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Book of Sketches

Page 3

by Jack Kerouac


  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

 

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