Book of Sketches
Page 3
with work” & niggerfarmers
& pickaninnies in hotfield
chuckle & scratch heads —
Patrician little bitch he is —
his house has big TV antenna,
8 white gables, big
garage, swings, trucks,
Farmall tractor, white iron
lawnchairs, Bird houses
dog pens, clip’t shrubs, lawn,
basketball basket & pole,
— behind house we see
trees & pines of the forest
— a thin scraggle of corn
a 100 feet off — The
dreaming weedy meadow
— then the redroof outbuildings
of Andrews old
farm — with brick chimnies,
graywood built, ancient,
lost in trees which in clear
late afternoon make glady
black holes for the Sweeny
in the Trees dream of
children — distant rafts
of corn — then the tobacco
curing barn near a
stick ramp with piled
twigs or boughs & a redroof
porch, & a door, smoked,
at top,
tho still with old hay
hook for when it once
was a barn (?) — there
too black holes of green
woods — A brand new
flu-cure barn with white tin
roof, new wood, unpainted,
no windows — Then another
old one — over the yellowing
topleaves of the tobacco
field — then the majestic
nest of Great Trees where
homestead sits — darkshaded,
hidden, mystical & ripplylit,
hints of red roofs,
old gray dark wood,
poles, old chimney, still,
peaceful, mute, with
shadows lengthening along
barnwalls — The trees:
fluffy roundshaped except
for stick tree in middle
forking ugly up, & on
right skeletal of underround
silhouetting dark
boughs against wall of
forest till round of umbrella
leaftop — Between here
& there I see the rigid
woodpole sticks out of
haystack, conical Stack,
with a cross stick, surrounded
by hedge of weeds, of
brown & gray gold hairy
texture in clear French
Impressionistic Sun —
After farm solid
wall of forest broken
sharply at road, where
wall resumes on other side
— There is the gray
vision of the old tenant
shack with pale brick
chimbley silhouetted
against a hill-height of
September corn turned
frowsy & hay color —
with mysterious Carolina
continuing distant trees
beyond — & the faintest
wedge of littlecloud right
on horizon above — Across
road forestwall is darker,
deeper, pine trunks stand
luminous in the dark shade
bespotted & specked with
background browngreen
masses — horizontal puff-
green pinebranches, all
over the frizzly corn
top sea — Then Rod’s
logcabin, with pig pen
(old gray clapboards) &
whitewashed barrel & Raleigh
News & Observer mailbox
& telephone pole connecting
up house with 3 strands —
his withered corn in yard,
chimney, logs mixed with
white plaster, rococo
log cabin, horizontal
wood & plaster striped
chimney — Fruit tree in
back waving in faintbrown
of its California — Similar
house of neighbor where stiff
gentleman sits in Panama
hat in Carolina rockchair
surveying rusticities —
Then, in deepening shadows:
- (with him some
women with lap chillun,
Sun-afternoon, breeze, beez
of bugs, hum of cars on
hiway) — Far off in
pure blue an airliner
lines for Richmond —
— then the yellow diamond
Stop sign, back of it,
with brown wood pole
shadowing across it — A
stand of sweetly stirring
trees & then Buddy Tom’s
corn, tall, rippling, talkative,
haunted, gesturing, dogs run
thru it, weeds run riot,
trees protrude beyond —
Then his whitewashed
poles, chickencoop, doors,
hinges, rickety wire —
weeds — wild redflowers —
a tall stately pine
with black balls of
cone silhouetted against
keen blue — under
it an excited weeping
willow waving like
a Zephyr song — 2 cars
parked beneath it, blue
fishtail Cad — Tom’s —
stiff big red flower —
folks visitin, talking —
children — Lillian in
shorts (big, fat) dumps
a carton in the rusty
barrel — The base of
pine whitewashed — Buddy
Tom’s shed, just & peek
at interior shelf &
paint can — leaning
rake — Forest wall beyond.
