetry in his eyes, and respectably in the eyes of others far more qualified to discern great poetry than myself, but I opine that more than not, his poems were sapless. I wanted to want to enjoy his poems more. I tried Holy Professor. I failed. I succeeded. I don’t know. I want to like Snyder more, but I can’t. His poems are pristine, sure. And that’s pure and for that well done, but beyond that I feel wind and disconnect. I’m here in sunny Florida. He’s…I don’t know where. He’s seen things and describes them beautifully, at least it seems that way, but I don’t know or feel what he’s talking about. I can’t relate. I respect, but I can’t relate. I think of great poetry as poetry that has found a way to reflect the mountains of humanity off the lakes of reality. For that to happen that water has to be pure and still and able to mirror—show—something of the matter and something of the soul. And since that is my criteria for great poetry, my hands are tied; Gary Snyder didn’t make the cut. He’s an honorable mention. That’s all. Now my experience of it all: Past the above mentioned, if I were to intellectually reveal myself, then I would have to reveal that there were certain sections of his poems, and once in a while cold mountain, entire poems, that managed to awe-inspire, leaving me feeling O so nice. In Riprap he said, “Cobble of milky way, straying planets, these poems, people, lost ponies with Dragging saddles and rocky sure-foot trails. The worlds like an endless four-dimensional game of Go.” Alright, I admit. That’s great poetry. But that’s the exception in Snyder’s poetry. He feeds you solid, nourishing food, but never dessert, or at least not often. I want something sweet all the time (perhaps not the healthiest). I have a sweet tooth in the soul of my mouth. It’s decaying and rotting and in need of a dentist, but it has its needs. It knows it’s done for and wants to ‘sweet it up’ before it falls off. One occasion of the above mentioned happened in his poem Doctor Coyote When He Had a Problem as seen in the following: “Doctor Coyote when he had a problem took a dump. On the grass, asked his turds where they lay what to do? They gave him good advice. He’d say “that’s just what I thought too” And do it. And go his way.” Alright, that’s genius (I always spell genius wrong pre-spell-check) Up until this point in Danger on Peaks you’re reading a lot of poetry with nature words that you’re unfamiliar with for the most part, or words that you’ve seen or heard before, but that you can’t envision in O so cloudy mind, and more so, specific, esoteric words in poems that you try your best to imagine in your mind, but find yourself struggling and feeling inadequate as a pathetic English major far from a far cry from a wordsmith. Exhale. And so when I read the above mentioned poem I laughed. It was shockingly, unexpectedly pleasant and funny and genius in its location in the book. I commend Snyder for that.
3
Up until this point I’ve yet to admit something, Han-Shan rules (Billy Madison adopted reference…O’Doyle rules!)! Thank you Snyder for translating Han-Shan, you did a great job. Now step aside. Han-Shan’s poetry was amazing. It was enigmatic and concrete and paradoxical in nothing and everything. It was witty and poignant. It had what I wanted in a poem. For instance, poem seven goes as following, “I settled at Cold Mountain long ago, Already it seems like years and years. Freely drifting, I prowl the woods and streams and linger watching things themselves. Men don’t get this far into the mountains, White clouds gather and billow. Thin grass does for a mattress; the blue sky makes a good quilt. Happy with a stone under head let heaven and earth go about their changes.” Wow! Excited party of one. Here! It’s boastful and far-out and overall a beautiful poem. It’s the type of poetry good enough to make me cry. It’s man in nature completely at peace. That’s what I want. I don’t know about the rest of suffering humanity, but that’s what I want (sigh). The idea of a madman lost in culture and found in nature and at peace in the temporal passing to eternity has this vast, all-enticing allure for me. He’s chill for life—frosty energy or something to that like. He’s a lot. I like. He’s a lot. I like. He’s a lot. I like. O man! He’s a lot. I like.
4
For the record, I’m not anti-Snyder. I think he’s a good poet who sometimes produces a great poem or two. Furthermore, I think he’s much needed, but not much wanted. That’s all folks. I hope I wrote something substantial. If not, O well. I wrote how I thought Snyder would not write (insert laugh). Darn twenty words from a thousand.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A Letter in Response to Stephen D. Edington's The Beat Face of God
Dear holy readers,
1
“In America there’s a claw hanging over our brains, which must be pushed aside else it will clutch and strangle our real selves.”
2
Jack Kerouac got ‘it’ right when he wrote those game machine-like words. It’s why Stephen D. Edington, author of The Beat Face of God, and more so, the inspiration behind this letter, considers him a spiritual guide. And I couldn’t agree more. Jack Kerouac didn’t want average. He didn’t want what mainstream American society had to offer to a white male attending a prestigious university. With his intelligence and drive he could have easily have graduated Columbia University, the prestigious college I previously referred to, and been on his way to an affluent, secure livelihood, but like I said, he didn’t want average. He wanted more. He wanted something spiritual, from his French-Canadian, Roman Catholic upbringings to his dabbling in Buddhism, Kerouac wanted more, i.e. spiritual. It’s arguable that the force behind everything and anything he did was a spiritual one. It’s what I and many others believe was the driving motivation behind all his travels on the road. It’s why he did what he did. It’s why he lived the life he lived. It’s why he’s had such a cultural impact on countless people spanning decades and generations.
3
But Kerouac wasn’t the only Beat figure to have had and still have such a spiritual influence on people. None of the Beat writers escape this influence; in fact, they all have had vast effects on many people whether they were aware of it or not. Neal Cassidy in particular has had such an indelible effect, and yet as already hinted at previously, never really realized his influence in the shaping and molding in the minds of a plethora of people. Part of this reason is because he never published any writings during his life, a feat accomplished by many of his Beat friends, namely Kerouac and Ginsberg. But he didn’t have to so as to secure immortality in the hearts of those who lived on after and well after his 42 years of living. His life has been captured in the multitude of notes that he wrote to his lovers and friends and in the writings of his lovers and friends. And they all seem to have said the same things, if not very similar things. And what of? Of an insatiable person crazed and loaded with indefatigable energy exhausted by only death itself. They all seem to have recognized a soul that, flawed as it may have been, was on to something in all his searching and traveling. Forget the fact that he screwed as many women as he did nails (a by-product of perhaps a sexually abused childhood), forget the fact that he had abandoned his wife and children multiple times, forget that he was a shitty friend as equally as he was a non-shitty friend. Forget all those things. Those are all things self-righteous people point out who only see on the surface-level. Delve deep into his persona and see the spiritual aspects that pervade all that he did. I don’t mean to beautify an ugly soul, that’s not what I’m trying to do at all; but rather, I’m trying to show how despite the ‘sins’ Cassidy might have committed against himself and others, there was something great and genuine and worth honoring with at least our words.
