Book of Sketches (12 page)

 

Then barbershop; then
“Smoke House,” an
ordinary cigar newspaper
store — “Pajaro Valley
Hardware” sandwiches
in old Colonial Hotel
bottom of 2 story of
which is Sporting Goods
— Then rich creamy
concrete streamlined
bank on corner, with
official Main St. globetype
(5 globes) streetlamp
announcing bleak official
clock district officer
corner of bus stops
traffic & stainglass
doors

In Pavia, 18 miles south
of Milan, the ashes of
St. Augustine, the great
monastery Certosa di
Pavia, junction of the
Ticino & the Po, fortifications
of Old Ticinum,
thousand yr. old university,
manufacture of pipe
organs, makers of wine,
silk, oil, and cheese.
Must go to Pavia
Taranto for oysters
San Remo for swimming
Padua for pictures
Stone Age village near Terni

 

 

ON THE ROAD
BY
Jack Iroquois

 

Half of mankind is
Snakelike
Ah Duluoz, — when you
left home to go to
sea in 1942 — that
was the beginning — then
you’d sing
Old Black Magic
in the night, & love
yr. thoughts, & Margaret,
& yr. good little friends of
Lowell — Sammy GJ
Salvey Scotty Daston

 

— what have you
gotten since? Edie in
the Fall led to Joan
Adams Summer 43,
which led to Carr,

 

— Never mind what
Burroughs, or Ginsberg, have
to say about anything
— start by exposing them
all in your parable about
America: -
THE MILLENIUM
OF THE MEEK FELLAHEEN
Then work on “Vanity
of Duluoz” with
original ms. & all
new Duluoz memories —
in Mexico or in Spain —
in Paris or in Pavia —
Fish out that old
“Liverpool Testament” —

The old cowboys of
1930’s pulp westerns were
always in river bottoms
eavesdropping on the rustlers
at late afternoon — the
Pajaro River in dry
California, brush, sand,
cow turds, trees —
ashes of old campfires —
Nowadays the wino

The flame of the
woodfire grows more profound
& mellow on the first
November nights, in
the caboose —

The poor little Mexican
gal in Calexico, writing
on Oct 1 1952 to Manuel
Perez in Watsonville whose
clothes & belongings I found
intact on the Pajaro levee
dump, wants money to
buy a
tablecloth
— can
you picture an American
woman asking money for
such a humble, useful
purpose — “unos manteles
para la mesa.” “Honey,”
she says, “dime porque no
me has escrito” — “tiene
tan . . . pensamientos para ti.”
She loves him — I am
wearing all his clothes not
knowing whether he’s alive or

 

OCT 31 1952
Evil dies, but good
lives forever —
The evil in you will die,
& your flesh with it, but
the good in yr heart &
soul will live forever —
Evil can’t live, good
can’t die —
Your angrinesses, impatience,
hassels, even that & your
shit, all — will die, cannot,
wills not to live; but the
flashes of sweet light will
never die, the love, the
kindness of hope, the
true work, joy of belief —

then the angels of
your soul, yr mother, your
wife (a new, good wife),
your children. If a son
or a daughter is bad,
throw it in the sea —
Your few good friends.
Cultivate yourself like a
flower; pull out weeds
like Cassady, Ginsberg,
Burroughs; accept the
nourishment of White,
Holmes: — water yrself
carefully — & keep your
flesh fit so as not to
burden the soul with
temporal strains & remove
that much energy

contact between you &
God means no church,
no society, no reform,
& almost no relationships,
& almost no hope in
relationships — but
kindness of hope inherent
in that what is good,
shall live, & what is
bad, dies — Your
flesh will be a husk,
but yr. soul a star —
The greatest & only
final form of “good”
is human —

 

The true work is on
belief; true belief
in immortal good;
the continual human
struggle against
linguistic religious
abstraction; recognition
of the soul beneath
everything, & humor, —
Lights in the foggy
night are not necessarily
bleak & friendless, but
just lights (in fact to
light yr. way), & fog
from the necessary sea —
Stupid, fatuous men
are not necessarily
all stupid & fatuous,

 

nor all on the horizon,
nor completely devoid of
good, or hope — The evil
in them will die, the
good will live — Bleak
& friendless universe is
only one of several
illusions, the greatest &
only immortal one of
which is
good
—
Enough, the words to
this “idea,” or belief,
are limited, the combinations
to describe it
almost exhausted already
— Manifestations
of this in humanity, therefore
in your writing work,
are endless however —

 

(End of SK 3)

I keep thinking of the
acorn trees outside Lowell
on that gray day Mike
& I hiked to the quarry —
Kirouac
will be like
that, gray, fated —

 

MONTREAL (in “taverne”)
Montreal is my
Paradise — &
they almost didnt
let me in —
Railroad restaurant Frisco
combined with Mexico
Fellaheen girls taverns
&
Lowell
— O
thanks Lord

Moreover
Kirouac
has always been an
unpopular name
among Canucks, for
Breton reasons I
guess — something
hotheaded independent
& brilliant makes
yr paisan bristle
with suspicion —
Noel was a whole
chunk of suspicion
— I shoulda
spattered him in
the street

And that would
tear my clothes
break my watch no
thanks —

In America the
birch is grievous,
lost, rich, poetic
— the woods are
haunted — a meaning
was united in this
bleak — I know
the dead Dutchman
of Saybrook never
cared for the
name Kirouac —

 

a beastly world with
all the traits in
myself — & God
will crown my head
with grave dung —
but I have sung
the pale rainy lakes
in this chokéd craw
of mine & will
sing again — &
mine enemies look
me in the eye
if they will, or
be still

 

A Whitman song
of New England in
Winter! — the
coasts, the white
sprays of shipping off
N.B., the r.r. brakeman’s

 

A big piece of myself is stuck
is choking me in my throat

 

My belief in the Holy Ghost
less and less — it’s fading
— It must not fade, but
return — Return, Holy Ghost

 

 

 

Not a blue sky clean
Spring but a mixed
new-haze day smelling
of faint Spring smokes
— a chill wind
makes washlines sway
— a gray horizon, a
radiant sun behind
clouds — in little
snake mottled trees
balls of Spring bole
hang like decorations,
wave —
Six million diesels
churring & vibrating
in the yards, waiting
for fueling — The
tenderness pale clouds
that in the exact
zenith mix with
the pale pure
blue — Among the
bushes the carpet of
caterpillar hair —
The basketball
players of the
open cement court
are wheeling &

 

whistling — a ball’s
suspended in air, a
Scandinavian sweatered
youth is stiffnecked
watching it, others
in attitudes of
twistback & turn,
“Ya-y-y-y” —
— gesturing, talking —
watchers have arms
on knees — a ball
is bounced —