Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [39]
forever
Is full of peace
And there is no man who’ll live forever
Here it is California,
little young girls going to
school in the fresh &
dewy sidewalks of sleepy
San Luis — birds are
noising up & down —
a mist sweetens the
mountains — the cool
sea beyond the hills
has been all night
& will be all day —
ever eating sand, creaming
rocks, washing worlds —
The rail is sticky, wet,
dewy — clean architectural
trains & perfect red &
black signals —
my life so lonely &
empty without someone
to love & lay, & without
a work to surpass
myself with, that I
have nothing nothing
to write about even
in the first clear joy
of morning — Today
May 5 1953 I’m
going to decide on my
next book — the
idleness is killing —
WILL to decide —
The pristine leader who
made & lost this house
has none of my sympathy.
In the desert there was
a sign that said
“SNAKE CHEF’S
DAUGHTER DOVE
XND
JOSEPH CHARLES BRETON
HERE RECOMMENCED
THE WORLD
FROM THE GREAT FIRE OF
JULY 1845
URP RAIN AGAIN”
though no one had seen
it except the father
of the later generation
Bretons, John.
“Urp what again?”
“Rain”
“What’s that mean.”
“Nobody knows Looks
like urp. It might
be something else.
It looks like Snake
Chef’s Daughter Dove.
It might be something
else.”
“When did you see
this sign? Why didnt
you bring it with you?”
“I saw it in 1895
with Uncle Bull Balloon
I didnt bring it I didnt
even touch it. That was
my father’s sign your
grandfather He was
given the name Silver
Fox by the Indians His
son his eldest son his
first was called Coyote
& is now somewhere in
the Mexican desert or
walking along a railroad
track in California
& known as Whitey to
the bums & Coyote
Viejo to the Mexicans
& has a flowing white
beard. That is your
uncle Samuel He is
I believe in the
Zacatecan Desert &
like a ghost.”
“How old were you in
1895?”
“How should I know?”
“How old are you now?”
“I ceased I dont
count any more I
ceased & deceased . . .
And that little hotbox
in yr car wasnt
even formed in yr
unborn brain cells
when I made my first
payment on this
farce — & you, but
just an idea buried in
dirt at the back of
my brain.”
“I remember Old
Jim when his eyes
were moist — ”
Sun Apr 26 SWING THE HILL
(The railroad is a steely
proposition)
Animals dont have pride
Men shouldnt — healthy
men have no peacock
pride
I’ve been imitating Gerard
in reverence since he
died — his death was
my one real tragedy
more than Pa — his
death my death — But
imitating & adoring him
I grew exclusive, special,
prideful, found Turf, later
“literature” to do in my room
— in fact life insulting me
because it no longer
included Gerard —
Get rid of pride
Get rid of sorrow
Mix with the People
Go among the People,
the Fellaheen not the
American Bourgeois Middle-
class World of neurosis
nor the Catholic French
Canadian European World
— the People —
Indians, Arabs, the
Fellaheen in country, village,
of City slums — an
essential World Dostoevsky
if you want to Gauguin on —
but mainly, fulfill yr.
needs, live, — sit staring
in the yard all day, if
the other men laugh at
you challenge them
& ask them if “you would
like it if I laugh at
you” — Screw, drink,
be lazy, roam, do
nothing . . . gather yr.
food — Get out of
America for good, it’s
a Culture holding you,
no Life — The People
of No Good & Evil —
of No Culture, no
Prophets — nothing but
essential politics & literature
as Tales of the People —
Gauguin practised a
neurotic civilization
impressionism among
primitive fellaheen
people — is his
art so good as they
say? — is it better
really than all-out
culture bourgeois dutch
come-&-honey Rembrandt?
— of course not — Impressionism
is & has always been
a breakup & compromise
in the art of picturing
nature & is now a
wild scatalogical paint
blur call’d Surrealism etc
Primitive art nevertheless
is closer to Surrealism
than “Naturalism”
(which is unnaturally technical)
— but primitive
art does not consider
Subconsciousness