Y leíamos a Kerouack!!!

Why are u still so sad,Jack?
 
Y leíamos a Sartre, y al viejo Kerouack.  Amanecíamos  en el bar "La Paz" o en cualquier otro para discutir sobre el destino del hombre y de la Patria.
Y- recuerdo –  amábamos a Guevara y creíamos en la Paz. 
  Fuimos, tal vez, una generación de soñadores, o de locos o, sólo fuimos muy jóvenes.
 O, simplemente, creimos que la Humanidad era una condición de la Justicia. Ser plenamente humanos, ser y amar. Ser y creer. Sencillamente SER.
  Está triste el otoño hoy. Hace frío. Y, en este otoño dorado y bello, se siente la necesidad de recordarte, Jack.
Aquella pregunta que nos hacíamos casi como una broma y que era tuya, Jack:
 
 "Where we going, man?"
"I don’t know but we gotta go."
 
 Como en "On the road", la noche se terminaba con la pregunta:
 
 "Adónde vamos"?
 "No lo sé, pero tenemos que irnos"
                                                                          On the road
’Well yes, well yes, and now I think we better be cutting along because we gotta be in Chicago by tomorrow night and we already wasted several hours’…. I turned to watch the kitchen light recede in the sea of night. Then I leaned ahead. In no time at all we were back on the highway and that night I saw the entire state of Nebraska unroll perceptibly before my eyes. A hundred and ten miles an hour straight through, an arrow road, sleeping towns, no traffic, and the Union Pacific streamliner falling behind us in the moonlight. …All the Nebraska towns — Ogallala, Gothenburg, Kearny, Grand Island, Columbus — unreeled with dreamlike rapidity as we roared ahead and talked. It was a magnificent car,  it could hold the road like a boat holds water. Gradual curves were its singing ease. …’What a dreamboat,’ sighed Neal. ’Do you know there’s a road that goes down to Mexico and all the way to Panama? — and maybe all the way to the bottom of South America…Yes! You and I, Jack, we’d dig the whole world with a car like this because man the road must eventually lead to the whole world.”
     (Jack Kerouac. “On the Road”)
 
 
              
 
 
To Edward Dahlberg
 
Don´t use the telephone.
People are never ready to answer it.
Use poetry.
A Edward Dahlberg
 
No utilices el teléfono
La gente jamás está dispuesta a responder,
Utiliza la poesía.
Nobody knows the other side
 
Nobody knows the other side
of my house
My corner where I was born,
dusty guitars
Of my tired little street where
with my sisters
And waited for afternoon sunfall
call a kids
And mas to bring me back
to supper mainline
Hum washing line tortillas
and beans,
That Honey Pure land,
of Mominu,
Where I lived a myriard
Kotis of millions
Of incalculablebe-aeons ago
When white while joyous
was also
Center of lake of light.
Nadie conoce el otro lado…
 
Nadie conoce el otro lado
de mi casa,
Mi esquina, en la que nací,
polvorientas guitarras
de mi pequeña y cansada calle donde
con mis pequeños pies
Salté y jugué
con mis hermanas
Y esperé por las tardes las caídas del sol
llamé a los niños
Y mamá me traía de regreso
para cenar casi siempre
Susurrantes jugosas y alineadas tortillas
y frijoles
Ese país de la Miel Pura,
de Mominu,
Donde viví millaresde millones
De incalculables
eones pesados
Cuando blanco y a la vez dichoso
era también
Centro de un lago de luz.
 
On Tears
 
Tears is the break of my brow,
The moony tempestuous
Sitting down
In dark railyards
When to see my mother’s face
Recalling from the waking vision
I wept to understand
The trap mortality
And personal blood of earth
Which saw me in—
Father father
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Mortality & unpleasure
Roam this city—
Unhappiness my middle name
I want to be saved,–
Sunk—can’t be
Won’t be
Never was made—
So retch.
 