4
At this point I could probably continue writing about several other Beat writers and how they were spiritual guides. And maybe that’s what I should do. But I’d get bored. Instead, I’d like to shift our attention to the story of Gerard Kerouac, Jack Kerouac’s older brother who died at the premature age of 9 when Jack was only 4. Jack’s brother died of rheumatic fever at a time when no knowable cure was available. His death was never rationalized in the mind of Jack because in his mind his brother was nothing short of a saint. More so, his brother’s gravesite is visited by numerous Beat aficionados who consider it a holy landmark, mostly because of the picture Jack has etched in their minds regarding his brother. Like his brother, many other figures throughout history have been beatified by those that they have left behind, such as Jesus of Nazareth and Siddhartha Gautama Buddha. These two religious figures have been perhaps the most prominent people ever to grace this earth with their presence. They, like Gerard, have been people revered. Jack revered them. I revere them. So many people revere them. But I thought the Beats were incapable of anything good? Didn’t FBI director J. Edgar Hoover place the Beats as the most dangerous thing against Americans barring Communists and Eggheads (intellectuals/academicians)? It seems at odds that these dangerous people could be the same people who so highly revered the innocence and beauty of a 9 year old boy. I don’t agree with the previously mentioned FBI director. I think Jack and the rest of Beats were the best things, not the most dangerous things for America. They were the ones who were themselves when everyone else was on their knees sucking up to the corporations and institutions. They were the ones who were remembering that they had deeper desires craving satisfaction when everyone else was forgetting their most intrinsic needs. They were imperfect. They were misfits. They were a lot of frowned upon things. But they were spiritual seekers. Let’s not forget that if we remember nothing else!
Sincerely, Enlightened Egghead
1
“In America there’s a claw hanging over our brains, which must be pushed aside else it will clutch and strangle our real selves.”
2
Jack Kerouac got ‘it’ right when he wrote those game machine-like words. It’s why Stephen D. Edington, author of The Beat Face of God, and more so, the inspiration behind this letter, considers him a spiritual guide. And I couldn’t agree more. Jack Kerouac didn’t want average. He didn’t want what mainstream American society had to offer to a white male attending a prestigious university. With his intelligence and drive he could have easily have graduated Columbia University, the prestigious college I previously referred to, and been on his way to an affluent, secure livelihood, but like I said, he didn’t want average. He wanted more. He wanted something spiritual, from his French-Canadian, Roman Catholic upbringings to his dabbling in Buddhism, Kerouac wanted more, i.e. spiritual. It’s arguable that the force behind everything and anything he did was a spiritual one. It’s what I and many others believe was the driving motivation behind all his travels on the road. It’s why he did what he did. It’s why he lived the life he lived. It’s why he’s had such a cultural impact on countless people spanning decades and generations.
3
But Kerouac wasn’t the only Beat figure to have had and still have such a spiritual influence on people. None of the Beat writers escape this influence; in fact, they all have had vast effects on many people whether they were aware of it or not. Neal Cassidy in particular has had such an indelible effect, and yet as already hinted at previously, never really realized his influence in the shaping and molding in the minds of a plethora of people. Part of this reason is because he never published any writings during his life, a feat accomplished by many of his Beat friends, namely Kerouac and Ginsberg. But he didn’t have to so as to secure immortality in the hearts of those who lived on after and well after his 42 years of living. His life has been captured in the multitude of notes that he wrote to his lovers and friends and in the writings of his lovers and friends. And they all seem to have said the same things, if not very similar things. And what of? Of an insatiable person crazed and loaded with indefatigable energy exhausted by only death itself. They all seem to have recognized a soul that, flawed as it may have been, was on to something in all his searching and traveling. Forget the fact that he screwed as many women as he did nails (a by-product of perhaps a sexually abused childhood), forget the fact that he had abandoned his wife and children multiple times, forget that he was a shitty friend as equally as he was a non-shitty friend. Forget all those things. Those are all things self-righteous people point out who only see on the surface-level. Delve deep into his persona and see the spiritual aspects that pervade all that he did. I don’t mean to beautify an ugly soul, that’s not what I’m trying to do at all; but rather, I’m trying to show how despite the ‘sins’ Cassidy might have committed against himself and others, there was something great and genuine and worth honoring with at least our words.
4
At this point I could probably continue writing about several other Beat writers and how they were spiritual guides. And maybe that’s what I should do. But I’d get bored. Instead, I’d like to shift our attention to the story of Gerard Kerouac, Jack Kerouac’s older brother who died at the premature age of 9 when Jack was only 4. Jack’s brother died of rheumatic fever at a time when no knowable cure was available. His death was never rationalized in the mind of Jack because in his mind his brother was nothing short of a saint. More so, his brother’s gravesite is visited by numerous Beat aficionados who consider it a holy landmark, mostly because of the picture Jack has etched in their minds regarding his brother. Like his brother, many other figures throughout history have been beatified by those that they have left behind, such as Jesus of Nazareth and Siddhartha Gautama Buddha. These two religious figures have been perhaps the most prominent people ever to grace this earth with their presence. They, like Gerard, have been people revered. Jack revered them. I revere them. So many people revere them. But I thought the Beats were incapable of anything good? Didn’t FBI director J. Edgar Hoover place the Beats as the most dangerous thing against Americans barring Communists and Eggheads (intellectuals/academicians)? It seems at odds that these dangerous people could be the same people who so highly revered the innocence and beauty of a 9 year old boy. I don’t agree with the previously mentioned FBI director. I think Jack and the rest of Beats were the best things, not the most dangerous things for America. They were the ones who were themselves when everyone else was on their knees sucking up to the corporations and institutions. They were the ones who were remembering that they had deeper desires craving satisfaction when everyone else was forgetting their most intrinsic needs. They were imperfect. They were misfits. They were a lot of frowned upon things. But they were spiritual seekers. Let’s not forget that if we remember nothing else!
Sincerely, Enlightened Egghead
Friday, March 18, 2011
A letter in response to A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
1
Did I enjoy A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti? Some would argue that I enjoyed it a little bit too much, although I don’t know why anyone would ever want to argue about that. What they should argue about is that Ferlinghetti gets ‘it’. That two letter word loaded with the potential to represent every person, place, thing, or idea.