They sit with the gold
on their hair —
SECOND BOOK
AUG. 5, ’52
The diningroom of
Carolyn Blake has
a beautiful hardwood
floor, varnished shiny,
with occasional dark
knots; the rag rug
in the middle is woven
by her mother of the
historic socks, dresses
& trousers of the
Kerouac family in 2
decades, a weft of
poor humanity in its
pain & bitterness — The
walls are pale pink
plaster, not even pink,
a pink-tinged pastel,
the No Carolina afternoon
aureates through the
white Venetian blinds
& through the red-pink
plastic curtains & falls
upon the plaster, with
soft delicate shades — here,
by the commode in
the corner, profound
underwater pink; then,
in the corner where
the light falls flush,
bright creampink
that shows a tiny
waving thread of
spiderweb overlooked
by the greedy housekeeper
— So the white
paint shining on the
doorframes blends with
the pink & pastel &
makes a restful room.
The table is of simple
plytex red surface,
with matching little
chairs covered in
red plastic — But Oh
the humanity in the
souls of these chairs,
this room — no words!
no plastics to name
it!
Carolyn has set out
a little metal napkin
holder, with green
paper napkins, in
the middle of her
&nb
sp; table. Nothing is
provincial — there is
nothing provincial in
America — unless
it is the radio, staticing
from late afternoon
Carolina August
disturbances — the
vast cloud-glorious
Coastal Plain in its
green peace —
The voices of rustic-
affectated announcers
advertising feeds
& seeds — & dull
organ solos in the
radio void — Maybe
the rusticity of the
province of NC is
in the pictures on C’s
livingroom wall: 2
framed pictures of
bird dogs, to please
her husband Paul,
who hunts. A noble
black dog stepping
with the power of a
great horse from a
pond, quail-in-mouth,
with sere Autumns
in the brown swales
& pale green forests
beyond; & 2 noble
nervous white & brown
dogs in a corn-gold
field, under pale
clouds, legs taut, tails
stiff like pickets,
with a frondy sad
glade beyond where
an old Watteau would
have placed his
misty courtiers book
in hand at Milady’s
fat thigh — These
pictures are above the
little dining table —
Meaningless picturelets
over the bureau in
the other corner (put
there temporarily
by finicky Carolyn)
a dull picture of
red flowers & fruit
rioting in the gloom —
One chair: - a
black high-back
wood rocker, with
low seat, styled
in the oldfashioned
country way, hint
of old New England
& Colonial Carolina —
a hint lost to the
static of the radio
& the hum & swish
of the summer fan
set on the floor to
circulate air in a
wide arc from one
extreme twist of
its face to the
other — a fan
brought home by her
husband from his
office at the Telephone
Company.
CB herself, cig in
mouth, is opening the
windows behind the
blinds — she’d closed
them at 9 o’clock
AM to keep the
morning freshness in
— & now, near 4,
the air cooling,
she opens them again
— a fan can
only stir dusts of
the floor — Instantly
scents of fields
& trees comes into the
pink room with the
hardwood floor — A
gay wicker basket
is on the floor beneath
the windows,
full of newspapers
& magazines & a
Sears Roebuck catalogue
— CB is
wearing shorts, sandals
& a nondescript vestshirt
— just did her
housework — washed
the lunch dinners
& is about to take a
bath — The breeze
of afternoon pillows
in the redpink plastic
curtains. Carolyn
Blake stands, cig in
mouth, glancing briefly
at the yard outside
— beyond it stretches
a meadow, a corn
field, a tobacco
field, & faintly
beyond the wreckage
of a gray flucuring
barn the
wall of the forest
of the South.
