At a given point he was convinced, and not only absolutely adamant about it but also impossible to dissuade, that Lenny Bruce and Jack Kerouac were the same person. He would, as justification for his assuredness, say things like: “I mean, look at them. Just fuckin look at them, you know? And the way they talk. I mean, come on.”

şi uite cum îmi fug cuvintele, nu pentru că animaţia asta a fost drăguţă, plină de scrisori şi de morţi ci pentru că aşa vor ele, să fugă de mine cât mai departe. încerc să citesc nişte pagini din cartea viselor lui kerouac, adorm înainte de prima propoziţie, nu mă pot concentra deloc defel decât demult destul degeaba de de de dece?

îmi place s-o trezesc pe shmoo tocmai când doarme visând şi când se-aşteaptă cel mai puţin. atunci reacţionează  muşcându-mă sau  torcând. îmi place când shmoo se tolăneşte la fereastră şi urmăreşte oamenii de pe stradă, sau când coboară de-acolo direct pe biroul pe care-mi făceam temele în clasa a 4-a şi la care stau chiar acum, tastând. shmoo coboară pe lângă tastatură şi-mi sare în braţe, se cuibăreşte şi doarme. iar eu o privesc cu dor deja, oare ce-o să facă shmoo în lipsa mea…? probabil acelaşi lucru se întreabă şi ea.

Il Giorno del Ringraziamento (Thanksgiving Day) è una festa osservata negli Stati uniti e in Canada: si celebra il quarto giovedì di Novembre, in segno di gratitudine per la fine della stagione del raccolto.

Risalente al 1623, e istituita dai Padri Pellegrini (quelli sbarcati in America a bordo della Mayflower, per intenderci), la festa si estese, anche grazie a George Washington, in tutti gli Stati e a metà del XIX° secolo era già unanimemente riconosciuta. Con il tempo la festa acquistò anche una certa sfumatura di patriottismo.

In occasione dell’annuale ricorrenza, che scade giovedì prossimo, qui su Bizzarro Bazar pubblichiamo un testo di  William S. Burroughs dedicato al Ringraziamento, cogliendo l’occasione per introdurre i suoi lettori alla forza dissacrante di un genio letterario senza pari.

Inizialmente associato alla beat generation di Kerouac, Ginsberg & soci, Burroughs ha in seguito intrapreso una ricerca artistica che ha influenzato tutta la seconda metà del ‘900, e che continua ad ispirare le avanguardie moderne. E’ difficile illustrare quanto importante sia stato il suo peso nei diversi campi artistici: le sue tecniche e i suoi temi si ritrovano nella letteratura, nella musica, nell’arte figurativa, nella body art, nel cinema.

Esploratore della coscienza e del perturbante, psiconauta per antonomasia, cultore di visioni macabre ed estreme ed artefice di un umorismo al vetriolo, il vecchio zio Bill ha praticamente scardinato ogni classico assunto culturale.

Angoscia del Controllo, distruzione dell’identità, algebra del bisogno, scarafaggi e Disinfestatori, “scimmie” sulla schiena, millepiedi allucinogeni, morbide macchine del sogno, esseri mutanti dalle forme imprecise, tossicomani e omosessuali, il cut-up come metodo non-logico per sottrarsi alla dipendenza del pensiero.

Questi, a grandi linee, i temi ossessivamente ripetuti da William S. Burroughs lungo tutta la sua carriera di romanziere e saggista, a partire da quando nel 1959 venne pubblicato Il Pasto Nudo, a tutt’oggi considerato il suo capolavoro, e grossi intellettuali e letterati americani si mossero per difendere il romanzo dalle accuse di oscenità e immoralità.

La sua vita stessa assomiglia ad un’opera d’arte. In tempi non sospetti (anni ‘40-’50) ha provato tutte le droghe esistenti, è stato eroinomane per sedici anni, ha ucciso sua moglie (sposata con l’unico scopo di darle cittadinanza americana) con un colpo di pistola mentre strafatti giocavano a inscenare la sfida di Guglielmo Tell. E’ stato omosessuale e tossicodipendente, ha elaborato la teoria secondo cui il linguaggio sarebbe un virus letale, ha cercato di sbriciolare i limiti del dicibile mediante diverse tecniche quali il cut-up, ha confuso il confine fra narrativa e pornografia, ha intrapreso avventurosi viaggi per provare droghe sconosciute come lo yage (la liana magica degli sciamani dell’Amazzonia), ha rivoluzionato ed esploso la forma del romanzo, ha creato dipinti sparando a dei barattoli di colore… ha lottato per tutta la vita contro il concetto di “controllo”, cercando di liberare la letteratura e la mente dagli insidiosi vincoli del condizionamento. In breve, un autore irrinunciabile.

Per ritornare al Giorno del Ringraziamento, vi proponiamo qui il testo e la traduzione di una preghiera (tutt’altro che patriottica, come vedrete) scritta da Burroughs nel 1986.  Più in sotto, troverete il video in cui William Burroughs recita il testo, per la regia di Gus Van Sant.

A THANKSGIVING PRAYER

by William S. Burroughs

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream, To vulgarize and to falsify until the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin’ lawmen, feelin’ their notches.

For decent church-goin’ women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.

Thanks for “Kill a Queer for Christ” stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where nobody’s allowed to mind the own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the memories– all right let’s see your arms!

