by Jack Kerouac
Machines can’t
run without a theoretical
basis.
The theoretical of
Nature is still & will
always be “unknown”
because it is not
theoretical, it is —
Ah now the croaking
birds of California Afternoon,
the tweeties too,
the neigh of a horse,
the breeze, the rustle
of a paper bag stuck
against a bush — God
will come again in all
his radiance & illuminate
our souls with understanding
& pity, & Jesus will
descend into our minds
with his Meek & Sorrowful
Look & pierce us with
the pang & arrow of
our condition on the
plain of life — & bless
us with a soft
shroud — I want
to sit in the
desert contemplating the
earth & the clouds &
the insects & suddenly
the poor Fellaheen
simplicity-souls there
with me — I want to
be among them in the
night, soft lights across
the sand road, distant
dogs of the Fellaheen Moon
— the maguey rows —
the holy marijuana to
enliven my Vision when
needed — the sweet
wine — to soften my
cark & belly when needed
— the tender cunt of
my Indian Love — my
Fellaheen Wife — &
holy sleep among the Patriarchs
All I want to do is
love —
God will come into
me like a golden
light & make areas
of washing gold above
my eyes, & penetrate
my sleep with His Balm
— Jesus, his Son, is in
my Heart constantly.
My brother Gerard
was like Jesus. My
father I loved like
God. My mother
is sweet & golden-
hearted & never meant
harm to bird, insect
or person in the depths
of her simple heart, —
My sister is dead to God
now, because she puts
marriage to a tyrannical
but simple-hearted
man before her knowledges
of God & the soul that
she learned once from
her father, brother (&
mother perhaps) & Church —
She & I knelt in
damp pews of poor Good
Friday —
I am working for the
railroad to keep my
stomach in food &
drink but I want to
throw myself on the
ground & die for God
if it wasnt so awful
TO DIE & leave the joys
of food & drink & cunt,
& grieving relatives.
To learn the life
of sainthood is harder
than 8 years of
Medical or Law School
— I will come to it
gradually, to celibacy
& some fasting (by celibacy
I mean of course simplicity
of living, for instance no
gum chewing & such
trivial habits that attach
to me still from the
Machine of Anti Christ)
— come gradually to growing
my own food, to Patriarchy
& Silence in the Earth
& Ecstasy of Alyosha
SKETCHES NO. 3
Cowboys of the Wild
American romantic West
& the Horsey Set are
hungup on horses’ asses —
Cows around an oil well pump
say — “Leave the oil in
our earth.” — Later ages
will wonder why Faustian
man extracted all kinds
of stuff from the earth,
dirt, mud, oil — Silly
pumps ass balling up &
down the ground for
nothing — oil for horror —
( — Dostoevsky’s moon — )
Aping nature is not art,
only a gospel will do —
Tea — backtracking thru
the universe —
Not only a derangement
of the senses but of
personal evaluations, moral
evaluations of yourself
— tea is suicidal —
I vant to be alone —
since that repudiation of
a human wish Americans
have become adjusted to
their machines —
Baby crying in gray morning
— moments meshing with
every note —
Pray to God for the
great reality (on
yr. knees in Italian
railyards near spectral
tenements)
The first thing that strikes
me about Dostoevsky in beginning
any of his books is
the nervous anguish that
seems to have preceded the
first page — the hero is
always the same, comes
to the first page out of
eternities of introspection,
anguish, gloom — just
as I do every day.
Hmm.
