Book of Sketches Read online

  Machines can’t

  run without a theoretical

  basis.

  The theoretical of

  Nature is still & will

  always be “unknown”

  because it is not

  theoretical, it is —

  Ah now the croaking

  birds of California Afternoon,

  the tweeties too,

  the neigh of a horse,

  the breeze, the rustle

  of a paper bag stuck

  against a bush — God

  will come again in all

  his radiance & illuminate

  our souls with understanding

  & pity, & Jesus will

  descend into our minds

  with his Meek & Sorrowful

  Look & pierce us with

  the pang & arrow of

  our condition on the

  plain of life — & bless

  us with a soft

  shroud — I want

  to sit in the

  desert contemplating the

  earth & the clouds &

  the insects & suddenly

  the poor Fellaheen

  simplicity-souls there

  with me — I want to

  be among them in the

  night, soft lights across

  the sand road, distant

  dogs of the Fellaheen Moon

  — the maguey rows —

  the holy marijuana to

  enliven my Vision when

  needed — the sweet

  wine — to soften my

  cark & belly when needed

  — the tender cunt of

  my Indian Love — my

  Fellaheen Wife — &

  holy sleep among the Patriarchs

  All I want to do is

  love —

  God will come into

  me like a golden

  light & make areas

  of washing gold above

  my eyes, & penetrate

  my sleep with His Balm

  — Jesus, his Son, is in

  my Heart constantly.

  My brother Gerard

  was like Jesus. My

  father I loved like

  God. My mother

  is sweet & golden-

  hearted & never meant

  harm to bird, insect

  or person in the depths

  of her simple heart, —

  My sister is dead to God

  now, because she puts

  marriage to a tyrannical

  but simple-hearted

  man before her knowledges

  of God & the soul that

  she learned once from

  her father, brother (&

  mother perhaps) & Church —

  She & I knelt in

  damp pews of poor Good

  Friday —

  I am working for the

  railroad to keep my

  stomach in food &

  drink but I want to

  throw myself on the

  ground & die for God

  if it wasnt so awful

  TO DIE & leave the joys

  of food & drink & cunt,

  & grieving relatives.

  To learn the life

  of sainthood is harder

  than 8 years of

  Medical or Law School

  — I will come to it

  gradually, to celibacy

  & some fasting (by celibacy

  I mean of course simplicity

  of living, for instance no

  gum chewing & such

  trivial habits that attach

  to me still from the

  Machine of Anti Christ)

  — come gradually to growing

  my own food, to Patriarchy

  & Silence in the Earth

  & Ecstasy of Alyosha

  SKETCHES NO. 3

  Cowboys of the Wild

  American romantic West

  & the Horsey Set are

  hungup on horses’ asses —

  Cows around an oil well pump

  say — “Leave the oil in

  our earth.” — Later ages

  will wonder why Faustian

  man extracted all kinds

  of stuff from the earth,

  dirt, mud, oil — Silly

  pumps ass balling up &

  down the ground for

  nothing — oil for horror —

  ( — Dostoevsky’s moon — )

  Aping nature is not art,

  only a gospel will do —

  Tea — backtracking thru

  the universe —

  Not only a derangement

  of the senses but of

  personal evaluations, moral

  evaluations of yourself

  — tea is suicidal —

  I vant to be alone —

  since that repudiation of

  a human wish Americans

  have become adjusted to

  their machines —

  Baby crying in gray morning

  — moments meshing with

  every note —

  Pray to God for the

  great reality (on

  yr. knees in Italian

  railyards near spectral

  tenements)

  The first thing that strikes

  me about Dostoevsky in beginning

  any of his books is

  the nervous anguish that

  seems to have preceded the

  first page — the hero is

  always the same, comes

  to the first page out of

  eternities of introspection,

  anguish, gloom — just

  as I do every day.

  Hmm.

