- 3 months ago
In Memoriam for Jack Kerouac on this day when he finally went to that Big Beat Jazz Cafe in 7th Heaven crooning sweet sounds and easy riffs.If you enjoy my readings and would like to support the channel, you can buy me a cup of coffee : https://buymeacoffee.com/lorigomez_apoetrychannel
A haunting novel of deeply felt adolescence, Dr. Sax is the story of Jack Duluoz, a French-Canadian boy growing up in Kerouac’s own birthplace, the dingy factory town of Lowell, Massachusetts. There, Dr. Sax, with his flowing cape, slouched hat, and insinuating leer, is chief among the many ghosts and demons that populate Jack’s fantasy world. Deftly mingling memory and dream, Kerouac captures the accents and textures of his boyhood in Lowell in this novel of a cryptic, apocalyptic hipster phantom that he once described as “the greatest book I ever wrote, or that I will write.”
Jack Kerouac, the father of the Beat Generation, was born in Lowell, Massachusetts, in 1922. He attended Columbia University, briefly, on a football scholarship, but an injury forced him to quit after his freshman season. After dropping out of university, Kerouac continued to live in New York City, where he would meet Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassady, and William S. Burroughs, the future stars of the Beat Generation. Kerouac’s first novel, The Town and the City, was published in 1950 and received good reviews but little attention; was the publication of his second novel, On the Road (1957), that would ultimately win him literary celebrity. He is the author of many books including On the Road, The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans, Tristessa, Lonesome Traveler, Desolation Angels, Dr. Sax, and Mexico City Blues, as well as the co-author with William S. Burroughs of the previously unpublished novel And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks. Kerouac died of an internal hemorrhage on this day due to liver failure, in 1969.
A haunting novel of deeply felt adolescence, Dr. Sax is the story of Jack Duluoz, a French-Canadian boy growing up in Kerouac’s own birthplace, the dingy factory town of Lowell, Massachusetts. There, Dr. Sax, with his flowing cape, slouched hat, and insinuating leer, is chief among the many ghosts and demons that populate Jack’s fantasy world. Deftly mingling memory and dream, Kerouac captures the accents and textures of his boyhood in Lowell in this novel of a cryptic, apocalyptic hipster phantom that he once described as “the greatest book I ever wrote, or that I will write.”
Jack Kerouac, the father of the Beat Generation, was born in Lowell, Massachusetts, in 1922. He attended Columbia University, briefly, on a football scholarship, but an injury forced him to quit after his freshman season. After dropping out of university, Kerouac continued to live in New York City, where he would meet Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassady, and William S. Burroughs, the future stars of the Beat Generation. Kerouac’s first novel, The Town and the City, was published in 1950 and received good reviews but little attention; was the publication of his second novel, On the Road (1957), that would ultimately win him literary celebrity. He is the author of many books including On the Road, The Dharma Bums, The Subterraneans, Tristessa, Lonesome Traveler, Desolation Angels, Dr. Sax, and Mexico City Blues, as well as the co-author with William S. Burroughs of the previously unpublished novel And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks. Kerouac died of an internal hemorrhage on this day due to liver failure, in 1969.
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LearningTranscript
00:00The other night, I had a dream that I was sitting on the sidewalk on Moody Street, Pawtucketville,
00:17Lowell, Massachusetts, with a pencil and paper in my hand saying to myself, describe the
00:25wrinkly tower of this sidewalk, also the Iron Pickets of Textile Institute, or the doorway
00:31where Lousy and you and GJ's always sitting, and don't stop to think of words when you
00:37do stop.
00:39Just stop to think of the picture better, and let your mind off yourself in this work.
00:48Just before that, I was coming down the hill between Gershom Avenue and that spectral street
00:57where Billy Artaud used to live, towards Blazin's corner store, where on Sundays, the fellows
01:05stand in best suits after church-smoking spitting, Leo Martin saying to Sonny Albert or Joe Plouffe,
01:13he made a long sermon this time.
01:26And Joe Plouffe, prognathic, short, glidingly powerful, spits into the large pebble stones
01:34of Gershom, paved, and walks on home for breakfast with no comment.
01:40He lived with his sisters and brothers and mother because the old man had done them all
01:44out.
01:45Let my bones melt in this rain.
01:49To live a hermit existence in the darkness of his night, roomy, red-eyed, old, sick monster
01:58Scrooge of the block.
02:00Dr. Sachs, I first saw in his earlier liniments, in the early Catholic childhood of Centerville.
02:12Deaths, funerals, the shroud of that.
02:16The dark figure in the corner when you look at the dead man coffin.
02:21In the dollarous parlor of the open house with a horrible purple wreath on the door.
02:28Figures of coffin bearers emerging from a house on a rainy night, bearing a box with dead old
02:34Mr. Yipe inside.
