This is strictly Jack as Jack; his Bhuddochristian beliefs, his love for bop, his retrospectives on his brother Gerard and father, and of course, the automatism taking over for the scattered and lovely imagery he delivers here. Of the poems I've read, this book encompasses what Kerouac was as a poet, the nonsense, the automatic, the golden heart.
You could say the nonsensical gives contrast to the (even sometimes solid) imagery Kerouac delivers. I'll go with that. The topics ebb and flow, choruses follow each other up or drift happily into new territory without warning, and that spontaneity is exciting and interesting. The transition from college to hospital to pondering severe drug addiction in the vain of William Burroughs is a dangerous ride, and you keep your eyes open at all times as Kerouac delivers, "Doctor gave me a mainline shot / Of H grain - Jesus I / thought the whole building / was falling on me / went on my knees, awake, / lines come under my eye / I looked like a madman." These are, on the surface, simple lines, but they paint bleak and real pictures.
We all know from reading his take on writing (especially if you have The Portable Jack Kerouac) that he hated the bullshit. Hated it! The idea of "blowing" like a jazz poet was the ideal behind this book, and if that meant some nonsense, it'd be soul nonsense, mind-chatter. But genuine. So do I crucify him for his naivete, lines like, "Moll the mingling, mixup / All your mixupery, / And mail it one envelopey: / Propey, Slopey, Kree. / Motey, slottey, notty, / ..." and so on, you get it. So do I? Well, no, probably not, but I have to say it makes for a cumbersome read at times. I understand what he's doing but my attention is pulled away, and only in retrospect can I appreciate the let-looseness. But I must admit, it pulls me away from my sometimes-dependence on linearity. It's hard to go back and forth, from Kerouac and even what I've read of Joyce and their values versus those of, say, Norman Mailer or Charles Bukowski, who were by no means conventional, but also not of the mind to placate the nonsensical regions of the mind nor spirit. They are all great, though.
So before I go, I wish to put out there, in the air, that it is a pleasure to be able to read all these works. To come closer to humanity before I perish. This is the portal, the gateway, to the heart. All I do in this blog is ramble, ramble, 30 minutes of free-flowing thought, starting points to contemplation on great literature. Not reviews nor opinions, really, just starting points of thought that will branch out on every work until the day I die, and hopefully intermingle with other people's thoughts, if I knew anyone who gave a damn. I don't know if I'll keep this things going, I am very self-conscious about it. Not because people can stumble upon it (no one reads this thing, nor do I care if they do or don't), but because I don't think it brings out the best of my analysis. We'll see.
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