You always were a headache and you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

UNA PREGHIERA PER IL GIORNO DEL RINGRAZIAMENTO

di William S. Burroughs

Grazie per il tacchino selvatico e i piccioni di passaggio, destinati ad essere cagati fuori attraverso budella del tutto Americane.

Grazie per un continente da rovinare e avvelenare.

Grazie per gli Indiani per fornire un minimo di sfida e pericolo.

Grazie per le vaste mandrie di bisonti da uccidere e spellare lasciando le carcasse a imputridire.

Grazie delle taglie sui lupi e sui coyote.

Grazie per il sogno Americano, Volgarizzare e Falsificare finché le nude menzogne non risplendano.

Grazie per il Ku Klux Klan.

Per gli uomini della legge ammazzanegri, che contano le tacche.

Per le decenti donne di chiesa, con le loro malvagie, contrite, amare, cattive facce.

Grazie per gli adesivi “Uccidi una Checca per Cristo”.

Grazie per l’AIDS da laboratorio.

Grazie per il Proibizionismo e la guerra contro le droghe.

Grazie per un paese dove a nessuno è permesso farsi gli affari suoi.

Grazie per una nazione di senzapalle.

Sì, grazie per tutti i ricordi ― va bene, ora vediamo le tue braccia!

Sei sempre stato un mal di testa e sei sempre stato una noia.

Grazie per l’ultimo e massimo tradimento dell’ultimo e massimo tra i sogni umani.

“Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules and they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify them, or vilify them. But the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do.”
— Jack Kerouac

a very happy birthy day to one and all

I’ve always read that the brilliant artists were on drugs. Absinthe made Van Gogh hallucinate helping paint those halos imbued in his work, Kerouac found his spontaneous prose with marijuana, and LSD invented the ‘60s. Now, I’m not much for any of that stuff—smoke makes me cough, dust makes me sneeze, and I’m on enough pills for asthma as it is, so who needs it? I always thought I’d be a writer influenced only by the soundness of mind.

But right now, because of the aforementioned asthma, my doctor prescribed me Hycodan syrup for this persistent cough. Hycodan is laced with codeine. Today is the first time I will publish some words under the influence of mind-altering manna. My one teaspoon every eight hours will determine for me if drugs truly can elevate the poetic and philosophical and “in the zone” thinking that has left a powerful stain in the arts. I’m going to try and become Woodstock. (Disclaimer: I am not responsible for any of the content in this post and if you happen to find me driving an automobile, do stay away from me).

Poetic: (Please click on the link “Poetry,” which you will find on the right. I’m not in the mood right now to be poetic. I did, however, just smash my guitar and burned in effigy a picture of the captain who crashed the Titanic).

Philosophical: The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and lightning bug. (This is actually Mark Twain’s quote, but I figure the difference between thinking and taking is the difference between caring and the Internet).

In the zone: I’ll let you know when I find it. Maybe I’ll tweet it out. But if it’s more than 140 characters, then forget it.

song = “japhy“

named after the infamous Japhy Ryder – of Dharma Bums fame (my favorite of Kerouac’s books) – this song is more or less an ode to a few poets whom I have loved deeply: Japhy Ryder (a fictionalized caricature of Gary Snyder I have been told), Tom Waits, Rumi, Jeff Buckley, Leonard Cohen and Nina Simone. the song is an ode, and a love song, and it is a fantasy: each verse is my mind wandering to a moment we might have had together and then the inevitable knowing that I would have to leave, that I couldn’t live up to the perfection of each of these moments, and might have my heart explode if I tried. of course that changes in the latter half of the song, where maybe it would be healing to stay just a little longer . . .

this version features marc verwaerde – of Parisian band “Chapter 9″ – on guitar. he and I were both on Sellaband and did two collaborations together. this one was never completed. though only for my fault, his guitar part as you’ll hear is just gorgeous. but a song of his “Surrender” came out quite lovely. you can read more about that, and request the song from him here: http://chapter9.fr/WordPress/tag/annie-bacon/

lyrics:

if I’d met Japhy Ryder in time
I’d be his lover and he would be mine
we’d take baths at midnight
and howl at the trees
I’d fall asleep against his cheek
and in the morning I would leave

if I could get old Tom to come down here
we’d sit and talk and maybe have a beer
I’d ask about jesus and his mother’s kitchen sink
his voice would growl and his breath would probably stink
we’d fall asleep against the dawn
and in the morning I’d be gone

if I had been Shams of Tabriz
I would meet Rumi and bring him to his knees
He would whisper blissful poems
while we built ourselves a home
I’d fall asleep beside his pen
and in the morning leave again

in the morning the reasons change
the sun exposes meaning
but lovers hide their love in metaphor
that’s what poetry is for

and if I’d met Jeff Buckley that day
when he walked to the river and stood on the bank
“you really miss him don’t you” is all I would say
and I’d let him collapse on my shoulder and sob
I’d stay all the through the night
to make sure he’s alright

and if Leonard had only seen
my “sleepy golden storm” in his dream
I’d kiss each his fingers and beg to be touched
and cry out for poems, it can’t be too much
I’d fall asleep inside his words
and all my sadness would be cured

and if nina hadn’t left me so soon
I know she’d hate me and wish me to the moon
but I wouldn’t speak all night long
just to hear one verse of song
I’d never sleep while she played
and pray my sins had been forgave.

