Beatnick Scribbling

While I was in New York I had the privilege of going to the library. A conglomeration of manuscripts centered around the 1950s beat poet movement were on display. The focus was on Jack Kerouac, but photos shot by Alan Ginsburg as well as loose leaf or typed pages from cohort William S. Burroughs were also scattered among the display.

I felt a certain excitement in seeing all this work in its birthplace (New York) and an admiration for the library to accolade authors who were largely rejected and feigned during their lifetimes. The manuscripts were preserved like rare pieces of art, seven rooms worth, browned and yellowed, tattered and bloody. Kerouac's harsh New York experience put up and finally given the recognition it deserves.

I was most excited for the jammed-about original thought that papered the walls of the historic building and the tribute to the community that surrounded Jack. He was friends with crazy people, of course, because only the mad ones were for him. Together they clawed for words to live by.

By no means do I want to emulate Kerouac's personal life, forfeiting years to alcohol; or Burroughs', trading decades for smack. But their writing is another thing entirely, and the community they devoted to art and words and thought and experience makes me envious in the worst way.

This is what I long for - a Greenwich-esque life circled by friends creating and destroying and recreating themselves and their ideas. This is the way I want to live, and I think my recent trip to NYC has helped me redefine what I want my life to be, despite my location, occupation, et. al.

I wrote this poem last semester as a sordid ideal of what the CMC community would be like; what I see for my life after the CMC. And, yes, it is in sonnet form...

Greenwich

I've found a place where I can dream and drift
And gypsy friends who beg me not to leave
They are the sieve and I the sand they sift
Their stories are the yarn with which I weave.
The lights dim on this run-down beat-up shack
And pennies made do not provide a crumb
But I am free from all that may attack
Cause comfort's in my neighbor's constant drum.
My chances for survival may be slight
And winter may be cold with clothing torn
But we are clinging onto dreams so tight
To follow paths of risks that pain has worn.
To look back on the past would be to brake
In every life so many roads to take.