2
When and while I was reading his poems I would be shuddering in peace. It’s strange right? There aren’t many occasions when one can claim to possess peace, and yet, also be shuddering. But that’s what happened.
3
In the beginning of the book he explains that the title of the book was selected because it was as if it were ‘a kind of circus of the soul’. Did you catch that? He said ‘a kind of circus of the soul’. If that doesn’t qualify as not only creepy, but also holy, then I don’t know what does (perhaps I’m the only one who experienced varying emotions at the circus, a mixture of love and hate, and fear and fantasy). Anyways, after reading his first poem, with lines in it such as,
“They are the same people only further from home on freeways fifty lanes wide on a concrete continent spaced with bland billboards illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness. The scene shows fewer tumbrils but more maimed citizens in painted cars and they have strange license plates and engines that devour America.” I was in a state of awe. It was awesome! I remember saying to myself, “This guy really gets it!” But I didn’t talk. I just silently sat while I carefully read and re-read the same lines over and over again, as if the secrets of the universe were somewhere hidden between the lines of the text and I had to discover them. If you were to ask me what’s so great about his poems, then I would condescendingly look at you as if you were totally incompetent, lacking even the slightest ability to pick up on what is so overtly obvious to me—great poetry. In my defense, how often do you hear someone ask? “What’s so great about the music of ‘Beethoven’? Or, “What’s so great about the art of Leonardo da Vinci?” I thought it was blatantly obvious, and so asking such silly questions like the ones mentioned above only signals bad thoughts in my mind towards the one doing the asking.
4
Perhaps a reaction like that is childish and uncalled for. But cut me some slack though, the man is the same guy who intimately knew some of the most famous Beat writers such as Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, among others. He was part of a group that fought in the defense of a piece of literature that many were vehemently labeling obscene and not even worthy to the right to be labeled literature. He was a legend in his own right. I mean, he’s not the author of several books and owner of a bookstore and publishing house for nothing.
5
One poem that I reluctantly admit loving out of a misguided avoidance of enjoying the same thing that the majority of the crowd does, is his “I Am Waiting” poem. I can think of no other poem, barring Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”, that is so beautifully and powerfully and breathtakingly written. The first time I read it I had to fight off feelings of jealousy because I so desperately had wished that I had written it first, and I still do to some extent, to a big extent. Who wouldn’t? There’s such an air of immortality found throughout the entire work. It’s hopeful and melancholic and comical and offensive and is a poem of discovery and ‘wonder’. It’s all of these things. What it’s not is a bunch of mumbo jumbo tied together and pathetically purposed a poem. Thank God! We have enough of those. Can I get an amen, or at least a mental nod of agreement?
6
It’s time I further admit something. I cried. I wailed. I lamented. I did these things at least on the inside. There was that choking lump in the middle of your throat, you know, the one you look to you left and to your right before swallowing and avoiding detection from others when you’re watching a tear-jerker movie or Nicolas Sparks book. I was a baby on the inside and it was a welcomed relief from all this emergent adult living I constantly find myself seemingly uncontrollably doing. I suppose it was the repetitious use of the word ‘rebirth’ that really got the inner, and occasional outer tears flowing. You live life and you make mistakes and sometimes all you want, all you need, is a rebirth. That got to me. It got to me and changed me. No I’m not an international religious figure or worldwide known humanist, but I feel a little bit more human after having read it. I guess I just liked it because it was thoughts I had always thought and felt, but never saw in print. It was nice to see that someone else thought and felt the same way.
7
Another poem I thoroughly enjoyed was the 11th poem from his Pictures of the Gone World. Talk about what a great poem this is. Talk about inspiration. Talk about insight. Seriously talk about these things. They are definitely worth talking about. I think they are worth shouting at the tops of your rooftops. Somebody should at least. These are the things that need to be read in our society and throughout the world, not who the recent Hollywood actor or actress recently broke up with. The final line of the poem ends as such, “Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician.” Bam! Right to the heart of hearts! What an end to a poem! What a kicker! A kick right to the shin by an impudent kindergartener whose mommy or daddy forgot to teach some manners to them. Makes you feel something. Unless you wear emotional shin guards everywhere you go to avoid feeling and perpetuate your numbness.
8
From the start of the poem it’s loaded with unbelievably profound lines such as, “The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being so very much fun,” and “The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn’t half so bad if it isn’t you.”
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the crazy lunatic who finds these lines moving. I don’t know. That could very well be the case. But I’m not crazy. How could I be? Those lines are like sucking the life out of the marrow of a bone. They touch spots you thought calluses had rendered permanently incapable of ever being felt. They’re unbelievable lines. I’m enthusiastic to say the least, however, come on, these lines are really good.
9
When I read “The Long Street”, I said to myself, “wow”. It’s everything I could want in a poem and more. It’s Ferlinghetti for you. He’s an immortal bard in my opinion, a poet-prophet like Wordsworth and Coleridge, a modern day post-Romantic romantic who has a knack for producing awe-inspiring, life-defining poems that could make the author of Lamentations lament tears of joy and sadness and everything and nothing and certainly something.
10
I could write about Ferlinghetti until pigs fly or the sun stands still, but I don’t think scientists will put jetpacks on swine any time soon and the sun hasn’t stood still since the times of Joshua in the Bible. Thus, I present you with an unorthodox conclusion. I love Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He’s a great poet. Nothing more to be said and everything left to be said and God bless this letter.
Did I enjoy A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti? Some would argue that I enjoyed it a little bit too much, although I don’t know why anyone would ever want to argue about that. What they should argue about is that Ferlinghetti gets ‘it’. That two letter word loaded with the potential to represent every person, place, thing, or idea.
2
When and while I was reading his poems I would be shuddering in peace. It’s strange right? There aren’t many occasions when one can claim to possess peace, and yet, also be shuddering. But that’s what happened.
