"The truth doesn’t have to do with cruelty, the truth has to do with mercy."
— Ken Kesey, featured in the new doc Magic Trip
(quote via libraryland)

"The truth doesn’t have to do with cruelty, the truth has to do with mercy."

— Ken Kesey, featured in the new doc Magic Trip

(quote via libraryland)

Let go and feel your nakednessby Harold Norse
Let go and feel your nakedness, tits ache to be bitten and suckedLet go with pong of armpit and crotch, let go with hole a-tingleLet go with tongue lapping hairy cunt, lick feet, kiss ass, suck cock and ballsLet the whole body go, let love come through, let freedom ringLet go with moans and erogenous zones, let go with heart and soulLet go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of loveLet go with senses, pull out the stops, forget false teachings and liesLet go of inherited belief, let go of shame and blame, in briefLet go of forbidden energies, choked back in muscle and nervesLet go of rigid rules and roles, let go of uptight posesLet go of your puppet self, let go and renew yourself and be freeLet go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of loveLet go this moment, the hour, this day, tomorrow will be too lateLet go of guilt and frustration, let liberation and tolerance flowLet go of phantom worries and fears, let go of hours and days and yearsLet go of hate and rage and grief, let walls against ecstasy fall for reliefLet go of pride and greed, let go of missiles and might and creedLet go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of love
Photo of Norse, ca. 1950s

(via i12bent)

Let go and feel your nakedness
by Harold Norse

Let go and feel your nakedness, tits ache to be bitten and sucked
Let go with pong of armpit and crotch, let go with hole a-tingle
Let go with tongue lapping hairy cunt, lick feet, kiss ass, suck cock and balls
Let the whole body go, let love come through, let freedom ring
Let go with moans and erogenous zones, let go with heart and soul
Let go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of love

Let go with senses, pull out the stops, forget false teachings and lies
Let go of inherited belief, let go of shame and blame, in brief
Let go of forbidden energies, choked back in muscle and nerves
Let go of rigid rules and roles, let go of uptight poses
Let go of your puppet self, let go and renew yourself and be free
Let go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of love

Let go this moment, the hour, this day, tomorrow will be too late
Let go of guilt and frustration, let liberation and tolerance flow
Let go of phantom worries and fears, let go of hours and days and years
Let go of hate and rage and grief, let walls against ecstasy fall for relief
Let go of pride and greed, let go of missiles and might and creed
Let go the dead meat of convention, wake up the live meat of love

Photo of Norse, ca. 1950s

(via i12bent)

Marriageby Gregory Corso, 1958Should I get married? Should I be good?Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?Don’t take her to movies but to cemeteriestell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinetsthen desire her and kiss her and all the preliminariesand she going just so far and I understanding whynot getting angry saying You must feel! It’s beautiful to feel!Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstoneand woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-When she introduces me to her parentsback straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofaand not ask Where’s the bathroom?How else to feel other than I am,often thinking Flash Gordon soap-O how terrible it must be for a young manseated before a family and the family thinkingWe never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?Should I tell them? Would they like me then?Say All right get married, we’re losing a daughterbut we’re gaining a son-And should I then ask Where’s the bathroom?O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friendsand only a handful of mine all scroungy and beardedjust wait to get at the drinks and food-And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbatedasking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the backShe’s all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoesNiagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!All streaming into cozy hotelsAll going to do the same thing tonightThe indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happenThe lobby zombies they knowing whatThe whistling elevator man he knowingEverybody knowing! I’d almost be inclined not to do anything!Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!running rampant into those almost climactic suitesyelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!O I’d live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the FallsI’d sit there the Mad Honeymoonerdevising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamya saint of divorce-
But I should get married I should be goodHow nice it’d be to come home to herand sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchenaproned young and lovely wanting my babyand so happy about me she burns the roast beefand comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chairsaying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!God what a husband I’d make! Yes, I should get married!So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones’ house late at nightand cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian booksLike hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmowerlike pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fencelike when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chestgrab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell himWhen are you going to stop people killing whales!And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottlePenguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-Yes if I should get married and it’s Connecticut and snowand she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling manknowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-O what would that be like!Surely I’d give it for a nipple a rubber TacitusFor a rattle a bag of broken Bach recordsTack Della Francesca all over its cribSew the Greek alphabet on its bibAnd build for its playpen a roofless ParthenonNo, I doubt I’d be that kind of fatherNot rural not snow no quiet windowbut hot smelly tight New York Cityseven flights up, roaches and rats in the wallsa fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!And five nose running brats in love with BatmanAnd the neighbors all toothless and dry hairedlike those hag masses of the 18th centuryall wanting to come in and watch TVThe landlord wants his rentGrocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbusimpossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-No! I should not get married! I should never get married!But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated womantall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black glovesholding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the otherand we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge windowfrom which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer daysNo, can’t imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-O but what about love? I forget lovenot that I am incapable of loveIt’s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my motherAnd Ingrid Bergman was always impossibleAnd there’s maybe a girl now but she’s already marriedAnd I don’t like men and-But there’s got to be somebody!Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married,all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwearand everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possiblethen marriage would be possible-Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian loverso i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Marriage
by Gregory Corso, 1958

Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don’t take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It’s beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where’s the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we’re losing a daughter
but we’re gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where’s the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She’s all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I’d almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I’d live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I’d sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce-

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it’d be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I’d make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones’ house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

Yes if I should get married and it’s Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I’d give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I’d be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can’t imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It’s just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there’s maybe a girl now but she’s already married
And I don’t like men and-
But there’s got to be somebody!
Because what if I’m 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

PAX by Jack Kerouac
I demand that the human race  ceases multiplying its kind
and bow out I advise it
 And as punishment and reward  for making this plea I know
I’ll be reborn the last human
 Everybody else dead and I’m an old woman roaming the earth
groaning in caves sleeping on mats
 And sometimes I’ll cackle, sometimes pray, sometimes cry, eat & cook
at my little stove in the corner 
 “Always knew it anyway,”
I’ll say
 And one morning wont get up from my mat
(via i12bent)

PAX 
by Jack Kerouac

I demand that the human race
ceases multiplying its kind

and bow out
I advise it

And as punishment and reward
for making this plea I know

I’ll be reborn
the last human

Everybody else dead and I’m
an old woman roaming the earth

groaning in caves
sleeping on mats

And sometimes I’ll cackle, sometimes
pray, sometimes cry, eat & cook

at my little stove
in the corner

“Always knew it anyway,”

I’ll say

And one morning wont get up from my mat

(via i12bent)

“I became the unnatural son of a few score of beaten men.”
— Neal Cassady, pictured above at an Acid Test in L.A. in 1966, from his autobiographyThe First Third on becoming ‘adopted’ by a bunch of pool-hall drunks in Denver as a kid
(via i12bent)

“I became the unnatural son of a few score of beaten men.

— Neal Cassady, pictured above at an Acid Test in L.A. in 1966, from his autobiographyThe First Third on becoming ‘adopted’ by a bunch of pool-hall drunks in Denver as a kid

(via i12bent)

Tags: The Beats

anneyhall:

Beatnik Breakfast in New York, late 1950s. L-R: Larry Rivers, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso (back of head), David Amram, Allen Ginsburg

Man I love local diners. I feel connected to the best parts of the twentieth century when I eat in a diner.
I drink coffee in a diner. Eat pie in a diner. Eat (half my) eggs in a diner. I feel like thumbing it into the distance after I leave a diner. When I’m in a diner I’m my father or grandfather when they were young. I’m Sal Paradise, I’m River Phoenix, I’m Hud. I’m lost. I’m found. I’m happy. I’m sad. I want to read in a diner or get lost in a conversation for far too long (never long enough). It’s alright to fidget in a diner. To let your eyes wander. I love a diner with a jukebox, especially if in my booth. I love watching short-order cooks perform their trapeze act in a diner.
Diners are best when you’re feeling greasy.
I’ve never smoked in a diner. Never been drunk in a diner. Never been arrested in a diner. The night is ever young in a diner.

anneyhall:

Beatnik Breakfast in New York, late 1950s. L-R: Larry Rivers, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso (back of head), David Amram, Allen Ginsburg

Man I love local diners. I feel connected to the best parts of the twentieth century when I eat in a diner.

