I made love to her in the sweetness of the weary morning.
Diamo e prendiamo e penetriamo in dolcezze incredibilmente complicate andando a zig zag da qualsiasi parte.
I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won’t bother to talk about, except it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead.
All I hope, Dean, is someday we’ll be able to live on the same street with our families and get to be a couple of oldtimers together.
Things come but to go, all things made have to be unmade, and they’ll have to be unmade simply because they were made!
Beat doesn’t mean tired or bushed, so much as it means beato, the Italian for beatific: to be in a state of beatitude, like St. Francis, trying to love all life, trying to be utterly sincere with everyone, practicing endurance, kindness, cultivating joy of heart. How can this be done in our mad modern world of multiplicities and millions? By practicing a little solitude, going off by yourself once in a while to store up that most precious of goals: the vibrations of sincerity.
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was – I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.
As I was hiking down the mountain woth my pack I turned and I knelt on the trail and said “Thank you, Shack”. The I added “Blah” with a little grin, because I knew that shack and that mountain would know what that meant, and turned and went on down the trail back to this world.
All I know is that I’m a helpless hunk of helpful horse manure looking in your eye saying Help me.
I think of Dean Moriarty.
I have never met such weird yet serious and earnest people.
Have some more wine, Smith, you’re not making sense.
There ain’t no such thing as lumberjack, that must be a Back East expression. Up here we call ’em loggers.
Goodnight gentle readers, sleep; sweet music to your dreams.
Great beautiful clouds floated overhead, valley clouds that made you feel the vastness of old tumbledown holy America from mouth to mouth and tip to tip.
I haven’t the courage, or perhaps the hardness, to withstand the tremendous pathos of this life. I love life’s casual beauty- fear its awful strength.
Sometimes during the night I’d look at my poor sleeping mother cruelly crucified there in the American night because of no-money, no-hope-of-money, no family, no nothing, just myself the stupid son of plans all of them compacted of eventual darkness.
The tremendous secrecy of alleys between houses.
And of course now no one can tell us that there is no God. We’ve passed through all forms. You remember, Sal, when I first came to New York and I wanted Chad King to teach me about Nietzsche. You see how long ago? Everything is fine, God exists, we know time. Everything since the Greeks has been predicted wrong. You can’t make it with geometry and geometrical systems of thinking. It’s all this!
No imaginary judgments of form, The clouds Butterfat.