3
In the beginning of the book he explains that the title of the book was selected because it was as if it were ‘a kind of circus of the soul’. Did you catch that? He said ‘a kind of circus of the soul’. If that doesn’t qualify as not only creepy, but also holy, then I don’t know what does (perhaps I’m the only one who experienced varying emotions at the circus, a mixture of love and hate, and fear and fantasy). Anyways, after reading his first poem, with lines in it such as,
“They are the same people only further from home on freeways fifty lanes wide on a concrete continent spaced with bland billboards illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness. The scene shows fewer tumbrils but more maimed citizens in painted cars and they have strange license plates and engines that devour America.” I was in a state of awe. It was awesome! I remember saying to myself, “This guy really gets it!” But I didn’t talk. I just silently sat while I carefully read and re-read the same lines over and over again, as if the secrets of the universe were somewhere hidden between the lines of the text and I had to discover them. If you were to ask me what’s so great about his poems, then I would condescendingly look at you as if you were totally incompetent, lacking even the slightest ability to pick up on what is so overtly obvious to me—great poetry. In my defense, how often do you hear someone ask? “What’s so great about the music of ‘Beethoven’? Or, “What’s so great about the art of Leonardo da Vinci?” I thought it was blatantly obvious, and so asking such silly questions like the ones mentioned above only signals bad thoughts in my mind towards the one doing the asking.
4
Perhaps a reaction like that is childish and uncalled for. But cut me some slack though, the man is the same guy who intimately knew some of the most famous Beat writers such as Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, among others. He was part of a group that fought in the defense of a piece of literature that many were vehemently labeling obscene and not even worthy to the right to be labeled literature. He was a legend in his own right. I mean, he’s not the author of several books and owner of a bookstore and publishing house for nothing.
5
One poem that I reluctantly admit loving out of a misguided avoidance of enjoying the same thing that the majority of the crowd does, is his “I Am Waiting” poem. I can think of no other poem, barring Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”, that is so beautifully and powerfully and breathtakingly written. The first time I read it I had to fight off feelings of jealousy because I so desperately had wished that I had written it first, and I still do to some extent, to a big extent. Who wouldn’t? There’s such an air of immortality found throughout the entire work. It’s hopeful and melancholic and comical and offensive and is a poem of discovery and ‘wonder’. It’s all of these things. What it’s not is a bunch of mumbo jumbo tied together and pathetically purposed a poem. Thank God! We have enough of those. Can I get an amen, or at least a mental nod of agreement?
6
It’s time I further admit something. I cried. I wailed. I lamented. I did these things at least on the inside. There was that choking lump in the middle of your throat, you know, the one you look to you left and to your right before swallowing and avoiding detection from others when you’re watching a tear-jerker movie or Nicolas Sparks book. I was a baby on the inside and it was a welcomed relief from all this emergent adult living I constantly find myself seemingly uncontrollably doing. I suppose it was the repetitious use of the word ‘rebirth’ that really got the inner, and occasional outer tears flowing. You live life and you make mistakes and sometimes all you want, all you need, is a rebirth. That got to me. It got to me and changed me. No I’m not an international religious figure or worldwide known humanist, but I feel a little bit more human after having read it. I guess I just liked it because it was thoughts I had always thought and felt, but never saw in print. It was nice to see that someone else thought and felt the same way.
7
Another poem I thoroughly enjoyed was the 11th poem from his Pictures of the Gone World. Talk about what a great poem this is. Talk about inspiration. Talk about insight. Seriously talk about these things. They are definitely worth talking about. I think they are worth shouting at the tops of your rooftops. Somebody should at least. These are the things that need to be read in our society and throughout the world, not who the recent Hollywood actor or actress recently broke up with. The final line of the poem ends as such, “Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician.” Bam! Right to the heart of hearts! What an end to a poem! What a kicker! A kick right to the shin by an impudent kindergartener whose mommy or daddy forgot to teach some manners to them. Makes you feel something. Unless you wear emotional shin guards everywhere you go to avoid feeling and perpetuate your numbness.
8
From the start of the poem it’s loaded with unbelievably profound lines such as, “The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being so very much fun,” and “The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn’t half so bad if it isn’t you.”
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the crazy lunatic who finds these lines moving. I don’t know. That could very well be the case. But I’m not crazy. How could I be? Those lines are like sucking the life out of the marrow of a bone. They touch spots you thought calluses had rendered permanently incapable of ever being felt. They’re unbelievable lines. I’m enthusiastic to say the least, however, come on, these lines are really good.
9
When I read “The Long Street”, I said to myself, “wow”. It’s everything I could want in a poem and more. It’s Ferlinghetti for you. He’s an immortal bard in my opinion, a poet-prophet like Wordsworth and Coleridge, a modern day post-Romantic romantic who has a knack for producing awe-inspiring, life-defining poems that could make the author of Lamentations lament tears of joy and sadness and everything and nothing and certainly something.
10
I could write about Ferlinghetti until pigs fly or the sun stands still, but I don’t think scientists will put jetpacks on swine any time soon and the sun hasn’t stood still since the times of Joshua in the Bible. Thus, I present you with an unorthodox conclusion. I love Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He’s a great poet. Nothing more to be said and everything left to be said and God bless this letter.
Friday, February 25, 2011
1
Look! I’ll level with you. I bought a traveler’s backpack, a 150 dollar World Atlas book, and a lot of other gear suitable for hitting the road, and why, because Jack Kerouac’s book On The Road connected with something deep inside of me, a resonating happening of some sort took place and it’s still echoing some mysterious reverberation. Actually, I asked for all of that as my Christmas gift from my parents long before I decided to sign up for our 1950s poetry class, but still!
2
Having all that gear already and then reading the book made for an enticing temptation to say the least. How many times did Neal Cassidy and Jack Kerouac decide to hit the road in the spur of the moment? Let me answer that for you, several times. These drugged out, alcoholic, misogynistic men are my heroes in many ways. In many respects, I look up to them, not for the descriptions mentioned above, but because they decided that they weren’t happy with where they were at in life, and because of that, went elsewhere. Now granted, I know very well that traveling place to place isn’t going to solve your problems, but cut them some slack; at least they went out hopeful that they would find something substantial in their searching travels. And let’s be honest, that’s a whole lot more than a lot of people can say with any degree of truthfulness, whatever that means.
3
Now you may be asking yourself why I’m so excited and how this has anything to do with me. Well let me tell you my friends and acquaintances, it’s simple. I’m in college and I’m an emerging adult. Did you catch that? I said in that last part that I’m an emerging adult, not adult as in I pay my bills and do what I want when I want. It’s comical and sad, but I’m almost 21 and I still depend on my parents for almost everything. Sure, I have a car (that they bought me), and a few thousand dollars in the bank, but that’s all. How long will that realistically last me though? Within a half a year or so I would either be in between a rock and a hard place, drudging my way through a low-wage job, or I would be a starving artist/homeless person waiting for stars to align that most likely won’t. With this understanding comes an immediate, at least for me, desire to prove my manhood, to prove my independence, to prove that despite my young age, despite the unlikelihood, I could survive and thrive on my own, that I could make it in this world with a smile on my face!
