Federico Fellini’s La Strada (1954) is a road movie. The road is not so much an avenue for adventure as it is a means to earn a living, not much of a living, but a way to eat. Zampano, the brute protagonist, a “traveling artist,” and his sidekick, the simple-minded young woman, Gelsomina–he purchased from her poverty-stricken, barefoot-poor mother for 10,000 lire–are existing in war ravaged Italy. Before Gelsomina, Zampano was on the road with her sister Rosa, who died, apparently on the road–no explanation.
Archives For GK Stritch
I work a solitary Burroughs-type job where I don’t do anything much but look out a window. I can’t read or write there, so the only thing I do is think, think about people, and pray, pray for another job. I think about the Beats because I read a great deal of Beat literature. I’ve read so much that I feel I know each personally. Being it was All Saints Day and then All Souls Day, and I had nothing else to do, I prayed for Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Burroughs.
A professional filmmaker warned me against the Coen Brothers. (Why? I can’t remember.) A professional musician and nice guy warned against this movie. “Joyless,” he said. “Dark.” Our friends, a beautiful couple, charitable and she a pianist with three classically-trained musical daughters (one a violinist in a bluegrass band) didn’t finish watching it–they didn’t like it at all. I liked it. I liked it a great deal, and it’s the first movie I’ve seen in a while that didn’t insult my intelligence. Continue Reading…
Thick WCW bio
Heavy to hold, sticks to my lap
Who is this man, Horace?
Who is the Carlos between the Willyams?
Heroes Cristóbal Colón, Will Shakespeare, and George of Washington
French-speaking Puerto Rican mother
Spanish-speaking English father
In apple-pie Ruther ford, Madox Continue Reading…
“The News from Poems” the Sixth Biennial Conference of the William Carlos Williams Society at William Paterson University ended on a majestic note with a stunning video featuring the music of Frederick Adler, M.D., black-and-white images by the architect and visual artist Jonathan Sinagub, and the words of William Carlos Williams from his epic poem “Paterson,” in a combined work titled “Paterson Project.” www.patersonproject.com
The Road begins in Paterson, as in Sal Paradise’s Paterson, as in WCW’s Paterson, as in Ginsberg’s hometown P-town, New Jersey, as in George Washington’s “coat of Crow-black homespun woven in Paterson,” Alexander Hamilton, yes, that Paterson . . . Paterson of the great Peruvian restaurants and immigrant experience – yes, that Paterson.
Scholars from as far away as Melbourne and Kyoto attended the event.
The only Jack for me are the mad Jacks,
the Jacks who are Jack to live,
mad to Jack,
mad to be Jacked,
desirous of everything at the same Jack,
the Jacks who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,
but burn, Jack, burn,
like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding
like Jacks across the stars
“I cried in the Cathedral of the Savior to hear the choir boys sing a gorgeous old thing, while angels seemed to be hovering around—”
Jack Kerouac, “Big Trip to Europe”
Affects and effects
Choir boys sang
Sending a pang
In lonesome heart
Rust reds fulfill
Lucid liquid diamond
Infants understanding silence
Kerouac, Jack. Road Novels 1957-1960. (New York: Penguin, 2007). pp. 749-750.
Our Year in Downtown Red
Yesterday’s sunshine and spectacular seventy degrees are replaced by rapidly plummeting temperatures and the forecast for Thanksgiving: a nor’easter that may include inches of snow. I hope that storm goes way out to sea, so travelers and families and friends can celebrate a happy holiday without worry about the weather and driving. Robert and I look forward to his lovely sister’s traditional Mayflower New England American hospitality in her warm and inviting home: a huge roast turkey with stuffing and gravy and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and dozens of side dishes and appetizers and a big dessert table with, of course, pumpkin pie and apple pie all served with love and cheer and thanksgiving. I’m about ready to burst into tears thinking about it, and what if the weather keeps me here alone in Active Town with our boxes of oatmeal and pasta and no family cheer and not much else, and that is a sad and terrible thought. Thanksgiving is the homiest holiday of the year, and I’m grateful that I’ve been welcome into the family fold since Robert and I met.