Jack Kerouac  (Massachusetts, 1922-1969)
 
 Mirá esto!!!!!!!!!!!- Watch thissssssssss!!!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Song
   
   The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human–
looks out of the heart
burning with purity–
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love–
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
–cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
–must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye–
yes, yes,
that’s what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.                                                 
 
Allen Ginsberg ( New Jersey- 1926 – 1997 )
 
 
            
 
 
"No quiero amor
 No quiero perdón
 Todo lo que quiero es salir de aquí"
 
  W.S. Burroughs
Naked Lunch

(an excerpt)
 
        ‘Selling is more of a habit than using,’ Lupita says. Nonusing pushers have a contact habit, and that’s one you can’t kick. Agents get it too. Take Bradley the Buyer. Best narcotics agent in the industry. Anyone would make him for junk. (Note: Make in the sense of dig or size up.) I mean he can walk up to a pusher and score direct. He is so anonymous, grey and spectral the pusher don’t remember him afterwards. So he twists one after the other …
        Well the Buyer comes to look more and more like a junky. He can’t drink. He can’t get it up. His teeth fall out. (Like pregnant women lose their teeth feeding the stranger, junkies lose their yellow fangs feeding the monkey.) He is all the time sucking on a candy bar. Baby Ruths he digs special. ‘It really disgust you to see the Buyer sucking on them candy bars so nasty,’ a cop says.
        The Buyer takes on an ominous grey-green color. Fact is his body is making its own junk or equivalent. The Buyer has a steady connection. A Man Within you might say. Or so he thinks. ‘I’ll just set in my room,’ he says. ‘F**k ‘em all. Squares on both sides. I am the only complete man in the industry.’
        But a yen comes on him like a great black wind through the bones. So the Buyer hunts up a young junky and gives him a paper to make it.
        ‘Oh all right,’ the boy says. ‘So what you want to make?’
        ‘I just want to rub against you and get fixed.’
        ‘Ugh … Well all right … But why cancha just get physical like a human?’
        Later the boy is sitting in a Waldorf with two colleagues dunking pound cake. ‘Most distasteful thing I ever stand still for,’ he says. ‘Some way he make himself all soft like a blob of jelly and surround me so nasty. Then he gets well all over like with green slime. So I guess he come to some kinda awful climax … I come near wigging with that green stuff all over me, and he stink like a old rotten cantaloupe.’
        ‘Well it’s still an easy score.’
        The boy signed resignedly; ‘Yes, I guess you can get used to anything. I’ve got a meet with him again tomorrow.’
        The Buyer’s habit keeps getting heavier. He needs a recharge every half hour. Sometimes he cruises the precincts and bribes the turnkey to let him in with a cell of junkies. It gets to where no amount of contact will fix him. At this point he receives a summons from the District Supervisor:
        ‘Bradley, your conduct has given rise to rumors — and I hope for your sake they are no more than that — so unspeakably distasteful that … I mean Caesar’s wife … hrump … that is, the Department must be above suspicion … certainly above such suspicions as you have seemingly aroused. You are lowering the entire tone of the industry. We are prepared to accept your immediate resignation.’
        The Buyer throws himself on the ground and crawls over to the D.S. ‘No, Boss Man, no … The Department is my very lifeline.’
        He kisses the D.S.’s hand thrusting his fingers into his mouth (the D.S. must feel his toothless gums) complaining he has lost his teeth ‘inna thervith.’ ‘Please Boss Man, I’ll wipe your ass, I’ll wash out your dirty condoms, I’ll polish your shoes with the oil on my nose …’
        ‘Really, this is most distasteful! Have you no pride? I must tell you I feel a distinct revulsion. I mean there is something, well, rotten about you, and you smell like a compost heap.’ He put a scented handkerchief in front of his face. ‘I must ask you to leave this office at once.’
        ‘I’ll do anything, Boss, anything.’ His ravaged green face splits in a horrible smile. ‘I’m still young, Boss, and I’m pretty strong when I get my blood up.’
        The D.S. retches into his handkerchief and points to the door with a limp hand. The Buyer stands up looking at the D.S. dreamily. His body begins to dip like a dowser’s wand. He flows forward …
        ‘No! No!’ screams the D.S.
        ‘Schlup … schlup schlup.’ An hour later they find the Buyer on the nod in the D.S.’s chair. The D.S. has disappeared without a trace.
        The Judge : ‘Everything indicates that you have, in some unspeakable manner uh … assimilated the District Supervisor. Unfortunately there is no proof. I would recommend that you be confined or more accurately contained in some institution, but I know of no place suitable for a man of your caliber. I must reluctantly order your release.’
        ‘That one should stand in an aquarium,’ says the arresting officer.
        The Buyer spreads terror throughout the industry. Junkies and agents disappear. Like a vampire bat he gives off a narcotic effluvium, a dank green mist that anesthizes his victioms and renders them helpless in his enveloping presence. And once he has scored he holes up for several days like a gorged boa constrictor. Finally he is caught in the act of digesting the Narcotics Commissioner and destroyed with a flame thrower — the court of inquiry ruling that such means were justified in that the Buyer had lost his human citizenship and was, in consequence, a creature without species and a menace to the narcotics industry on all levels.
 