02:36The statue of St. Therese, turning her head in an antique Catholic 20s film.
02:43With St. Therese dashing across town in a car with W.C.
02:49Fieldsy in close shaves by the young religious hero.
02:53While the doll, not St. Therese herself, but a lady hero symbolic thereof, heads for her
03:01saintliness with wide eyes of disbelief.
03:05We had a statue of St. Therese in my house, on West Street.
03:09I saw it turn its head at me, in the dark.
03:12Earlier, too, horrors of the Jesus Christ of passion plays in his shrouds.
03:18And vestments of saddest doom.
03:21Mankind in the cross weep for thieves and poverty.
03:26He was at the foot of my bed, pushing it one dark Saturday night on Hildreth and Lily's second floor flat, full of eternity outside.
03:35Either he or the Virgin Mary stooped with phosphorescent profile and horror, pushing my bed.
03:44That same night, an elf and more cheery ghost of some Santa Claus kind rushed up and slammed my door.
03:53There was no wind.
03:55My sister was taking a bath in the rosy bathroom of Saturday night home.
04:00And my mother scrubbing her back or tuning Wayne King on the old mahogany radio.
04:06Or glancing at the top Maggie and Jig's funnies just come in from wagon boys outside.
04:12Same who rushed among the downtown red bricks of my Chinese mystery.
04:17So I called out,
04:19Who slammed my door?
04:21Qui fermé ma patte?
04:24And they said,
04:26Nobody.
04:27Par son voyant donc.
04:30And I knew.
04:33I was haunted.
04:35But said nothing.
04:37Not long after that,
04:38I dreamed the horrible dream of the rattling red living room,
04:43newly painted a strange 1929 varnish red.
04:48And I saw it in the dream,
04:50all dancing and rattling like skeletons because my brother Gerard haunted them.
04:57And dreamed I woke up screaming by the phonograph machine in the adjoining room.
05:04With its master's voice curves in the brown wood memory.
05:10And dream are intermixed in this mad universe.
05:17Two.
05:18In the dream of the wrinkly tar corner,
05:21I saw it hauntingly.
05:23Riverside street.
05:25As it ran across Moody and into the fabulously rich darknesses of
05:30Sarah Avenue and Rosemont,
05:32the mysterious Rosemont community built in the floodable river flats.
05:38And also on gentle slopes uprising that to the foot of the sandbank.
05:43The cemetery meadows and haunted ghost fields of Luxie Smith hermits.
05:49And Mill Pond so mad.
05:53In the dream.
05:54I only fancied the first steps from that wrinkly tar.
05:58Right around the corner.
06:00Views of Moody street low.
06:02Arrowing to the city hall clock with time.
06:06And downtown red antennas and Chinese restaurant Kearney square neons.
06:12In the Massachusetts night.
06:15Then.
06:16A glance to the right.
06:18At Riverside street.
06:19Running off to hide itself in the rich respecta bourbon wild houses.
06:24Of fraternity presidents of textile.
06:27Oh.
06:28And old lady white hairs landladies.
06:31The street suddenly emerging from this Americana of lawns and screens.
06:38And Emily Dickinson hidden school teachers.
06:42Behind lace blinds into the raw drama of the river.
06:45Where the land.
06:47The New England rocky land of high bluffs.
06:52Dipped.
06:54To kiss the lip of Merrimack.
06:57In his rushing sores.
06:59Over tumult and rock to the sea.
07:02Fantastic.
07:04And mysterious.
07:06From the snow north.
07:09Goodbye.
07:10Walk to the left.
07:12Past the holy door where G.J. and Lousy and I hung.
07:16Sitting in the mystery.
07:18Which I now see.
07:20Hugens.
07:21Huger.
07:22Into something beyond my grook.
07:25Beyond my art and pale.
07:28Into the secret.
07:29Of what God has done with my time.
07:32Tenement standing on the wrinkly tar corner.
07:35Four stories high.
07:37With a court.
07:38Wash lines.
07:39Clothespins.
07:40Flies.
07:41Drumming in the sun.
07:42I dreamed.
07:43I lived in that tenement.
07:45Cheap rent.
07:46Good view.
07:47Rich furniture.
07:48My mother glad.
07:49My father off playing cards.
07:51Or maybe just dumbly sitting in a chair.
07:54Agreeing with us.
07:55The dream.
07:57And the last time I was in Massachusetts.
07:59I stood in the cold winter night.
08:02Watching the social club.
08:04And actually seeing Leo Martin.
08:06Breathing winter fogs.
08:08Cut in.
08:09For after supper game of pool.
08:12Like when I was small.
08:14And also noticing the corner tenement.
08:17Because the poor Canucks.
08:19My people of my God.
08:21Gave me life.
08:22Were burning dull electric lights.
08:27In a brown doom gloom.