However, now after what seems only a foolish and expensive and unnecessary move, maybe they won’t like me anymore for disturbing the peace. This move bore fruit, thus far, of a few forced and bitter tears, days and nights of separation and loneliness and rejection, and a sour taste, but time will probably reveal something that I haven’t yet fully seen, perhaps, courage and conversion and a more grateful heart, a more loving human and humble heart, a heart that has become more discerning to the ways of the world. In my heart of hearts, I don’t think I’ll find a job here; I believe I have given up the search. We’ll see what unfolds. Robert and I plan on visiting the condo in Boring Town, and that boring town is beginning to seem more and more pleasant with its quiet town ways, away from the bustle and hustle of Active Town.
Now, with the update forecast, maybe it won’t be wise for Robert to travel home. Maybe it’ll be a tedious and hours long dangerous drive. Maybe he should stay up north, because there will be no place for him to park here—no room in the underground garage with Vincenzo’s three big outrageously expensive Ferrari, Lamborghini, Aston Martin . . . and maybe the ridiculous Hummer and The Boss’s Range Rover, and a “please don’t park here” for us.
The thought occurs to me that I am getting used to being alone. I’m getting used to years of unemployment, and I will survive, and I’ll survive the year without a Thanksgiving. Maybe I could show up at the community kitchen, yes, I might learn something there. I won’t go as a volunteer, I’ll go as a friendless and hungry and thirsty stranger, alone in America on the day Americans give thanks. I’ll go as one of the country’s unemployed citizens—one poor in spirit who has lost hope of ever getting a full-time job with benefits ever again. I’ll go naked, naked in aloneness, naked in crying for mercy, naked in mourning, naked in humility, naked in old age, naked into the great big homelessness of the unwanted manuscript—right into the slush pile of rejection. And when that’s all over, I’ll climb into my silver cloud and drive into my warm parking space in the heated underground garage . . . and call the wrap place across the street for a delivery of some turkey fire fingers, like I’m some big rock star. Then I’ll race down the street, spring into the bakery, jump over the counter, grab a big hunk of apple strudel, and distribute it to all the other friendless and hungry strangers.
. . . “who studied . . . St. John of the Cross . . . ” [i]
His aloneness in a dungeon
Imprisoned in cruel Spanish cell
Con-tem-pla-tive and silent hell
Meditative knees he fell
Light and dark thus intertwined
Lead to poetry sublime
Ecstasy and agony
Suffered his cross
In crucified reality
Found the light
In deepest darkest night
The obscure night of the soul
Forever in eternity be told
Mystic poet, mystic saint
Love never stained or taint
Patron saint of mystics
San Juan de la Cruz
Sacrifice and detachment
Sanctity and holiness
Embraced Christo Rey
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Crosswho studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross
[i] Ginsberg, Allen. “Howl.”
“Francis Thompson (!)” i
“My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.”
“The Hound of Heaven” by Francis Thompson
First chastised by a chase
Through London laudanum haze and haste
Up and down and down and out
Stop to have another taste
Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide ii
On this side of the great divide
The hound and words chasing fast
Will this misery ever pass?
Affliction, affliction, affliction
In desolate dereliction
Money not for pen or paper
Hopes dashed and end in vapor
Beating feet and voices beat
Futile to try and retreat
Heart beating in the heat
Stop those endless running feet
Angels, visions, lighted tapers
Heaven chased hare through all capers
Hound that hound chased him down
Naked, stripped, youth took flight
Majestic poem he did write
Finally stopped he sought the light
i Kerouac, Jack and Ginsberg, Allen: The Letters. Ed. Bill Morgan and David Stanford. (New York: Viking) 2010.
ii “Nowhere to Run,” Songwriters: Holland, Edward, Jr., Dozier, James, Herbert Lamont, Holland, Brian, EMI Music