Amongst various lagoons, canyon wildernesses on the pacific shores, various places like Modjeska Canyon and others, long haired naked sun worshippers, wandered in the naturelands, singing songs, eating fruits, fasting, praying, doing yoga, playing guitars in huts and befriending American Indians, all in the 1930s, 40s and 50s, before the SF rennaisance carnival and all its merry troubadours shone into the Haight and elsewhere.
Nature boys they were called and of various stock they were, of English, Jewish, of German and of other. Meditating and doing yoga, eating pure foods, sunbathing an waterbathing and connecting with the wilderness they were a different breed to the settled gold trailsters and cattle ranchers, they were America’s sadhus, babajis, yogis and sants. And they had inherited things which went back further, things of the German spirit and nature far from the Hitler-Nazi perversions.
We can understand this curious brand of nature mysticism in the works of Thoreau, of Emerson, but moreover we can see them also trickling in the background of Herman Hesse, in the founder of Naturopathy and its various historical clinics, some in California. Going even further back we can see the Rosicrucian and Paracelsian fords and pastures and their glimpses of places further east, in North Africa, in Morrocco, Spain and Damascus, Syria and India.
Oriental Nature Boy Mystics housed the river of traditions arcane and forgotton and a spirit of freedom.
And not all nature boys were celebate and single, as some took their girlfriends along as well.

Laguna Beach, a place in the ambit of the nature boy wilderness wanderings, took in curious surfers who had given up the car gangs of beachrealm, and took to surfboard, yoga and pure foods not to mention psychedelic alchemistry. But before this period, Laguna Beach also housed bohemian types, artists and was a faved retreat renowned for its natural beauty and somewhere amongst these were esoetric interests in a mysterious group named the Order of Loving Service who harked back to an important inspiration, a Baba Premananda Bharati, who in the first decade of the 1900s established various Krishna congregtions centered on an ashram in Los Angeles caled the Krishna Home. Many of California’s esoterically inclined came across it, one such being a Maud Lalita Johnson, a famed esoteric writer in her own way. Another called Elsa Barker famed for her many esoteric novels had contact with the first wave of Krishna Chaitanya devotion. Premananda Bharati belonged to the Krisna traditions of Chaitanya, the blessed madman and holy fool and incarnation of Krishna who bathed Bengal in waves of ecstatic love of Godhead. This Krishna baba had an influence of Gandhi and Tolstoy, but the two world wars meant that this period of the oriental in American esoteric latter day Rosicrucian traditions such as New Thought, Golden Dawn, Theosophical society and others were forgotton, remembered by only a few. But all that is known is that the Order of Loving Service published a book dedicated to Baba Premananda Bharati in Laguna Beach and that it was associated with the Royal Order of Tibet founded by George Adamski who was the pioneer of UFO abductee narratives. They were also inspired by the wriings of Lalita Johnson and it was her book with the dedication to Premananda that they published in Laguna Beach called Square. It was later in 1969 that another Krishna temple of a different lineage appeared in Laguna Beach, that of the Krishna tradition represented by a famed guru named Bhaktivedanta Swami which is more commonly known. Certain folk in this new Krishna temple in Laguna had links to another group named the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, whom we shall look at another time.

Nat King Cole did a song dedicated to a certain nature boy named eden ahbez  or ahbe in which he describes this  nature boy as being wise. This track of Nat King Cole’s was also covered by John Coltrane, the great jazz musician who himself was inspired by metaphysical stuff descended from the latter day Rosicrucianism as well as oriental mysticism. Another nature boy named Gypsy Boots was friends with various musicians of the sixtiees of which the major music tribes of SF and was respected by Jerry Garcia. Kerouac wrote about him, Frank Zappa was friends with him and he appears on the stages between band sets of certain of the major bands at the Monterey Pop Festival and Newport Festival. He inspired Sky Saxon of The Seeds, Arthur Lee of Love and Randy California of Spirit to become vegetarian, he was admired by Mama Cass as well as Garcia’s wife, who was once Ken Kesey’s girl, named Mountain Girl, a name with a nod to the nature mystic in and of itself. He appears with Zappa in his film Mondo Hollywood in 1968. Gypsy Boots was an American of Russian Jewish descent, born in San Fransisco in 1916, he was taught directly by Maximillian Singer another nature mystic in 1935 learning yoga and fasting and special diets from him after a period of travelling and living in nature. After a while, he was living with many of the prominent nature boy mystics of the time around Tahquitz Canyon and selling crafts in Palm Springs, the very place the Brotherhood of Eternal Love had an epiphany, according to certain historical annals which we shall look at later. He eventually after a period of living as mystical wild man and learning lots, was married in 1953 to a Lois Bloemker, and settled into living near Griffith Park in LA and had three sons. He opened a ‘Health Hut’ in Hollywood where he taught his wisdom of living close to nature.

Maximillian Singer, Gypsy Boot’s mentor was from Augsberg who spent many years travelling and living as a nature mystic in and around Europe, thus the mystical life and water curing, sun bathing, breathing, nutrition and the like was practised assiduously by him. He came to California in 1935 and whilst here inspired many Euro-American born nature mystics. In the Brotherhood of Eternal Love linked loose knit community of Topanga Canyon, he was revered almost as a guru figure, and later on he appeared at the various festivals, be-ins and concerts of the period.

Some that were associated with these brothers of nature were called to the akashic realm, that same part wherein which PBRs Rosicrucians dwelled, that place between the portals of Eulis a place where others dwelled and visisted from time to time, others such as Beatfreak not to mention certain folk of the Order of Loving Service.