4
Torn between completing my undergraduate degree and packing my bags today to see the world with my own eyes, I seem to always favor the former and leave the latter for another hour, another day. So I’m here. I’m stuck. I want to succeed, but we’re never granted tomorrow. And then there’s that old thing called wisdom. You know, that talk about tact, about doing the right thing at the right time, hence completing college before I travel to San Francisco, Las Angeles, Denver, NYC, Mexico, and everywhere in between, like Jack and Neal did. That’s the only real thing stopping me from hitting the road, not love, not family, not friends. Do I want to love a ‘significant other’ one day? Maybe. Do I love my family and friends? Yes. But none of those answers or reasons is good enough answers or reasons to inhibit me from doing what I love; from doing what I feel I was made to do—travel!
5
There are a few things that are scary though. Let me be perfectly frank, or Phillip. I like that better. Let me be perfectly Phillip. Do I want to travel? Yes. Am I scared that a devastating blow could knock me off from ever establishing myself in the future because of my travels? Yes, I’m scared shitless. But that’s the beauty of it. I’m scared. I said I’m scared! Maybe I’ll run out of money. Maybe I’ll get beat up in a neighborhood that’s hostile to strangers. Maybe I’ll get lost. Maybe I’ll have a friend ditch me and leave me out in the cold. But so what, without risk there aren’t rewards. Neal and Cassidy took risks and now we’re reading about those risks. They worked crap jobs to fund their crazy life styles and now we’re reading about those crap jobs. They went out and saw America and now were reading about those adventures. They saw America for what it really was at that time. They saw the people in the bars and the stations and the jazz clubs and the motels and the mountains and the coasts and the cities and the towns and the country and everywhere else. They saw America. They were miserable sometimes, but they saw America, that elusive country wide and long that stretches seemingly infinitely, that land that’s as beautiful as its ugly, that place where dreams are built and shattered, that magnificent terrain of monks and maniacs and presidents and pedestrians and rich and poor alike. They saw America!
6
Perhaps I’m being a little irrational, or a lot irrational. Perhaps I’m glorifying their successes but forgetting their failures. Perhaps I’m glorifying their travels but forgetting their miseries along the way. Perhaps! But I know that something special was in their souls, something holy! Look past all their sexual espionages and messed up characteristics and you’ll see something holy! You’ll see men that had great yearnings for that ultimate high. Men that went to great extremes to find that settlement of soul! Men that traveled coast to coast multiple times in search for a home in the truest sense of the word! And for this realization I’m not irrational, in fact, I would argue that I’m saner than ever!
7
Now that I’ve finished worshipping them as gods in some regards, let me defile their names and kick myself out of the temple I constructed for them. They were idiots. They were raving madmen trekking mountains and driving through Mexican villages looking for cheap prostitutes and beer. They were neurotically-challenged voyagers looking for a fix. They were spiritual vagabonds travelling, having week long affairs with strangers they would meet on a bus one moment, and the next moment, situating themselves in some city with the idea of establishing a livelihood. They were men who ran away from most of the people that ever loved them. They were idiots. The most beautiful, intelligent, soulful idiots I’ve ever read about!
8
I’m so glad I read On The Road. I didn’t read a stylistically phenomenal masterpiece that used big words and fancy-sounding French words to describe a character and a story that I couldn’t relate to, but that’s why I’m glad I read On The Road. I read about 2 guys who saw our great country. I read about their highs and lows, about times when they were broke and hitchhiking their way through 3000 miles of land, and times when they had money to blow and satisfy all their carnal cravings day after day after day. I got a fairly complete picture, the ying and the yang, the beautiful and the ugly—I got life!
Look! I’ll level with you. I bought a traveler’s backpack, a 150 dollar World Atlas book, and a lot of other gear suitable for hitting the road, and why, because Jack Kerouac’s book On The Road connected with something deep inside of me, a resonating happening of some sort took place and it’s still echoing some mysterious reverberation. Actually, I asked for all of that as my Christmas gift from my parents long before I decided to sign up for our 1950s poetry class, but still!
2
Having all that gear already and then reading the book made for an enticing temptation to say the least. How many times did Neal Cassidy and Jack Kerouac decide to hit the road in the spur of the moment? Let me answer that for you, several times. These drugged out, alcoholic, misogynistic men are my heroes in many ways. In many respects, I look up to them, not for the descriptions mentioned above, but because they decided that they weren’t happy with where they were at in life, and because of that, went elsewhere. Now granted, I know very well that traveling place to place isn’t going to solve your problems, but cut them some slack; at least they went out hopeful that they would find something substantial in their searching travels. And let’s be honest, that’s a whole lot more than a lot of people can say with any degree of truthfulness, whatever that means.
3
Now you may be asking yourself why I’m so excited and how this has anything to do with me. Well let me tell you my friends and acquaintances, it’s simple. I’m in college and I’m an emerging adult. Did you catch that? I said in that last part that I’m an emerging adult, not adult as in I pay my bills and do what I want when I want. It’s comical and sad, but I’m almost 21 and I still depend on my parents for almost everything. Sure, I have a car (that they bought me), and a few thousand dollars in the bank, but that’s all. How long will that realistically last me though? Within a half a year or so I would either be in between a rock and a hard place, drudging my way through a low-wage job, or I would be a starving artist/homeless person waiting for stars to align that most likely won’t. With this understanding comes an immediate, at least for me, desire to prove my manhood, to prove my independence, to prove that despite my young age, despite the unlikelihood, I could survive and thrive on my own, that I could make it in this world with a smile on my face!
4
Torn between completing my undergraduate degree and packing my bags today to see the world with my own eyes, I seem to always favor the former and leave the latter for another hour, another day. So I’m here. I’m stuck. I want to succeed, but we’re never granted tomorrow. And then there’s that old thing called wisdom. You know, that talk about tact, about doing the right thing at the right time, hence completing college before I travel to San Francisco, Las Angeles, Denver, NYC, Mexico, and everywhere in between, like Jack and Neal did. That’s the only real thing stopping me from hitting the road, not love, not family, not friends. Do I want to love a ‘significant other’ one day? Maybe. Do I love my family and friends? Yes. But none of those answers or reasons is good enough answers or reasons to inhibit me from doing what I love; from doing what I feel I was made to do—travel!
