I Had A Dream
Had a dream about Jack Kerouac last night. A dream about Jack, ack. Was somewhere, at a party, a fellow was making everyone laugh with a description of a lazy jazzman sax player, he'd fall asleep till his solo, the fellow did a very funny takeoff, imaginary horn in hand, toot tootling, oodledee squeeaah, very soft, very sleepy, I laughed in the dream. Ho ho.
Then I'm looking at a black and white picture, it's someone's 1950's living room, in the foreground a big heap of children sitting at the kiddy table, behind them crowds of adults having a gathering. I know it's a party for Jack. Jack is about to speak, and somehow I'm in his head, I see we're going to say something really different, real art, something new, serious and good.
Then I'm outside the suburban house on the lawn. There's a crazy old sailor hanging around, he has some sort of banner he's carrying, then I'm back with Jack in the living room, we raise our head and see someone holding the old man's banner, we know the man is dead.
Whoosh I'm back in the yard and I hear a man saying, "well everything about his life was interesting except for this damned funeral!" And right after that I hear Jack, drunk wild voice cutting through air and he rings out ten syllables but I don't remember what they were, and all the previous schemes of art are nil, void, null, nada.
So I woke up and did my work for the day and now I'm inputting first blog entry. Jack used to visit friends in NYC and he'd joke and call it "Auld Manhattoe." So this is my blog -- Auld Manhattoe. I lived there and now I live across the river and work there and oh yeah, yeah, oh yeah, Jack and me, dead and alive, bearing ten mysterious syllables of drunken rue.
Then I'm looking at a black and white picture, it's someone's 1950's living room, in the foreground a big heap of children sitting at the kiddy table, behind them crowds of adults having a gathering. I know it's a party for Jack. Jack is about to speak, and somehow I'm in his head, I see we're going to say something really different, real art, something new, serious and good.
Then I'm outside the suburban house on the lawn. There's a crazy old sailor hanging around, he has some sort of banner he's carrying, then I'm back with Jack in the living room, we raise our head and see someone holding the old man's banner, we know the man is dead.
Whoosh I'm back in the yard and I hear a man saying, "well everything about his life was interesting except for this damned funeral!" And right after that I hear Jack, drunk wild voice cutting through air and he rings out ten syllables but I don't remember what they were, and all the previous schemes of art are nil, void, null, nada.
So I woke up and did my work for the day and now I'm inputting first blog entry. Jack used to visit friends in NYC and he'd joke and call it "Auld Manhattoe." So this is my blog -- Auld Manhattoe. I lived there and now I live across the river and work there and oh yeah, yeah, oh yeah, Jack and me, dead and alive, bearing ten mysterious syllables of drunken rue.
posted by Nightprowlkitty at 6:58 PM
2 Comments:
"It's all the same
Only the names are changed
And every day
we're just wastin' away.
Sometimes I sleep
Sometimes I think for days
And people that you meet
they just go their separate ways
Sometimes i count the days
By the bottle that your drink
Sometimes I sit alone
And all you do is think
..I'm a cowboy
On a steel horse I ride..."
Kinda like to think that Ritchie Sambora is the new Kerouac.
But I know he got it by way of the slaves from West Senegal.
Sounds so much like "I ain't gonna see my baby no mo'"
Rock on, Bon Jovi. Rock on old Manhattoe. I done seen you, but only once. Leonard Cohen fantasy of
fires on the road. Says now he wants to take it all back.
I like your comments, they are luxurious and unhurried, ah oh.
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