Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [37]
hand drummers dreaming —
I saw the oil cup
flares of the construction
job at the middle of
Gregoire St. in Lowell
in a night before I was
born, the moths flying
millionfold around, the
dense happiness of
timeless reality and
angels — the incoming
soaring whirlwind
cloud of thoughts, eyes,
the whole shroud, the
Blakean wind &
the voice in the wind
saying “Ti Jean va
venir au monde, Il
va savoir le mystère,
il va savoir le mystère — ”
& at the foot of the
street the house where
the woman had an
altar in a room, whole
statue, candles, flowers,
this dame instead of
a TV had in & for her
sittingroom of settees
& kewpie cushions a
bloody sadness in
plaster, loss & vim
of kicking candle flames
hundreds darting to
the rescue in air
screaming pursuit of
lost atoms —
The mist of the night,
the river beyond, the dull
street lamps, the pit of
the universe not only like
the Mass. St of Mary
Carney in another room
of the Level Time but
(as dark, as fragrant)
like the night of
the dream of the crowd
playing leapfrog around
the racetrack with dice,
knives & interests
— in Denver, in
Shmenver, when silently
I a goof following
a cop who later turned
into a woman came
padding in my dusty
shoe of dreams, amazed
— the last gloom, the
last barn — horses? —
& in the rickety sad
immortal Now-house
the swarming vision parting
over the heads of
little children on the
bed & I’m singing
a saying — “Where’s
Neal?” — & that
little salesman sipped
his beer in Montreal,
put it down, adjusted
packages, said “Ben
j m en va chez nous”
“T’est t un vra
soulon — ”
“Ben weyon, parl
pas comme ca — On
dit pas ca — ”
“Aw — ” I was
sorry — “En anglais
en amerique — c’est
une joke — on dit — ”
And he said: “I’m
half dead anyway — I’m
goin to die soon” &
off he goes, 98 lbs.,
dark, blessed, off
into the spectral
Montreal night of
suburban streetdiggings
with oil cups, flares
illuminating sandpiles,
as the Angel bends
over, Gerard bends over,
leering sadly
in this night —
A great
unequivocal dog
Is all a wolf is
I am Mallarmé’s
grandchild
The locomotive comes swimming
thru the newsy city. In
a deep cut, houses on both
banks, full of living lights,
talk of families in eventful
kitchens. This is where I come
riding my Maine white horse.
A woman in a
Clipper berth foam-
rubber mattress being
served bkfast. in
bed over the jungles of
Ecuador —
she’s going down to Guayaquil
as an administrative
assistant to
some Aid deal — “to
help develop the economic
‘security’ etc. of
Indians — etc.” — plane
falls — her thots,
running, her whole life —
crash — she ends up
being treated kindly
in a dirty village by
sweet meek Indians
whom she fears — she
gets hysterical — her
husband comes to get
her & takes her back
to her bedroom in some
exclusive section outside
Chicago — she’s had
her taste of “Global
Democracy” “Anti-
Communism” & all that
highblown Time shit —
A movie idea —
She appears on TV
& you see her lie about
her “experience” —
Add to Sam Horn
the idea of modern
cowboys with Ford
Mercuries
Man, the terrible laugh
of those who think
themselves special
— élite — it
has a gory
hungry sound
lonely
dirty
Apr 28 ’53
San Luis Obispo
Blue 2 PM Sky
Mtns smoky
Growl of motor of
bigtruck on 101
Who cares
Everything is alive
the blue glass domes
on tphone pole
The skittering birds
Rippling palm leaves
Waving pine branches
Valley of hope pale
green with dark bushes
A completely pastless
man smoking a
cig in a dark
bedroom — fuck
literature! —
write like at 18! —
cracked insanity of
T & C years
esply 1948 —
enjoy — daydreams
Unbroken word sketches
of the subconscious pictures
of sections of the
memory life of an
imbecile genius resting
in the madhouse of his
mind — The word
flow must not be disturbed,
or picture forgotten for
words’ sakes, nor the
pictures stretched beyond
their bookmovie strength
except parenthetically.
Work from your own side of literature
&