The morning of me
liberation — Oct. 4, 1952
— I go live alone in
a 3rd St. room, leaving
Neal’s — for the 1st
time since 1942 —
(in Hartford) — All
set to write On the
Road, the big one
with Michael Levesque
— the only one —
have renounced everyone,
& myself dedicate to
sorrow, work, silence,
solitude, deep joys of
the early mist —
Train 3-419 is waiting
outside Oakland yards
— it’s 7 30 AM —
fog — great clutter of
bedsprings & screens &
rusty fenders for walls
make a house of
ferruginous barrels loaded
with iron mucks — I
see whole interiors of
hotplates, grates of
old stoves, the arms
of antique washing machines,
tubes, buckets,
— two bos just
passed it, found an
interest in a piece on the
ground — Strange
bird flies overhead —
Saw 1000 ducks Milpitas —
Next to junk crib
is concrete blockhouse hut
with protruderant pole
with climbing ladder &
iron pipe — a smaller,
sloperoofed concrete house
with no meaning (hides
a dynamo?) — little
window — in chalk
“Nixon is broke” —
Armour & Co. loading
platform has yesterday’s
debris — a Filipino
fishes in blue barrel —
October & the railyards
again, & the great novel
in America —
The Cook is Grooking —
Jacky Robinson’s at
bat again —
OCT 4
Saturday morning in a Frisco
bar, October, it’s the
World Series as in 1947
when Michael LeVesque
was in Selma Calif.
& the old railroad clerk
spoke to him in the
long dust of an
afternoon of sorrowful
farewell, when Mike’d
turned for one last goodbye
at Teresa in the
long grape row —
I’m getting my kicks in
typical Jack Kerouac
way, refilling a tokay
25¢ shotglass from
my poorboy pocket bottle
in railroad-grime jacket
& writing & watching
W. S. while Negro &
Filipino cats sit in
bar watching game
without buying or
drinking anything at
all — Mike Levesque
is like that, the
Pilgrim of the Fellaheen
is a simple & joyful
fellow & no “innocent
boy” camper like Peter
Martin — but no
more words, now for
the scenes —
(She was born in Montreal
a simple-intentioned pure
heart, & remained so for
a lifetime thru histories, paranoias
& grief)
You’ve got to put a
superstructure of love
on yr. life or you’ll
just be a skeleton in
the grave of yr.
mortal days, shuddering
naked against the main
nerve of yr. being,
unclothed for the
Raiment Halls of
Will, Severity of Purpose,
— God is a superaddition
to the frame of Man,
like the flesh & eyes —
Therefore unravel the
drama of yr. soul before
yr. eyes, be strong &
thoughtful, be not naked scared
The personal legend of
Duluoz is for communication
on a later level —
When I walked in 20th Century Fox
office in 1949 I knew the
corruption of certain types &
the City; but now I see the
corruption of all America
& its broken head on an iron wheel
Ah what’s happening in
the world! —
I woke up — 2 flies
were fucking on my forehead
It’s hypocrisy makes
these hills grim —
The pue of the sad Malley —
listen to the sad Malley —
the phew of the sad Malley —
song of the sad Malley —
(Mallet locomotive)
You have an inordinary
nack to inult me
every nime
This is the end of
the handball game
TO CARL SOLOBONE
SKETCH . . . .