  The morning of me

  liberation — Oct. 4, 1952

  — I go live alone in

  a 3rd St. room, leaving

  Neal’s — for the 1st

  time since 1942 —

  (in Hartford) — All

  set to write On the

  Road, the big one

  with Michael Levesque

  — the only one —

  have renounced everyone,

  & myself dedicate to

  sorrow, work, silence,

  solitude, deep joys of

  the early mist —

  Train 3-419 is waiting

  outside Oakland yards

  — it’s 7 30 AM —

  fog — great clutter of

  bedsprings & screens &

  rusty fenders for walls

  make a house of

  ferruginous barrels loaded

  with iron mucks — I

  see whole interiors of

  hotplates, grates of

  old stoves, the arms

  of antique washing machines,

  tubes, buckets,

  — two bos just

  passed it, found an

  interest in a piece on the

  ground — Strange

  bird flies overhead —

  Saw 1000 ducks Milpitas —

  Next to junk crib

  is concrete blockhouse hut

  with protruderant pole

  with climbing ladder &

  iron pipe — a smaller,

  sloperoofed concrete house

  with no meaning (hides

  a dynamo?) — little

  window — in chalk

  “Nixon is broke” —

  Armour & Co. loading

  platform has yesterday’s

  debris — a Filipino

  fishes in blue barrel —

  October & the railyards

  again, & the great novel

  in America —

  The Cook is Grooking —

  Jacky Robinson’s at

  bat again —

  OCT 4

  Saturday morning in a Frisco

  bar, October, it’s the

  World Series as in 1947

  when Michael LeVesque

 
was in Selma Calif.

  & the old railroad clerk

  spoke to him in the

  long dust of an

  afternoon of sorrowful

  farewell, when Mike’d

  turned for one last goodbye

  at Teresa in the

  long grape row —

  I’m getting my kicks in

  typical Jack Kerouac

  way, refilling a tokay

  25¢ shotglass from

  my poorboy pocket bottle

  in railroad-grime jacket

  & writing & watching

  W. S. while Negro &

  Filipino cats sit in

  bar watching game

  without buying or

  drinking anything at

  all — Mike Levesque

  is like that, the

  Pilgrim of the Fellaheen

  is a simple & joyful

  fellow & no “innocent

  boy” camper like Peter

  Martin — but no

  more words, now for

  the scenes —

  (She was born in Montreal

  a simple-intentioned pure

  heart, & remained so for

  a lifetime thru histories, paranoias

  & grief)

  You’ve got to put a

  superstructure of love

  on yr. life or you’ll

  just be a skeleton in

  the grave of yr.

  mortal days, shuddering

  naked against the main

  nerve of yr. being,

  unclothed for the

  Raiment Halls of

  Will, Severity of Purpose,

  — God is a superaddition

  to the frame of Man,

  like the flesh & eyes —

  Therefore unravel the

  drama of yr. soul before

  yr. eyes, be strong &

  thoughtful, be not naked scared

  The personal legend of

  Duluoz is for communication

  on a later level —

  When I walked in 20th Century Fox

  office in 1949 I knew the

  corruption of certain types &

  the City; but now I see the

  corruption of all America

  & its broken head on an iron wheel

  Ah what’s happening in

  the world! —

  I woke up — 2 flies

  were fucking on my forehead

  It’s hypocrisy makes

  these hills grim —

  The pue of the sad Malley —

  listen to the sad Malley —

  the phew of the sad Malley —

  song of the sad Malley —

  (Mallet locomotive)

  You have an inordinary

  nack to inult me

  every nime

  This is the end of

  the handball game

  TO CARL SOLOBONE

  SKETCH . . . .

