Stuff I’ve Been Reading

On the Road – Jack Kerouac
Howl and Other Poems – Allen Ginsberg
The Crucible – Arthur Miller
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead – Tom Stoppard
Waiting for Godot – Samuel Beckett
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? – Edward Albee
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – Hunter S. Thompson

On the RoadCarlos Marx brought the seeds back from low India and planted them by the metal grate where he’d seen the hand of God; home-grown mysticism of the 1950’s. It would become endemic and jungalise the nation; LA and New York would be hidden in the hazy scrub, but not yet. For now only a few visit his garden to hear him howling through the leaves—prophets and angels all. Heed them, people of Orphelese! Do not let the day of parting be the day of gathering! Their gospels may be vague, but a crystal is mist in decay.  None of this is mine; it belongs to a secret. They are equally the prophets and the disciples—disciples of the dirty mountain gurus of America, trudging through the basin. They are sons to the fathers the country will never find. They are made to martyr on trial in Salem, John Proctor—guilty, next on the docket…

But these are angels who beat the screaming witch-hunt
Who terrorise with artful obscenities the puritans praying frantically
Who blaze the minds of college kids with chemical inspiration and spiritual inclination
Who shriek from bar to bar to hear the beautiful struggles of scholars blinded and broken by their studies
Who play musical chairs with stolen automobiles roaring around the streets and then across the bellowing highways
Who quit flipping the coin when it comes down heads fifty times in a row, no question of fate or free will, just put the coin away
Who sit in the back of the theatre and holler at Vladimir and Estragon to leave the tree and the low mound and go looking for Godot
Who have no time to wait around while George and Martha tear themselves to shreds in their vicious lovewar broken old and dead
Who round the corners of Hemingway and turn it into Jazz

Who echo each other in prose and poetry and drugs and nightmares and ecstatic visions of the Promised Land that materialises all around. Echo forwards and upwards. Echo to Kesey. Echo to Thompson and bring truth back into journalism. Echo back. Hit all the jazz joints in Shangri-La.  Don’t you know that the fellow over on Paradise Street has found it? I think of Jack Kerouac, who hates the pale imitation, I think of Jack Kerouac.

Article written by: Samuel Chapman, 12
Photo taken from: (Hyperlink)

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