Catholicism is an attractive religion to the sensualist and the Romantic; at sixteen I was both, and became enchanted by Catholic churches and trappings.

In the old days, all the Lebanese ancestors on my mother’s side were Catholics, but the tradition stopped with my grandfather, who liked to pray in the privacy of his own carefully nurtured garden (fruit trees, fish pond) and was by no means a Mass-goer. After he married my grandmother, who, being equal parts Irish and Spanish, also came from a long line of Catholics, they baptized all of their kids in the Presbyterian Church—all, that is, but one, the very last one, a sickly angel baby, a curly-haired cherub called Denise, dead at six. Grandpa and Grandma must have been convinced by an earnest priest circa 1963 that dying Denise would remain in Limbo (a dreadful neither-here-nor-there-place somewhere between heaven and hell, a blah place, lukewarm, beige, odorless, tasteless) upon her death if she wasn’t baptized into the Only Real Church, the Holy Roman Catholic one; so she was moistened with holy water and dotted with chrism (a mixture of olive oil and balsam) and enfolded into that ritualistic tribe.

Many years later, when I was born, it was posited by certain relatives, in a decidedly non-Catholic, non-Presbyterian espousal of the theory of reincarnation, that I was her—the one they had lost, Denise. This might explain why Mom always had a more sisterly than motherly way with me, while Grandma was very maternal, caring for me every day from the time I was born; maybe this healed some of her ache for her lost, last girl.            

And this—this notion that I am her, tiny laughing Denise of the fevers and curls, who was chrismd into Catholicism—might also explain my own attraction to all things Catholic, but then so might my love for Jack Kerouac. Jack Kerouac could not rewire his hopelessly Catholic heart no matter how much of the Dharma he devoured. I plowed ecstatically through all of his writings during my impressionable sixteenth year, and they fairly glow with Catholic imagery. This is true of Visions of Gerard, the story of Kerouac’s sickly, saintly baby brother’s little life and early death, and also of my favorite of his novels, Maggie Cassidy.

Maggie Cassidy is just the fictional name for Mary Carney, a real girl (pictured above) with whom Kerouac was in love as a teen, an Irish Catholic milky-soft brunette only a French-Canadian Catholic boy steeped in the sensuousness of his religion could perceive and, years later, depict in such a sweetly steamy way. Kerouac tells us of the “overpowering lavish of her kisses…” and of “the glory of the tenderness of the trembling kiss of Maggie and all love as only teenagers know it and like perfect blue ballrooms.” He gives us his Maggie with the “crucifix on her dress breast,” Maggie with the “soft rich red” mouth and “black curls” and the “snow-smooth brow.” Maggie with her hidden lush ivory thighs. Maggie the Rose.

For me, it was hard not to love a religion that at least partly inspired such a verdant and verbose art as Kerouac’s, but maybe my Catholic leanings stemmed simply from my aforementioned status as a sixteen-year-old sensualist and a capital-R Romantic in the 18^th century sense of the word. I resonated easily to Catholicism, being an abstract thinker, a poet-type who understood the language of symbols (and Catholicism speaks in symbols), a pagan and a pantheist at heart, and a contemplative mystic by nature; this mysticism was due in part to the experience I had at thirteen, during which I felt, while sitting alone in my bedroom, the very living hum of God that buzzed in every person and thing, even in the grains of wood in my four-poster bedframe. This was not drug induced. I had a direct experience of the absolute reality of the creative energy that we can call God or Light or Christ or Chi or Krishna or Yaweh or Allah or any number of names, and that infuses all of life; and subsequent to that experience I knew—though I never again felt it so acutely—that God was in the veins of a leaf just as in the veins of my hand, all around, within and without.

So when I visited Catholic churches, a sixteen-year-old searcher and sniffer, it made perfect sense to me that God was in the Eucharist wafers, in the wine, in the water, in the incense, in the gold light that slices through the stained glass, in the songs, and even in such tangible objects (who has more or better accessories than the Catholics?) as the multitudinous medals of silver and gold depicting Jesus, Mary and all the saints, or pretty holy cards, or St. Joseph’s cords, scapulars, candles, crucifixes, and relics. (I am in possession of a little card, sound at a thrift shop, that bears a laminated rose; it reads, “This rose petal was touched to a relic of the Little Flower, Saint Therese.”) These are only inanimate objects or throwaway tangibles inasmuch as their possessor fails to see them as potential portals to the Divine. They are meant to be handled, stroked, worn, rubbed. Catholics know that God can be experienced through the senses. They are not just a ritualistic tribe, but a sensuous one.

Consequently I have fallen in deep crushy love with a few Catholics since Jack Kerouac—ones I have actually met in the flesh. It’s the self-professed lapsed Catholics who lure me, sexy sanguine types, florid bon vivants with a “life-is-short-so-eat-drink-and-be-merry” mentality. These cradle Catholics—those born into the church—don’t seem to know just how much their sensuality, vitality, creativity and artistry is attributable, in my view at least, to their early indoctrination into such a similarly sensuous, vital, creative and artistic tradition. Often, they don’t seem to appreciate how much juicier their religion is than that of, say, the bone-dry Presbyterians. Protestantism is left-brained; much energy is devoted to dissecting and interpreting scripture. Catholicism is right-brained; the Mass is about feeling and communing, about symbols, about mystery. Yes, even those cradle Catholics who have left the church (and there are countless good reasons to have done so, despite the beautiful elements on which I am presently focusing) seem to have retained a certain singular brand of succulence that comes from having been brought up in such a sense-driven religion.