I drink coffee in a diner. Eat pie in a diner. Eat (half my) eggs in a diner. I feel like thumbing it into the distance after I leave a diner. When I’m in a diner I’m my father or grandfather when they were young. I’m Sal Paradise, I’m River Phoenix, I’m Hud. I’m lost. I’m found. I’m happy. I’m sad. I want to read in a diner or get lost in a conversation for far too long (never long enough). It’s alright to fidget in a diner. To let your eyes wander. I love a diner with a jukebox, especially if in my booth. I love watching short-order cooks perform their trapeze act in a diner.

Diners are best when you’re feeling greasy.

I’ve never smoked in a diner. Never been drunk in a diner. Never been arrested in a diner. The night is ever young in a diner.

I was just out of high school when I bought my first Randy Newman album. It was 12 Songs, his second album from 1970, and it was an important moment for me. I picked it up in Moorhead, MN, at a used CD store on Main Ave. whose name escapes me; frustrating considering how many hours I spent in there flipping through jewel cases, looking for a gem.
This was one of them. It was the album cover (photographed by Tony Newman and looking a great deal like the visual work of both William Eggleston and Jandek, neither of whom were yet on my radar) that first spoke to me. Like an old postcard affixed to the bathroom doorway of a diner, it just reeked of a very particular kind of mid-century Americana for which I longed and with which I was just beginning to obsess myself. I devoured the Beats, Dylan, Tom Waits, John Fante, The Last Picture Show, Hud and contemporary songwriters like Jack Logan and Vic Chesnutt. I was a lyrics man at that time and Newman delivered. The imagery was so striking:
Let’s burn down the cornfield

Let’s burn down the cornfield 

And I’ll make love to you while it’s burning.

Heavy tackle for a boy of 19 wanting nothing more than to feel like a man. And the characters from whose perspective he wrote his songs were all so colorful and skewed. They’d have nothing but bit parts in most people’s songs or plays, but on Newman’s stage, they were stars. They were the folks you wanted to hang out with and get to know. Misfits reigned in his world, and it emitted a sense of authenticity that struck all the right chords for me. It actually took me years to actually be able to appreciate the actual musical elements of 12 Songs. At the time I loved these songs despite the seemingly flippant music and oft-kilter voice, embracing instead the lost era concept and appreciating the stories and the bare unadorned nature in which they were presented above all. It seemed a bit crazy to me that someone got paid to make an album like this, and I still had no frame of reference for the fact that he would actually become quite successful a few years later. While I’d eventually grow to appreciate Sail Away as his true masterwork, that initial impression that 12 Songs made on me would was significant enough that I consider it my favorite Randy Newman album, the one that will continue to have the most conjuring power over me through the years as I surely turn to dust.

I was just out of high school when I bought my first Randy Newman album. It was 12 Songs, his second album from 1970, and it was an important moment for me. I picked it up in Moorhead, MN, at a used CD store on Main Ave. whose name escapes me; frustrating considering how many hours I spent in there flipping through jewel cases, looking for a gem.

This was one of them. It was the album cover (photographed by Tony Newman and looking a great deal like the visual work of both William Eggleston and Jandek, neither of whom were yet on my radar) that first spoke to me. Like an old postcard affixed to the bathroom doorway of a diner, it just reeked of a very particular kind of mid-century Americana for which I longed and with which I was just beginning to obsess myself. I devoured the Beats, Dylan, Tom Waits, John Fante, The Last Picture Show, Hud and contemporary songwriters like Jack Logan and Vic Chesnutt. I was a lyrics man at that time and Newman delivered. The imagery was so striking:

Let’s burn down the cornfield

Let’s burn down the cornfield 

And I’ll make love to you while it’s burning.