5
There are a few things that are scary though. Let me be perfectly frank, or Phillip. I like that better. Let me be perfectly Phillip. Do I want to travel? Yes. Am I scared that a devastating blow could knock me off from ever establishing myself in the future because of my travels? Yes, I’m scared shitless. But that’s the beauty of it. I’m scared. I said I’m scared! Maybe I’ll run out of money. Maybe I’ll get beat up in a neighborhood that’s hostile to strangers. Maybe I’ll get lost. Maybe I’ll have a friend ditch me and leave me out in the cold. But so what, without risk there aren’t rewards. Neal and Cassidy took risks and now we’re reading about those risks. They worked crap jobs to fund their crazy life styles and now we’re reading about those crap jobs. They went out and saw America and now were reading about those adventures. They saw America for what it really was at that time. They saw the people in the bars and the stations and the jazz clubs and the motels and the mountains and the coasts and the cities and the towns and the country and everywhere else. They saw America. They were miserable sometimes, but they saw America, that elusive country wide and long that stretches seemingly infinitely, that land that’s as beautiful as its ugly, that place where dreams are built and shattered, that magnificent terrain of monks and maniacs and presidents and pedestrians and rich and poor alike. They saw America!
6
Perhaps I’m being a little irrational, or a lot irrational. Perhaps I’m glorifying their successes but forgetting their failures. Perhaps I’m glorifying their travels but forgetting their miseries along the way. Perhaps! But I know that something special was in their souls, something holy! Look past all their sexual espionages and messed up characteristics and you’ll see something holy! You’ll see men that had great yearnings for that ultimate high. Men that went to great extremes to find that settlement of soul! Men that traveled coast to coast multiple times in search for a home in the truest sense of the word! And for this realization I’m not irrational, in fact, I would argue that I’m saner than ever!
7
Now that I’ve finished worshipping them as gods in some regards, let me defile their names and kick myself out of the temple I constructed for them. They were idiots. They were raving madmen trekking mountains and driving through Mexican villages looking for cheap prostitutes and beer. They were neurotically-challenged voyagers looking for a fix. They were spiritual vagabonds travelling, having week long affairs with strangers they would meet on a bus one moment, and the next moment, situating themselves in some city with the idea of establishing a livelihood. They were men who ran away from most of the people that ever loved them. They were idiots. The most beautiful, intelligent, soulful idiots I’ve ever read about!
8
I’m so glad I read On The Road. I didn’t read a stylistically phenomenal masterpiece that used big words and fancy-sounding French words to describe a character and a story that I couldn’t relate to, but that’s why I’m glad I read On The Road. I read about 2 guys who saw our great country. I read about their highs and lows, about times when they were broke and hitchhiking their way through 3000 miles of land, and times when they had money to blow and satisfy all their carnal cravings day after day after day. I got a fairly complete picture, the ying and the yang, the beautiful and the ugly—I got life!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Dear holy classmates,
1.) I’ve read Howl yet again and have only recently come to the realization, nay the epiphany, that there’s no understanding it, and yet, I feel I know the poem more thoroughly and intimately than I’ve ever known any poem. It’s this juxtaposition that’s brought me to the knowledge of the brilliance of Allen Ginsberg as a revolutionary of expression, and I say that in the most poetic and meaningful use of the idea/word. As I was reading through the poem initially, I felt this subtle angst that I was incompetent and out-of-touch with the higher levels of consciousness, and why, because every other line seemed to be virtually incapable of providing me any concrete sense of meaning or fixed image that I could deconstruct and understand at its foundation. Were there lines that I could digest? Sure, I’d have to be missing a few chromosomes to say otherwise, but there wasn’t that cohesive, traditional beginning, middle, and end that I so desperately wanted, not really anyways. And I had a problem with that at first, because I wanted to make sense of something that could only be understood when you realize that you can’t make sense of it per se. I wanted to finish the last line with a grim on my face saying, ‘I’ve read a fine piece of literature and fully understand its meaning.’ I wanted to do a lot of things that didn’t work out in relation to understanding Howl, but let’s not be negative; instead, I’d like to share some further thoughts I’ve had about the poem.
2.) Did anyone get that vague feeling that the poem was a work of genius equal in its madness and immortality? I certainly did! I wouldn’t have re-read it multiple times if I thought otherwise, and I’ll tell you what, about the second of third time reading it, I was hit with this strange, dark peace, as if I’ve finally connected with something higher, but not anything supernatural-like, just something powerfully natural— something powerfully human! I attribute this feeling to Ginsberg say-anything-that-comes-to-soul approach in writing poetry. Although this has led to some debatable questioning on the necessity of some of the more vulgar elements, it’s also led to some of the, what I and many licensed experts consider, brilliant lines in all of poetry. I find the brilliance in his ability to combine multiple aspects of life, ranging from religious imagery and spiritual themes, to drugs, alcohol, and sex. With Ginsberg these elements mix and are what life is at its most basic element. This incorporation of that which is holy and profane makes for poetry that I believe tears down walls, poetry that re-unites parts of humanity that have conservatively been separated by centuries of traditionalism.
3.) On that note, I must say that I was saddened upon hearing that Howl had to undergo an obscenity trial, but was also happy upon learning that it was judged permissible or allowable based off of its redeeming social importance! And to that I say amen! I say amen a thousand times more, too! What I’ve never understood about those who oppose what they deem to be morally corruptible material, is how they can think that it’ll prevent or even save those who otherwise would have been ‘corrupted’ had they gotten access to it. It’s my belief that if someone genuinely wants something, then they’ll search for it and generally find it.
4.) It’s interesting how the case actually had the reverse effect the prosecutors intended for it to have. They wished to shut it up, so to speak, but instead aided in the publicity and popularity of the City Lights published poetry book. I think it’s important here to point out how often times certain societal advocates desire to make taboo, and consequently, as the defense attorney of the film Howl remarked, “ fuel the fire of ignorance,” that which should not be so. If there’s an issue or aspect of life that is troubling, then I believe artists should have every right to express their feeling and not have to suppress them and subsequently feel like a social misfit. Artists like Ginsberg didn’t feel the need to censor their writings and in the process only communicate certain aspects of their thoughts, instead they freely wrote it all, and as a result, as my mom comically puts it, ate the whole enchilada!