Catholics sense the divine through their ears, their eyes, their mouths, their noses, and their hands. They see the ornate flourishes and embellishments of their churches, they press the holy water—seasoned by countless other fingers—into their skin when they cross themselves, they hear the staid and beautiful songs, they taste the wafers and wine. Catholics hold each other’s hands when they pray; they press their palms against each other’s palms, where the essences of everyday chores—washing dishes, changing diapers, making food—are stored. They finger their rosary beads; they smell their rose-scented rosary beads—for the rosary is prayed to Mary, and Mary is associated with roses. She is an amalgamation of many old pagan goddesses remade into one Virgin Mother of God by the Church, but no less enchanting or important for being so— she with her bare feet on the moon, her cloak of stars, and her roses, her abundance of roses.

The Virgin isn’t the only Mary associated with roses. Mary Magdalene, the one the Virgin’s son is said to have loved more than anyone, is, too. It is natural, then, for Catholic Kerouac to extravagantly drown his own Mary, his sweetheart Mary Carney, aka Maggie Cassidy, in so many prose roses.

“Maggie has put on the best thing she has—a pink gown.  A little rose in her hair—the perfection of her moonlight magic Irish sorcery suddenly seeming out of place in Manhattan, like Ireland in the Atlantis World— ”

My own love of roses is completely entwined with Mary imagery, a result of my romance with Catholicism—and Kerouac. And this love of roses leads me to try every rose perfume I encounter. I think I favor none so well as Stella Rose Absolute by Stella McCartney. She is the daughter of Paul McCartney, who paid tribute to his mother, yet another Mary, (where there are roses, there are Marys—not unlike cabbages and babies) in Let it Be: “When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”

Rose Absolute is labeled “Eau de Parfum Intense”—it is a deeper, richer rendition of Stella’s Eau de Parfum. In developing the fragrance, Ms. McCartney sought to create a “modern” rose perfume, one that synthesizes softness with sharpness—the softness comes, of course, from the roses, while the sharpness is said to come from the amber note that slumbers at the perfume’s base. But to me it smells like the soft-sharpness of roses dipped in milk.

Stella Rose Absolute’s milky roses make me envision a new kind of Mass: instead of wafers and wine, there are full blown roses in various shades of deep dusty pink and cups of milk. A communicant lets one petal dissolve on her tongue and washes it down with a swallow of the ivory fluid. This is a Mass about Mary.

The milk needn’t be from cows. It could come from any female creature; it’s a nurturing tonic. This is why Stella Rose Absolute is like being pressed against a damp, creamy, rose-tipped breast— but that breast has no talc on it; it is clean but not cloying, for there is no powdery accord here, just roses and milk running alongside each other in two parallel lines, and the most solemn of sad songs intoning the background, like the one that goes “La-a-a-a-amb of God…” This perfume is lamb-soft, lamb-sharp, a dark lush beauty much like Kerouac’s Mary Carney, who, it is easy to imagine, probably smelled like this without even trying.

“She came in…from the cold—ineffably beautiful as never before, with dewdrops in her black hair like little stars in her eyes, and rosiness effulging from sweet laughs tinklin one after another—  She was feeling good again, beautiful and unwinnable again forever—like the dark rose.”

Really – I have just been too damn happy to blog.  It’s a first.  I’ve been too tired to blog, too depressed, too angry, too busy – but I’ve never been too happy to blog.

I was hesitant to blog even this because I almost feel guilty for being so happy.  I feel like I’m getting away with something and will soon discover that smiling this much is illegal. 

I literally have no complaints about my life right now.  Everyone closest to me is healthy and happy.  I’m relatively healthy.  The band sounds great!  I’m in super crazy stupid love with Kerouac.  Teddy adores him.  My money situation is currently comfortable and stable.  And even my work life balance and stress levels have mellowed.  

I’m so deep in my soul satisfied right now that I almost don’t know what to do with myself except to be on guard.   Because it is a fact that no one in an office likes anyone to be happy and I’m fully aware that I could be struck by a flying stapler at any time.

It.is.ALL.good. 

And still there is that little voice… something’s going to mess this up.  This too shall pass.

A new digital EP by Boy Without God (if you are like my mom and cannot figure this out, click on the album cover below for the download link)

this zip contains
• the eight delicate titular olives (the songs)
• eight pieces of art (one cover + one for each song) by painter Ty Williams
• a handy lyrics sheet
• a sweet photo of me yawning

A note on this digital EP:

Eight Delicate Olives Slowly Chewed at Midnight is a collection of home recordings that would in olden days have languished in the vaults. It’s composed of intimately recorded (read: demoed) instrumental one-offs and songs that I wrote and recorded in Copenhagen last fall that don’t quite fit in with the songs selected to go on my forthcoming full-length, God Bless the Hunger, and/or that I have forgotten how to play (numbers 1, 3, 6, 8, and the bridge to number 7, if you’re curious). Instead of leaving them to die with my hard drive, I’ve decided to pass them along to you.