Heavy tackle for a boy of 19 wanting nothing more than to feel like a man. And the characters from whose perspective he wrote his songs were all so colorful and skewed. They’d have nothing but bit parts in most people’s songs or plays, but on Newman’s stage, they were stars. They were the folks you wanted to hang out with and get to know. Misfits reigned in his world, and it emitted a sense of authenticity that struck all the right chords for me. It actually took me years to actually be able to appreciate the actual musical elements of 12 Songs. At the time I loved these songs despite the seemingly flippant music and oft-kilter voice, embracing instead the lost era concept and appreciating the stories and the bare unadorned nature in which they were presented above all. It seemed a bit crazy to me that someone got paid to make an album like this, and I still had no frame of reference for the fact that he would actually become quite successful a few years later. While I’d eventually grow to appreciate Sail Away as his true masterwork, that initial impression that 12 Songs made on me would was significant enough that I consider it my favorite Randy Newman album, the one that will continue to have the most conjuring power over me through the years as I surely turn to dust.

I finished watching the original 9-part Ken Burns Baseball documentary last night. Felt like a fantastic way to close out Thanksgiving. While I felt minorly bereft of footage of the era with which I was most familiar (’70s, ’80s, very early ’90s), I do feel grateful that he spent so much time on the early years, establishing well his primary thesis — that what is so magical about the sport is how constant & unchanged it has remained in its 150+ years, how it ties Americans to a national past they might otherwise feel missing in their ever changing lives.
Watching it made me feel not only more connected to my own past (the countless hours spent with the game in my childhood), but also far more connected with any sense of distinctly American identity than I’ve felt in my life since I first started immersing myself with the Beats (and Dylan to a lesser degree) in high school. Back then all the imagery of driving cross country and diners and yearning made me feel that there really wasn’t so much that separated me from the people on the page, that technology hadn’t driven a wedge between their human experience and mine. It was a marvelous feeling back then, feeling connected with generations past, perhaps something that most people experience daily, but for me it was a very special feeling, a window being opened into another realm, a window which sadly has not remained open to me. Until now. Watching Baseball re-opened that window. It’s my hope that I’m able to get a glimpse into that window every time I partake in the sport moving forward, whether its watching a game or reading and telling stories about it.
This pic of Willie Mays playing stickball on the streets of Harlem in 1954 is a nice overlap of my Beat and baseball windows.
(photo via aconversationoncool)

I finished watching the original 9-part Ken Burns Baseball documentary last night. Felt like a fantastic way to close out Thanksgiving. While I felt minorly bereft of footage of the era with which I was most familiar (’70s, ’80s, very early ’90s), I do feel grateful that he spent so much time on the early years, establishing well his primary thesis — that what is so magical about the sport is how constant & unchanged it has remained in its 150+ years, how it ties Americans to a national past they might otherwise feel missing in their ever changing lives.

Watching it made me feel not only more connected to my own past (the countless hours spent with the game in my childhood), but also far more connected with any sense of distinctly American identity than I’ve felt in my life since I first started immersing myself with the Beats (and Dylan to a lesser degree) in high school. Back then all the imagery of driving cross country and diners and yearning made me feel that there really wasn’t so much that separated me from the people on the page, that technology hadn’t driven a wedge between their human experience and mine. It was a marvelous feeling back then, feeling connected with generations past, perhaps something that most people experience daily, but for me it was a very special feeling, a window being opened into another realm, a window which sadly has not remained open to me. Until now. Watching Baseball re-opened that window. It’s my hope that I’m able to get a glimpse into that window every time I partake in the sport moving forward, whether its watching a game or reading and telling stories about it.

This pic of Willie Mays playing stickball on the streets of Harlem in 1954 is a nice overlap of my Beat and baseball windows.

(photo via aconversationoncool)