5.) Furthermore, I’ll never forget the day I first read Howl! The day when every emotion in my body was rattled and roused at every line of the work. Was the use of allusion and imagery masterly solid and greatly artistic? Absolutely, but that’s not why my emotions acted the way they did, rather they acted so because I knew that I finally had before me someone who experienced life the way I do. Someone who, despite the frowns of the traditionalist, spoke what was on their heart and wasn’t afraid to let it all out, or to leave any stones unturned!
Sincerely, Enlightened Egghead
1.) I’ve read Howl yet again and have only recently come to the realization, nay the epiphany, that there’s no understanding it, and yet, I feel I know the poem more thoroughly and intimately than I’ve ever known any poem. It’s this juxtaposition that’s brought me to the knowledge of the brilliance of Allen Ginsberg as a revolutionary of expression, and I say that in the most poetic and meaningful use of the idea/word. As I was reading through the poem initially, I felt this subtle angst that I was incompetent and out-of-touch with the higher levels of consciousness, and why, because every other line seemed to be virtually incapable of providing me any concrete sense of meaning or fixed image that I could deconstruct and understand at its foundation. Were there lines that I could digest? Sure, I’d have to be missing a few chromosomes to say otherwise, but there wasn’t that cohesive, traditional beginning, middle, and end that I so desperately wanted, not really anyways. And I had a problem with that at first, because I wanted to make sense of something that could only be understood when you realize that you can’t make sense of it per se. I wanted to finish the last line with a grim on my face saying, ‘I’ve read a fine piece of literature and fully understand its meaning.’ I wanted to do a lot of things that didn’t work out in relation to understanding Howl, but let’s not be negative; instead, I’d like to share some further thoughts I’ve had about the poem.
2.) Did anyone get that vague feeling that the poem was a work of genius equal in its madness and immortality? I certainly did! I wouldn’t have re-read it multiple times if I thought otherwise, and I’ll tell you what, about the second of third time reading it, I was hit with this strange, dark peace, as if I’ve finally connected with something higher, but not anything supernatural-like, just something powerfully natural— something powerfully human! I attribute this feeling to Ginsberg say-anything-that-comes-to-soul approach in writing poetry. Although this has led to some debatable questioning on the necessity of some of the more vulgar elements, it’s also led to some of the, what I and many licensed experts consider, brilliant lines in all of poetry. I find the brilliance in his ability to combine multiple aspects of life, ranging from religious imagery and spiritual themes, to drugs, alcohol, and sex. With Ginsberg these elements mix and are what life is at its most basic element. This incorporation of that which is holy and profane makes for poetry that I believe tears down walls, poetry that re-unites parts of humanity that have conservatively been separated by centuries of traditionalism.
3.) On that note, I must say that I was saddened upon hearing that Howl had to undergo an obscenity trial, but was also happy upon learning that it was judged permissible or allowable based off of its redeeming social importance! And to that I say amen! I say amen a thousand times more, too! What I’ve never understood about those who oppose what they deem to be morally corruptible material, is how they can think that it’ll prevent or even save those who otherwise would have been ‘corrupted’ had they gotten access to it. It’s my belief that if someone genuinely wants something, then they’ll search for it and generally find it.
4.) It’s interesting how the case actually had the reverse effect the prosecutors intended for it to have. They wished to shut it up, so to speak, but instead aided in the publicity and popularity of the City Lights published poetry book. I think it’s important here to point out how often times certain societal advocates desire to make taboo, and consequently, as the defense attorney of the film Howl remarked, “ fuel the fire of ignorance,” that which should not be so. If there’s an issue or aspect of life that is troubling, then I believe artists should have every right to express their feeling and not have to suppress them and subsequently feel like a social misfit. Artists like Ginsberg didn’t feel the need to censor their writings and in the process only communicate certain aspects of their thoughts, instead they freely wrote it all, and as a result, as my mom comically puts it, ate the whole enchilada!
5.) Furthermore, I’ll never forget the day I first read Howl! The day when every emotion in my body was rattled and roused at every line of the work. Was the use of allusion and imagery masterly solid and greatly artistic? Absolutely, but that’s not why my emotions acted the way they did, rather they acted so because I knew that I finally had before me someone who experienced life the way I do. Someone who, despite the frowns of the traditionalist, spoke what was on their heart and wasn’t afraid to let it all out, or to leave any stones unturned!
Sincerely, Enlightened Egghead
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Letter 1
Dear readers,
1. Where do I even begin?! If I’m practicing honesty, then I should exercise the virtue by informing you that my thoughts are suspended everywhere and nowhere when I try to give a comprehensive and informative overview on the Beat poets. Because of this I give you the subsequent warning: the following will leave those of you that prefer cohesiveness and disdain writing which is ‘all over the place’ vehement and highly dissatisfied.
2. The Beat poets were legendary literary artists that went just about everywhere and wrote just about everything. They embodied what it meant to ‘go against the grain’. They were the voices crying out in the wilderness. They were the epitome of avant-garde. They were the poet-prophets lashing out against the conventional American norms. To read their poems, letters, or books is to taste genius and experience powerful feelings which convulse you to where you shake a thousand shakes. Each shake shedding off any misconceived, misguided, or misunderstood notion on what it means to write well or live dynamically.
3. Although the Beat poets were great souls, they were also reckless. They were searching for something of lasting substance, and in the process, many turned to addictions and self-destructive activities, thus cutting short their lives and leaving the world to forever wonder how much great literature we’ll never have had the chance to read. Jack Kerouac, most famous for his work On the Road is the classic example of a shortened life. Kerouac was an alcoholic most of his life, and because of this he eventually suffered from cirrhosis, or liver failure, at the early age of 47. When I read about stories like Kerouac I clench my fist and have to practice self-restraint by not punching a wall and screaming uncontrollably. I only do this because I’m both sympathetic and angry at Kerouac. He thought himself misunderstood by everyone, in which he might have had much validity, but he also distanced himself from the very people that shaped him so beautifully. He had so much more to offer the world and it’ll never be known because he drank himself into oblivion most days, and eventually died because of it.
4. The Beat poets produced amazing work, but it didn’t come easy; in fact, much mental suffering and agony had to take place before inspiration combined with experience could produce something worthwhile and meaningful.
5. If one were to randomly flip open to any one page in Bill Morgan’s The Typewriter is Holy, then one would immediately notice the angst-ridden undercurrents flowing through and in their lives. In addition to their pervasive angst, many of the Beat poets performed peculiar actions that are hard to forget, for instance, Allen Ginsberg masturbated while reading William Blake’s poem “Ah! Sun-flower”.