Autumn Joy is mostly about nostalgic memories of touring (only someone who hadn’t been on tour for at least half a year could write this song). Breathe Slow I hated when I wrote it, but now I like it quite a bit. American Guilt makes the strange and probably inappropriate connection between the extermination of Native Americans and then end of a relationship. R. Frank & Son was written about the photographer Robert Frank, cobbled weirdly together out of actual quotes from him, pieces of a great Vanity Fair article on him by Charlie LeDuff, and my own extrapolations. Robert Frank is a brilliant photographer, by the way. If you do not know him you should immediately go look at The Americans, one of the most moving collections of art I have ever seen anywhere ever. It’s at the Met in NYC right now and if you are a New Yorker you owe it to yourself to stop by.

The zip file comes with eight, count em eight, lovely original artworks by Ty Williams (www.typaints.com). Print them out, put them on your walls, curl them under your pillow at night for good dreams, give them to your loved ones, write To Do lists on them, practice kissing on them when no one is looking. You know, all the stuff you usually do with good art.

love,
Gabriel

boywithoutgod(at)gmail
www.boywithoutgod.com
www.myspace.com/boywithoutgod

I had forgotten about this weekend when intending to participate in Nablopomo, so while the daily postings may be a bust, a sincere concentration to this page will still be accomplished – which ultimately was the desired effect for me.

I’ve mentioned there’s someone new in my life, I’ll call him Kerouac to protect him from the embarrassment of being part of my public postings.   And although it’s been a few short weeks, there’s definitely a sense that we’ve been friends for a long time… a level of comfort that makes expression feel easy and free – yet certainly a relationship new enough to still be exciting and scary.  We talked a little bit about the question of when does a relationship move from two people “seeing” eachother to two people “being in a relationship”.  I’m not sure we actually came up with a concrete answer but it feels that we have moved rapidly but almost seamlessly to the latter.  That feels right to me.

Friday night I met Kerouac’s sister – the first time I’ve met a member of his family and I was nervous – but she had a pleasant and casual demeanor that allowed me to relax a little.  I have no idea if she bothered to form an opinion of me in any way, as I’m sure the meeting had far more significance for me than it did for her.  But I had a good time – they are a family with whom I share many of the same interests and taste and so there were easy topics of conversation to cover and the time flew by painlessly.  Plus she has a beautifully demented puppy who’s hard to handle but easy to love.

Saturday I had a road gig - finally a good paying gig but 225 miles away.  Mr. W. and I drove together with easy conversation – played our gig and drove back in the middle in the night rather than take up our host’s offer to stay overnight.   The gig itself was pretty easy – the people were friendly, the food was good, the band played well.  But I doubt I’d do it again.

Finally got home at 4:15 this morning. 

I’ve noticed I used the word “easy” a few times in this post.  This has been a rare weekend when I’ve been constantly busy but have been relaxed the whole time.  I am tired though so I’m gonna cut this short and take a nap so I can be well rested for my monthly gig at Sally O’s.

Til tomorrow, my friends.

NaNoWriMo: National November Writing Month is a worldwide phenomenon

It’s not the first time writers have pulled all the stops out and thrown their lot in with the Muse, but I believe the organization behind the idea is creating an ‘umbrella of achievement’ which is hard to resist.

Besides, won’t it be nice to read your own hard-typed flow when the 30 days are up and you can slip into ‘edit’ mode?

That’s what NaNo suggests: don’t stop to edit as you go along. Take the keyboard into the bath or into bed if you have to, but just keep punching the keys until something like one-and-a-half-thousand words are on the page. Then you can stop for that day. And add some more tomorrow.

Some people knew about this ahead of time, but even if you were one of the 21 people in San Francisco who took part in the first NaNoWriMo ten years ago in November 1999, it is no help really, because everyone starts afresh at the beginning of the month – no WIPs (works-in-progress) allowed.

This is how NaNo puts it:
‘On November 1, begin writing your novel. Your goal is to write a 50,000-word novel by midnight, local time, on November 30th. You write on your own computer, using whatever software you prefer.

‘This is not as scary as it sounds.

‘Starting November 1, you can update your word count in that box at the top of the site, and post excerpts of your work for others to read. Watch your word-count accumulate and story take shape. Feel a little giddy.

‘ Write with other NaNoWriMo participants in your area. Write by yourself. Write. Write. Write.

‘If you write 50,000 words of fiction by midnight, local time, November 30th, you can upload your novel for official verification, and be added to our hallowed Winner’s Page and receive a handsome winner’s certificate and web badge. We’ll post step-by-step instructions on how to scramble and upload your novel starting in mid-November.

‘ Win or lose, you rock for even trying.’

Well, it’s a little more than that:

November has 30 days: so 1650 words x 30 = 49,500 words, with a little bonus of an extra 500 if you are in your stride.

While some of us are already a week into the project, there is no reason on earth why you can’t sign up right now and join us. One of the best reasons is, even if right now you don’t think you’ve got a novel in you, you have. And with half the agents and editors and publishers on the East and West Coasts watching the site, there is a little more of a carrot dangling before our glazed authors’ eyes than the usual solitary typewriter-bashing which goes on at all hours of the day and night anyway.

We’re technically currently at day number 7 (Europe just moved into day 8, but we’re talking local time here). Worldwide writing is split into regions: like United States : Illinois : Chicago or Europe : Scotland : Elsewhere or Europe : Elswhere (mind boggles). You can choose which region you wish to be affiliated with and you can pick two or more regions if you like: so you can be Europe : Elsewhere as well as Europe : Finland, for example.