CB is a thin, trim
little woman of 33 —
looking younger, with
cut bangs, short hair,
bemused, modern —
On her commode, two
shelves above a drawer
& opening hinged door,
pale wood, is a
wooden salad bowl,
upright; two China
plates, upright; an
earthen jug of
Vin Rosé, empty,
brought from NY
by her mother;
a green glass dish —
for candy — a glass
ashtray — & two
brass candle holders
— these things luminescent
in the glow
from the windows,
in still, fan-buzzing,
lazy Carolina afternoon
time. On the
radio a loud prolonged
static from
nearby disturbances
rasps a half
minute —
On the wall
above the husband’s
diningtable chair
hangs a knickknack
shelf, with 3 levels,
tiny Chinese vase
bowl with cover —
copper horse equestrian
& still in its
petite mysterious
shelf — & Chinese
porcelain rice-girl
with hugehat &
double baskets.
These are some of
the incidental
appurtenances in
the life of a little
Carolina housewife
in 1952.
She turns & goes into
the parlor — a
more elegant room,
with green leather
chairs, gray rug, book
shelves, — goes to the
screen door — lets
in Little Paul &
Little Jackie Lee —
Her son Little Paul comes
yells “Mommy I
wants some ice water!
Me & Jackie Lee wants
some ice water!
Mommy!” She shoos
them in with an absentminded
air —
Little Paul, blond, thin,
is her son; Jackie Lee,
dark, plumper, belongs
to a neighbor — They
rush in, barefooted,
each 4, in little
shorts, screaming,
wiggling —
In the kitchen, at
her refrigerator she
pours out ice
cube trays — Little
Paul holds the green
plastic waterbottle —
“That water’s warm,”
says Carolyn Blake,
“let me make you
some ice — ”
“I wants some
cracked ice Mommy!
Is that what you
wants Jackie Lee?”
“Ah-huh,” — assent,
“Ah-huh Pah-owl.”
The little mother
gravely works on the
ice; above the sink,
with a crank, is an
ice cracker; she
jams in the ice cubes,
standing tip toe
reaches up & cranks
it down into a red
plastic container;
wiggling the little boys
wait & watch — The
kitchen is modern &
clean — She slowly
goes about taking down
small glasses from
a cupbord, jams the
crushed ice in them.
They clasp
the
glasses & rush off —
to Little Paul’s
bedroom.
“This is our home, that
trailer’s our home,”
says Little Paul as
they wrangle over
a toy trailer-truck
on the white chenille
bedspread.
They have toy horses,
“Now you kill yrs.”
“Kill yours” — Jackie
“He’s killed.”
“Arent you glad?”
“They aint nothing
but big bad wolves . . .
Hey — mine’s got a
broken leg.”
“Give it to me.”
“They’re not your
horses!”
An incredible
city of toys in the
corner, on a card
table, a big doll
house, garages, cranes,
clutters of card,
accordions, silos,
dogs, tables, cash
registers, merry
go rounds with
insignia goldhorses,
marbles, airplanes,
an airport —
Little Paul —
“Here — here’s $12
for those horses,”
striking cashregister,
Jackie: “12 dollars?”
The bedroom has
pastel green walls;
the crib in the corner’s
now only for toys —
Polo Pony for water,
a balloon; rubber
naked doll; black
lamb — At foot
of bed a hamper
full of further toys —
On a little table
with flowery tablecloth
a small standing
library of Childrens
books — A huge
double bed, four posts,
the little Prince
gets up on it &
walks around —
He opens the
hamper, “Jackie!
know what? I
found a rake!”
Holding toy rake.
“You can work on
the track.”
On the open hamper
cover they hammer
their horses. “This
is gonna be a
horse race.” Paul
finds a track from
his Lionel Train box.
“Are they glad?”
“Yes.”
“Here comes another
straight track!”
— to distinguish from
curve tracks —
“Dont let em go
Jackie!” he calls
from the track
box.
“I wont.”
“Ding ding ding!”
shouts Paul pounding
with a railroad stop
sign on the hamper.
“Ding ding racehorse!
Ding ding track!”
Jackie: “One of em’s our
main horse!”
“Huh?”
“This one’s our
main horse.”
“Pah-owl the
horses are goin out
in the tunnel! — ”
“The train’s not