William S.Burroughs (Saint Louis 1914 – 1997)   
 
 
                               
 
 
                        
                                                                                                   
 
 
   
THE BEAT GENERATION
Like the French Impressionist artists of Paris, the Beat writers were a small group of close friends first, and a movement later. The term "Beat Generation" gradually came to represent an entire period in time, but the entire original Beat Generation in literature was small enough to have fit into a couple of cars (at times this nearly happened).
 The core group consisted of Jack Kerouac , Allen Ginsberg , Neal Cassady and William S. Burroughs , who met in the neighborhood surrounding Columbia University in uptown Manhattan in the mid-40’s.
 The phrase "Beat Generation" was invented by Jack Kerouac in 1948 (for a discussion of the origin of this and other labels, check out Lost, Beat and Hip). The phrase was introduced to the general public in 1952 when Kerouac’s friend John Clellon Holmes wrote an article, ‘This is the Beat Generation,’ for the New York Times Magazine.
 Most of them struggled for years to get published, and it is inspiring to learn how they managed to keep each other from giving up hope when it seemed their writings would never be understood. Their moment of fame began with a legendary poetry reading at the Six Gallery in San Francisco.
 
 LA GENERACION BEAT
 
 Al igual que artistas impresionistas franceses de París, los escritores Beat fueron un pequeño grupo de amigos cercanos primero, y un movimiento más tarde.
 El término "Beat Generation" poco a poco llegó a representar no solo  todo un período de tiempo, sino también a toda la Generación Beat original en la literatura. El grupo era lo suficientemente pequeño como para que cupiera en un par de coches.
 El grupo constaba de Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassady y William S. Burroughs, que se reunieron en el uptown de Manhattan, un barrio en torno a la Universidad de Columbia a mediados de los años 40 y la expresión "Generación Beat" fue inventado por Jack Kerouac en 1948.
 La mayoría de ellos lucharon por años para conseguir ser  publicados, y son una inspiración para aprender cómo se las arreglaron para mantenerse mutuamente y darse la aliento los unos a los otros cuando parecía que sus escritos no se entendían.
 Su momento de fama comenzó con una lectura de poesía hoy legendaria en la Six Gallery de San Francisco .
 
  What keeps mankind alive?
 
You gentlemen who think you have a mission
To purge us of the seven deadly sins
Should first sort out the basic food position
Then start your preaching, that’s where it all begins
You lot who preach restraint and watch your waist as well
Should learn, for once, the way the world is run
However much you twist or whatever lies that you tell
Food is the first thing, morals follow on
So first be sure that those who are now starving
Get proper helpings when we all start carving
What keeps mankind alive?
What keeps mankind alive?
The fact that millions are daily tortured
Stifled, punished, silenced and oppressed
Mankind can keep alive thanks to its aptitude
In keeping its humanity repressed
And for once you must try not to shriek the facts
Mankind is kept alive by bestial acts.
 
Kurt Weill/Bertolt Brecht
 
Mirá esto!!!!!  Watch this!!!!!!
 
                                                           
                           
 
 
 
            
 
 
 
  Escucha a Bob Listen to Bob
 
 
                                                                                                           
 
 
 
 
 
 
                                                                                               
 
 
 
 
 

 
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