By the end of the first week of writing worldwide, some of the wordcounts are already looking quite impressive:

United States :: Washington :: Seattle is in the lead with a total of nearly seven million words written (6,952,796 to be exact).
Canada :: Newfoundland is in at 221st place with a wordcount of 473,031; Europe :: Northern Ireland has 438,876 and counting.

At first I thought I didn’t have another novel in me – I’ve been struggling a little lately just to get the right combination of synopsis, query letter and presentation on my completed novel ‘Shasta’ in front of the ‘right’ agent, editor, publisher. But by midnight on November 1st, I decided: what the hell. There is something about the concept of allowing words to flow despite oneself, without the inner editor getting too much of a controlling finger out to wave in one’s face, that makes the NaNoWriMo appealing.

We have a great author and go-with-the-flow guru to emulate.

Jack Kerouac decided in the late ‘fifties to write what turned out to be his masterpiece ‘On the Road’. He had an idea that if he psyched himself up to writing all at one go, he’d be able to put on paper (days of steam-driven typewriters, remember) all the lovely sidetrack thoughts that go along with a main thought: the flow that his work shows so magnificently.

Jack Kerouac produced 'On the Road' in three weeks

In those days ‘uppers’ were available over the counter in drug stores. He laid in a supply of those, plus several pre-ground bags of coffee, a percolator, milk and sugar and some pretty basic food – I heard it was mostly bread and butter with maybe some salami or jam or jelly to spice it up a little. And he started.

In three weeks he’d written ‘On the Road’ and we all know how that worked out.

So now you see why it might be worth your while dipping your toe into this NaNoWriMo thing? The world is poised, fingers on typewriter and computer keys from Vladivostok to Tierra del Fuego, with some pretty amazing places you’ve never heard of in between. And they’re all bending their heads daily over a little keyboard, from which miracles might appear.

If Jack could do it, there is absolutely no reason on earth for the rest of us not to try.

I had dinner last night with Mr. Wonderful.  We went to one of our old haunts only to find that while the name had stayed the same, everything else was different and not quite right.  Painfully obvious was the metaphor for our relationship. 

We went back home, watched a little tv and then retreated to our corners so we could each pick up the phone and call our significant others (in desperate need for another term, please).

I’ve been seeing someone for a short time now, and it feels good and has promise.  He’s patient with me and we get along comfortably and in a familiar way.  Awkward it is, however, that Mr. W. hasn’t actually, officially, technically moved out.  Although he’s been around once a week or less, his clothes, computer, and many miscellaneous items are still about the apartment.  Wisdom, conventional or otherwise would have me take care of this situation urgently, but I have my reasons far too complicated to post for why I haven’t done so.   In time… in steps…

I moved his clothes out of my bedroom so I could have at least one room that was completely mine.  He understood.  More than I thought he would.  We’ve moved to a new, somewhat chilly, phase of our relationship – for the first time we might be both be resigned to our estrangement.

I feel sad, but cannot summon a tear.

One of the wonderful things about great music is the ability to evoke imagery, taking the listener back in time to a simpler era that exists only in history books, novels or the warm memories embedded in someone with a million stories to tell.

Uncle Tupelo/Son Volt guitarist, Jay Ferrar, and Death Cab for Cutie lead singer, Ben Gibbard, have created a landscape that recreates a moment in time. One listen and you can see a Mark Twain-style era; all you have are  the clothes on your back, all of your possessions inside of a kerchief tied to a stick, a dollar in your pocket and a sense of adventure worth a thousand times more. Boxcars and your feet are the only modes of transportation, rolling hills are the views out your window.

This is America–and you have all the freedom you’ll ever need to discover it.

You don’t need to be a Jack Kerouac fan or even a literary type to appreciate Jay Ferrar’s and Ben Gibbard’s  soundtrack to the movie One Fast Move or I’m Gone: Kerouac’s Big Sur.  The lead track, “California Zephyr,” starts us on a journey through a purely American landscape, traversing from New York to San Francisco. Using lyrics taken from Kerouac’s “Big Sur” and an alt-country sensibility, Ferrar and Gibbard take us cross country with a sound that could easily accompany any John Steinbach novel. Each artist takes on six songs,  and while none of the 12 slow to mid-tempo tracks go far past the three minute mark, each make the point quickly and then on to the next,  as if referencing the countryside going by in a blur.

From the reflective sounds of “Low Life Kingdom” with it’s dream-like pedal steel to the nighttime bluesy aura of “Breathe Our Iodine” to the arrival in “Big Sur,” Ferrar and Gibbard have crafted a disc filled with sounds to match the poetry contained within Kerouac’s words.

The closing track, “San Francisco,” ends the disc with a clever enough nod to the Beatnik Generation, sounding much like the coffee houses during the days of Ginsberg, Kesey, and . . . yes. . . Kerouac.

There’s no filler to be found here. Every song has been made to count, played with passion and feeling; both men having gotten inside of Jack Kerouac’s words and with a maturity that belies their years.

“One Fast Move. . . ” is a brilliant piece of work. While at times sparse in instrumentation, there’s beautiful artistry contained within the music and words.

It’s unfortunate that Bruce Springsteen’s and U2’s releases will be far more remembered than this one (and I did love both). This soundtrack will fly under the radar. I’m sure Ferrar and Gibbard don’t mind, but to me that’s a shame. As good as those releases are, this one is heads above them–and the best I’ve heard this year.

Please support this work and purchase the CD or album, if you enjoy the music even half as much as I have.

http://www.onefastmove.com/

On the sidewalk

a dead baby bird

for the ants.