Watsonville, valley — the
sun is setting in a mysterious
orange flameball over the
flat green lettuce fields
interlined with brown dirt
rows & roads & rails — beyond
the milky haze of this
dusk is the sea, unseen, the
Pacific to the Land of the
Rising Sun — the grass is
like hay, full of ants
that go to sleep at sundown,
dry shrubs, dry cottonwoods,
weeds, tart spice ferns of
Spring are now fuel for
Autumn Seres, — little
weedflowers close their
blossoms as the dusk birdsongs
titter — a farm in the
dreaming vale below, white-
washed barn, flat reposant
chickencoops & toolsheds —
I hear the distant hiway
trucks — sitting on the
mat of earth on the westernmost
American hill facing
the unknown east all
pink now — Sweet dewy
breeze hints of sea —
The railroad cries the
roundroll — I sleep on
the ground under the
stars like an Indian,
baseball hat, brakeman’s
lantern & tucked in
Levis & workshoes &
jacket, arms folded to
the moon —
a cow mourns below —
adios — now the sun
is bloodred, sinks behind
the mighty mountain trees
— the distant sad hiway
of little soundless cars —
the Salad Bowl of the
World sinks to dark, all
you need is a plane to
spray mayonnaise & chopped
scallions — eat a whole
valley raw — the figs
trees are shitting on the
ground, Mexican Motorists
pick walnuts from the
ground, the bums have
left a Tokay empty
under the avocado tree —
ripe California
THE CRUMMY
Where once I’d quake
at the thought of a
jawbreaking caboose hitting
in the slack, Wham! —
now, this morning, in
my bemused equicenter
I look up & see the
caboose crazy disheveled
blurred, as if I was seeing
it momentarily photographed
thru a trick mirror, &
feel no shock or wonder
nor hear a sound nor
move from my seat —
just see it as it
rocks to the bang
Now that I understand
the railroad with my own
senses I see that Neal
was only jabbering about
the obvious again, & in his
unnecessarily involved &
confusing way — which has
to do with his sadism —
to confuse — unclear
& befrought with subtle
“lies” or “hiddens” —
“hidings” — concealings —
— from weird guilt —
The Bird of Chittenden
OBRA PRIVATA
When you were a kid,
Duluoz, & the perfumed
aunts visiting & the
promise of quarters &
ice cream & lipstick
kisses & long afternoons
of gossip in the kitchen
as the sun gets red —
The Immortality &
Eternalness of all
that & everything that
ever happened to you
still waits for
that Obra Privata
pen, sorrow & faith —
(some of it in French!)
MORE SKETCHES CALIFORNIA
Sexy young Wop mother
waiting train at Burlingame
in Gray West Void with
blond son, campy meets
her brunette sister in a
suit — a semi wino in
brown & white saddles &
beat pants passes them
smoking with that “Hey
Jack, I’m tired & shore
weary” expression — Big
sad baggage boy pushes
trunks on orange truck,
crepesoles, buttondown sweater,
short hair, his mother’s
making chocolate pudding
for him right now, his Pa’s
puttering in the garage —
Hundreds of cars parked
in concrete back of
Bridge & Dugan Carpet
Specialists — A big
yellow squash in the
weeds near the railroad
fence of a California
bungalow settl
ement
with same backs —
Pale green dobe oil
company buildings —
(ranch style) —
Bay Meadows, the
starting gate high
on the far turn above
the immense Bay
flats & wreckage
of cranes & poles —
blah — The Machine Plain —
The California Okie
businessman with bushy
eyebrows & red face
clumpin along adjusting
his belt butt in mouth
newspapers sticking out
of shroud coat, in
first rain of year —
in Hillsdale — thousands
of cars everywhere half
of them new (now’s
time to buy jalopy)
Brown-grass hills, green
redwoods, alpine lodge
houses of 30’s Calif. —
Gray murk on palms —
Western Awning Co.
palegreen stucco —
& Dentist in Spanish
style — Dullness of
Texaco station, “Marfak
Lubrication” “Motor Tune
Up” — attendant pissing
water on windshield —
— Rain on the
parched Calif. brown
grass hills — the sea
beyond — Ha! —
What will be debris
by Europe track? —
here is oil cans, beer
cans, paper (brown),
oiled tie-piles, boards,
cartons, lumberyards,
junkyards, cellophane —
The winter in Italy? —
April in Paris! —
January in Venice! —
Summer in England
& Scandinavia!
Fall in North Africa!
Winter in Baghdad!
— !! —
CONSUMER CREDIT &
the new E. A. Mattison
Budget Finance Plan
Inc. is just a loan
to someone to finance,
manufacture, distribute &
sell a product, such as
home freezers — But this is
going in debt in order
to pay it off with
savings. You borrow
money, buy or invest, &
then save to pay off your
debt: leaves U.S. with
record savings & record
debts at same time.
Consumer credit is one
arm of machine reaching
out to help other, but