the Trashman walks, talks . . .
Corso, Kerouac and Bukowski . . . Henry Miller
(looks a bit like Bukowski, non?)
. . . so today I was revisiting the past or maybe it was just the subconscious, but I ended up spending 2 or 3 hours listening to Gregory Corso, walking and talking in Italy . . . Jack Kerouac was reading from “On the Road” on the Steve Allen Show and finally Charles Bukowski was reading a poem about a freaking cockroach (Tommy) and talking about his life (which I already read about in “Notes of a Dirty Old Man”, etc.).
Corso, looking so . . . cool.
Yeh, it’s all about the “beat”, meter, like jazz. You can tap your foot to the tick tock motion of an invisible metronome staff . . . Jack Kerouac knew what he was doing – the old school stuff – the long teletype rolls of paper – his writing IS music, it IS jazz, improvisation on a theme . . . you know, like theme and variation in classical music composition . . . Like Thelonius Monk, trained in music theory at Julliard . . . yeh, check out the movie “Thelonius Monk: Straight No Chaser” . . . genius, like Kerouac. And Henry Miller . . .
Corso seemed too enamoured of Shelly (he was interred near Shelly in Italy), lots of people are (fond of Shelly) – I’ve tried to read Shelly, but the rhymes keep getting me back to that iambic pentameter rap crap . . . maybe it’s just the way it’s translated, but why, why does it need to have that element, you know, the rhyme? Yeh, I know you can read the stuff without the rhyme being obvious . . . Richard Burton can/could and maybe Peter O’Toole . . . but me? Nope, keep getting tangled in the barbed wire out there in that Shakespearean no-mans land . . . uh.
. . . the beautiful June Miller . . .
Anyway, I think Shelly’s stuff is like fucking with the lights off . . . in bed . . . at night . . . me, I prefer the lights ON like Tom Hanks in the movie “Big” . . . you don’t want to listen to Monk with earplugs . . .
. . . listen to Kerouac and Bukowski and the words flow naturally, like water, fast, slow, shallow and deep, full of foam, dark and murky . . . even Corso . . . there’s a pulse, a heartbeat that underlies the flow of words.
But then I find the secret . . . in a bit on Celine, none other than the father of the three dots.
> What he’s trying to do, he (Celine) explains, is capture pure, direct human emotion on the page. Since, he feels, true emotion can only be found in spoken language, he has to do what he can to seize and transcribe that—hence the three little dots:
“Instead of those three dots, you might just as well put in a few words, that’s what I feel.”
“B’loney, Colonel! So much b’loney! . . . not in an emotive tale! . . . you don’t reproach Van Gogh for his misshapen churches? Vlaminck, his screwed-up thatched roofs? . . . Bosch, his creatures neither head nor tail! . . . Debussy, his unconcern for measures? or Honegger’s! do I not have the same rights myself? no? I have the right only to follow the Rules? . . . the Rhythms of the Academy? . . . that’s revolting!” (Reading Louis-Ferdinand Céline – Jim Knipfel) <
. . . yeh, there you have it, all this time I’ve been practicing Celine’s magic . . . guess I need to get a copy of “Journey to the End of the Night”, and meet the “man”.
bonne nuit . . .