Jack Kerouac

I can now honestly say that 99% of the time, the first draft of anything I write is the worst version. I promise a lot in my early drafts in hopes that Future Sean will be able to pull through with some ingenious solution to a dramatic problem (it’s a fun game we have). It could be a simple editing note like [insert character arc here].  I’ll drop that in, hoping that a few weeks from now, I’ll figure it out in the middle of the night.

One trick that has always worked for me is to never look for one solution when faced with a road block in a script. I try to look for ten. I completely exhaust all possible avenues I can think of. And then I try to think of five more. It’s annoying as hell and it’s very time-consuming, but it makes a huge difference between the first and second drafts.

I’ll start the process all over again with the next draft. By the third or fourth time ’round, I usually have something that I’m ready to show others, something that is far better than my first attempt. This works for me, but everyone has their own process.

WWKD: What Would Kerouac Do?

Okay. I know. Kerouac often wrote in some kind of continuously stoned state, feeding a never-ending scroll into his typewriter while composing On The Road. Like many young aspiring (male) writers, I also fell into that spell early on, eschewing anyone who revised their work like a sucker. After discovering Kerouac actually rewrote On The Road over nine years, I started rethinking my process.

I still think the “first draft = best draft” phase is a necessary one to go grow through; you need to have a lot of faith in what you’re writing when you’re first starting out, especially at the first draft stage. The beginning of a writing career is a pretty bold assertion, after all. In some ways, you’re proclaiming ‘What I think matters.’

Then there comes a point when you want your writing not to just fulfill your artistic vision, but to also pay some bills. You want a writing career. And first drafts won’t pay the bills.

Bacon, Welcome Home.

Once you start trying to actually sell or pitch your writing to anyone, there’s a certain amount of audience accountability you’ve got to acknowledge. In my case, when I’m writing for a client – whether it’s web copy, an article, or a script – I try to always keep in mind that there’s a chance I could be wrong in any one of my choices. Obviously, I try to minimize that risk by revising my writing before sending it out. Writing multiple drafts helps –rather than just tweaking small points on the first one.

By the time my clients see my writing, I’ve already solved half of the problems (the nasty half) in anticipation of their notes. Of course, they’ll always want to offer input. If they don’t, that’s when you know you’re in trouble. Most of the time, my clients offer really good suggestions. And from there, the draft keeps growing, changing shape into something I couldn’t have created right from the start.

That initial stab in the dark has to come from somewhere. The first draft, no matter how ugly it’s going to be, must be written.

Plug Your Nose and Write

When taking on the first draft of a screenplay, I like setting aside a chunk of time (at least a day or two) and just plowing through it as fast as I can. No over-thinking, no editing-as-I-go — I just follow my outline or treatment as closely as possible and hope against hope that reading over the end result won’t be like unravelling a botched plastic surgery job.

The famous writer’s maxim ”Writing is Rewriting” is a painful truth; after slamming out over 100 pages of a screenplay, all you’ve really done is dug a hole in the ground.

It’s the kind of thing that can drive a writer crazy — even someone who’s erroneously known as the king of the quick-and-dirty first draft:

Well, another month gone and a new one begins.  Most of you know how I love the First day of anything!  (Well, I probably wouldn’t enjoy the first day of a lengthy prison sentence… and the first day of my cycle isn’t all Jelly Bellies and Moonpies)  But First days for me are always welcome, exciting and have the smell of fresh sheets and hot apple cider. 

The last 4+ months have been trying on your’s truly – although I can’t fairly blame only one thing for causing me so much stress and distress, if I had to, I’d pinpoint the Day Job.  Finding the right work-life balance has continued to be a vexing issue.   And when I’m not at work, I need to find a way to leave it there and not let it plague my thoughts because then I’m no good for anyone, especially myself.  And to my knowledge, this is the only life I have – I don’t want to waste it by being psychologically tied to my cubicle.  But I believe better days are ahead.

A couple of weeks ago I bid adieu to Mr. Match.  He was gracious and expressed regrets – I expected him to be aloof and a “don’t let the door hit ya” kinda guy.   But he was sweet and it was a relatively easy farewell although not painless.   People are not replaceable and he was a unique person for whom I have much respect.  I know I will never see him again and there will pieces of him and our brief “relationship” that I will continue to carry with me.  However, ending it was clearly one of the best decisions I’ve made this year because my stress levels dropped dramatically over the next 2 days.

A continuous bright side the last few months have been the gigs.  They have been great lately – really, really great.  Whether they’ve been Mr. Wonderful’s gigs or my own, being in the band has been such a salvation for me these last few months.  I look forward to them and they continue to exceed my expectations.  I only hope my band has as much affection and respect for me as I do for them.  They are wonderfully patient with me as I chat away nonsensically during the breaks and frequently forget my lyrics.  They are an extremely warm and talented group of guys.

And lately… although I have been hesitant to mention… someone has caught this girl’s fancy.  I’m afraid to jinx it so I’ll just leave it there.  (If only I knew how to access the edit button when speaking.)

I’ve decided to take part in Nablopomo this month and re-focus.  I managed to post everyday last year December on the Heartbreaktown blog and it was a lot of fun.  I’ve not been posting much at all the last few months – I’m gonna see if I can shock myself into high gear!

Welcome November.

“My witness is the open sky.”
-Jack Kerouac

This is one of my favorite quotes from the man himself. That’s all I gotta say.