6. Perhaps the most admirable trait the Beat poets had was their sense of community. They collaborated, traveled, and often even lived with one another! They wrote letters to one another, some timeless testaments to their ability to delve deep into themselves and bring to the surface lasting literary gems that still shines for anyone that looks its way.
7. Their wanderlust has influenced me greatly. I now have a renewed desire to see with my own eyes the world in all its grandeur. The Beat poets travelled to places like Mexico, Europe, India, and Japan. They had experiences there that opened up their eyes to the seemingly limitless sense-impressions the world has to offer. They also travelled often throughout the U.S, via car trips from coast to coast, or expeditions through national parks. I think all their travels led them to have a more comprehensive view of the world than they would have had had they just sat around the same places year after year. Perhaps their yearning to see more and feel more contributed to their well-rounded understanding of the world. They went and often lived in hell, but their sojourn there made them appreciate heaven much more so than they would have if they hadn’t ever gone. So William S. Burroughs had horrible nightmares and visions when he was using the South American hallucinogen yage, but if it weren’t for that tumultuous experience, then the world would never have had the privilege to hear of its effects and the fantastical images and inspirations it stimulated.
8. The Beat poets make me wrestle between two life-styles that I can choose to live. On one hand, I can frequently go broke travelling the world seeing and experiencing things outside of America’s scope, working odd and unpredictable jobs, and living life on the edge, presumably, and on the other hand, I can safely continue schooling and accumulate enough knowledge to earn me a degree which will potentially afford me a respectable job one day.
9. If my thoughts have proved scattered and far from the beginning of cohesiveness, it’s because they are. How could it be otherwise? Reading about the Beat poets takes your mind to places most have never dreamt imaginable. It makes you want to live actively. It makes you want to reform society and live bravely. It makes you want to fully express yourself no matter the cost. If nothing more, it makes you want to not waste your life.
10. I doubt this letter has done the Beat poets justice. Their lives were ones of defiance for what they deemed unjust. Perhaps they had a misinformed and even twisted understanding. Perhaps they needed to be reformed. But at least they had the courage to live out their convictions, something laudable to even the harshest of critics.
Peace and love,
Enlightened Egghead
1. Where do I even begin?! If I’m practicing honesty, then I should exercise the virtue by informing you that my thoughts are suspended everywhere and nowhere when I try to give a comprehensive and informative overview on the Beat poets. Because of this I give you the subsequent warning: the following will leave those of you that prefer cohesiveness and disdain writing which is ‘all over the place’ vehement and highly dissatisfied.
2. The Beat poets were legendary literary artists that went just about everywhere and wrote just about everything. They embodied what it meant to ‘go against the grain’. They were the voices crying out in the wilderness. They were the epitome of avant-garde. They were the poet-prophets lashing out against the conventional American norms. To read their poems, letters, or books is to taste genius and experience powerful feelings which convulse you to where you shake a thousand shakes. Each shake shedding off any misconceived, misguided, or misunderstood notion on what it means to write well or live dynamically.
3. Although the Beat poets were great souls, they were also reckless. They were searching for something of lasting substance, and in the process, many turned to addictions and self-destructive activities, thus cutting short their lives and leaving the world to forever wonder how much great literature we’ll never have had the chance to read. Jack Kerouac, most famous for his work On the Road is the classic example of a shortened life. Kerouac was an alcoholic most of his life, and because of this he eventually suffered from cirrhosis, or liver failure, at the early age of 47. When I read about stories like Kerouac I clench my fist and have to practice self-restraint by not punching a wall and screaming uncontrollably. I only do this because I’m both sympathetic and angry at Kerouac. He thought himself misunderstood by everyone, in which he might have had much validity, but he also distanced himself from the very people that shaped him so beautifully. He had so much more to offer the world and it’ll never be known because he drank himself into oblivion most days, and eventually died because of it.
4. The Beat poets produced amazing work, but it didn’t come easy; in fact, much mental suffering and agony had to take place before inspiration combined with experience could produce something worthwhile and meaningful.
5. If one were to randomly flip open to any one page in Bill Morgan’s The Typewriter is Holy, then one would immediately notice the angst-ridden undercurrents flowing through and in their lives. In addition to their pervasive angst, many of the Beat poets performed peculiar actions that are hard to forget, for instance, Allen Ginsberg masturbated while reading William Blake’s poem “Ah! Sun-flower”.
6. Perhaps the most admirable trait the Beat poets had was their sense of community. They collaborated, traveled, and often even lived with one another! They wrote letters to one another, some timeless testaments to their ability to delve deep into themselves and bring to the surface lasting literary gems that still shines for anyone that looks its way.
7. Their wanderlust has influenced me greatly. I now have a renewed desire to see with my own eyes the world in all its grandeur. The Beat poets travelled to places like Mexico, Europe, India, and Japan. They had experiences there that opened up their eyes to the seemingly limitless sense-impressions the world has to offer. They also travelled often throughout the U.S, via car trips from coast to coast, or expeditions through national parks. I think all their travels led them to have a more comprehensive view of the world than they would have had had they just sat around the same places year after year. Perhaps their yearning to see more and feel more contributed to their well-rounded understanding of the world. They went and often lived in hell, but their sojourn there made them appreciate heaven much more so than they would have if they hadn’t ever gone. So William S. Burroughs had horrible nightmares and visions when he was using the South American hallucinogen yage, but if it weren’t for that tumultuous experience, then the world would never have had the privilege to hear of its effects and the fantastical images and inspirations it stimulated.
8. The Beat poets make me wrestle between two life-styles that I can choose to live. On one hand, I can frequently go broke travelling the world seeing and experiencing things outside of America’s scope, working odd and unpredictable jobs, and living life on the edge, presumably, and on the other hand, I can safely continue schooling and accumulate enough knowledge to earn me a degree which will potentially afford me a respectable job one day.
9. If my thoughts have proved scattered and far from the beginning of cohesiveness, it’s because they are. How could it be otherwise? Reading about the Beat poets takes your mind to places most have never dreamt imaginable. It makes you want to live actively. It makes you want to reform society and live bravely. It makes you want to fully express yourself no matter the cost. If nothing more, it makes you want to not waste your life.
10. I doubt this letter has done the Beat poets justice. Their lives were ones of defiance for what they deemed unjust. Perhaps they had a misinformed and even twisted understanding. Perhaps they needed to be reformed. But at least they had the courage to live out their convictions, something laudable to even the harshest of critics.
Peace and love,
Enlightened Egghead
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