  Watsonville, valley — the

  sun is setting in a mysterious

  orange flameball over the

  flat green lettuce fields

  interlined with brown dirt

  rows & roads & rails — beyond

  the milky haze of this

  dusk is the sea, unseen, the

  Pacific to the Land of the

  Rising Sun — the grass is

  like hay, full of ants

  that go to sleep at sundown,

  dry shrubs, dry cottonwoods,

  weeds, tart spice ferns of

  Spring are now fuel for

  Autumn Seres, — little

  weedflowers close their

  blossoms as the dusk birdsongs

  titter — a farm in the

  dreaming vale below, white-

  washed barn, flat reposant

  chickencoops & toolsheds —

  I hear the distant hiway

  trucks — sitting on the

  mat of earth on the westernmost

  American hill facing

  the unknown east all

  pink now — Sweet dewy

  breeze hints of sea —

  The railroad cries the

  roundroll — I sleep on

  the ground under the

  stars like an Indian,

  baseball hat, brakeman’s

  lantern & tucked in

  Levis & workshoes &

  jacket, arms folded to

  the moon —

  a cow mourns below —

  adios — now the sun

  is bloodred, sinks behind

  the mighty mountain trees

  — the distant sad hiway

  of little soundless cars —

  the Salad Bowl of the

  World sinks to dark, all

  you need is a plane to

  spray mayonnaise & chopped

  scallions — eat a whole

  valley raw — the figs

  trees are shitting on the

  ground, Mexican Motorists

  pick walnuts from the

  ground, the bums have

  left a Tokay empty

  under the avocado tree —

  ripe California

  THE CRUMMY

  Where once I’d quake

  at the thought of a

  jawbreaking caboose hitting

  in the slack, Wham! —

  now, this morning, in

  my bemused equicenter

  I look up & see the

  caboose crazy disheveled

  blurred, as if I was seeing

  it momentarily photographed

  thru a trick mirror, &

  feel no shock or wonder

  nor hear a sound nor

  move from my seat —

  just see it as it

  rocks to the bang

  Now that I understand

  the railroad with my own

  senses I see that Neal

  was only jabbering about

  the obvious again, & in his

  unnecessarily involved &

  confusing way — which has

  to do with his sadism —

  to confuse — unclear

  & befrought with subtle

  “lies” or “hiddens” —

  “hidings” — concealings —

  — from weird guilt —

  The Bird of Chittenden

  OBRA PRIVATA

  When you were a kid,

  Duluoz, & the perfumed

  aunts visiting & the

  promise of quarters &

  ice cream & lipstick

  kisses & long afternoons

  of gossip in the kitchen

  as the sun gets red —

  The Immortality &

  Eternalness of all

  that & everything that

  ever happened to you

  still waits for

  that Obra Privata

  pen, sorrow & faith —

  (some of it in French!)

  MORE SKETCHES CALIFORNIA

  Sexy young Wop mother

  waiting train at Burlingame

  in Gray West Void with

  blond son, campy meets

  her brunette sister in a

  suit — a semi wino in

  brown & white saddles &

  beat pants passes them

  smoking with that “Hey

  Jack, I’m tired & shore

  weary” expression — Big

  sad baggage boy pushes

  trunks on orange truck,

  crepesoles, buttondown sweater,

  short hair, his mother’s

  making chocolate pudding

  for him right now, his Pa’s

  puttering in the garage —

  Hundreds of cars parked

  in concrete back of

  Bridge & Dugan Carpet

  Specialists — A big

  yellow squash in the

  weeds near the railroad

  fence of a California

  bungalow settl
ement

  with same backs —

  Pale green dobe oil

  company buildings —

  (ranch style) —

  Bay Meadows, the

  starting gate high

  on the far turn above

  the immense Bay

  flats & wreckage

  of cranes & poles —

  blah — The Machine Plain —

  The California Okie

  businessman with bushy

  eyebrows & red face

  clumpin along adjusting

  his belt butt in mouth

  newspapers sticking out

  of shroud coat, in

  first rain of year —

  in Hillsdale — thousands

  of cars everywhere half

  of them new (now’s

  time to buy jalopy)

  Brown-grass hills, green

  redwoods, alpine lodge

  houses of 30’s Calif. —

  Gray murk on palms —

  Western Awning Co.

  palegreen stucco —

  & Dentist in Spanish

  style — Dullness of

  Texaco station, “Marfak

  Lubrication” “Motor Tune

  Up” — attendant pissing

  water on windshield —

  — Rain on the

  parched Calif. brown

  grass hills — the sea

  beyond — Ha! —

  What will be debris

  by Europe track? —

  here is oil cans, beer

  cans, paper (brown),

  oiled tie-piles, boards,

  cartons, lumberyards,

  junkyards, cellophane —

  The winter in Italy? —

  April in Paris! —

  January in Venice! —

  Summer in England

  & Scandinavia!

  Fall in North Africa!

  Winter in Baghdad!

  — !! —

  CONSUMER CREDIT &

  the new E. A. Mattison

  Budget Finance Plan

  Inc. is just a loan

  to someone to finance,

  manufacture, distribute &

  sell a product, such as

  home freezers — But this is

  going in debt in order

  to pay it off with

  savings. You borrow

  money, buy or invest, &

  then save to pay off your

  debt: leaves U.S. with

  record savings & record

  debts at same time.

  Consumer credit is one

  arm of machine reaching

  out to help other, but