08:29Of kitchen.
08:30With Catholic calendar.
08:32In the toilet door.
08:34Ah me.
08:36A sight full of sorrow.
08:38And labor.
08:40The scenes of my childhood.
08:42In the doorway.
08:43G.J.
08:44Gus.
08:45J. Rigopoulos.
08:47And I.
08:48Jack DeLuce.
08:51Local sandlot sensation.
08:54And big punk.
08:56And lousy Albert Lauzon.
08:59The human cave-in.
09:01He had a cave-in chest.
09:03The kid.
09:04Lousy.
09:05World's champion.
09:06Silent spitter.
09:07And also sometimes Paul.
09:09Baldu.
09:10Our pitcher and grim driver.
09:12Of later jalopy limousines.
09:14Of adolescent whim.
09:16Take note.
09:18Take note.
09:19Well of them.
09:20Take note.
09:21I'm saying to myself in the dream.
09:23When you pass the doorway.
09:25Look very close.
09:27At Gus Rogopoulos.
09:29Jack DeLuce.
09:31And lousy.
09:34I see them now.
09:36On Riverside Street.
09:38In the high waving dark.
09:413.
09:42There are hundreds of people strolling in the street.
09:46In the dream.
09:49It's Sanerday Sun night.
09:52They're all rushing to the close.
09:55All downtown.
09:56In real restaurants of reality.
09:59My mother and father.
10:00Like shadows on a menu card.
10:02Sitting by a shadow grill window.
10:05With 1920s drapes.
10:07Hanging heavy behind them.
10:09All an ad saying.
10:12Call again to dine and dance.
10:14At Ron Fu's 467 Market Street, Rochester.
10:18They're eating at Chen Li's.
10:20He's an old friend of the family's.
10:22He knew me.
10:23Gave us lychee nut for Christmas.
10:25One time, a great Ming pot.
10:28Placed on dark piano of parlor glooms.
10:31And angels in dust veils and doves.
10:34The catholicity of the swarming dust and my thoughts.
10:38It's long.
10:40Outside the decorated chink windows in Kearney Square teeming with life.
10:45By gosh.
10:46Says my father, patting his belly.
10:49That was a good meal.
10:52Step softly, ghost.
10:55Four.
10:56Follow the great rivers.
10:58On the maps of South America.
11:00Origin of Dr. Sachs.
11:02Trace your Putumayos to a Napo further Amazonian junction.
11:07Map the incredible uncrossable jungles.
11:11The southern paras of amaze.
11:14Stare at the huge grook of a continent bulging with an Arctic Antarctic.
11:20To me, the Merrimack River with a mighty Napo of continental importance.
11:26The continent of New England.
11:29She fed from some snake-like source with maws approach and wide.
11:35Welled from the hidden dank.
11:38Came named Merrimack.
11:41Into the winding weirs in Franklin Falls.
11:45The winnowless pesparkies of Nordic pine.
11:50An Albatrossian grandeur.
11:53The Manchester's, Concord's, Plum Islands of time.
11:57The thunderous husher of our sleep at night.
12:01I could hear it rise from the rocks.
12:04In a groaning whoosh.
12:06Ulilating with the water.
12:08Sprolsh.
12:09Sprolsh.
12:10Oom.
12:11Oom.
12:12Zzzzzz.
12:14All night long.
12:16The river says zzzzzz.
12:19The stars are fixed and the rooftops like ink.
12:23Merrimack.
12:24Dark name.
12:26Sported dark valleys.
12:27My Lowell had the great trees of antiquity.
12:31In the rocky north waving over lost arrowheads.
12:34And Indian scalps.
12:36The pebbles on the slate cliff beach are full of hidden beads.
12:40And were stepped on barefoot by Indians.
12:44Merrimack comes swooping from a north of eternities.
12:49Falls pissing over locks, cracks, and froths.
12:52On rocks, bloth, and rolls.
12:55Frowing to the camp.
12:57Calmed in dew-pile stone holes.
13:00Slady sharp.
13:01We dove off.
13:02Cut our feet.
13:04Summer afternoon stinky hookies.
13:07Rocks full of ugly old suckers not fit to eat.
13:11And crap from sewage and dyes.
13:13And you swallowed mouthfuls of the chokeful water.
13:17By moonlight night, I see the mighty Merrimack foaming in a thousand white horses.
13:24Upon the tragic plains below.
13:26Dream.
13:27Wooden sidewalk planks of moody street bridge fall out.
13:32I hover on beams.
13:34Over rages of white horses.
13:36In the roaring, low, moaning onward.
13:39Armies and calvaries of charging euplantis.
13:42Eu dronicus.
13:44King, greys, looped and curly like artist's work.
13:49And with clay-soules, no curly cue, rooster togas in the forefront.
13:55I had a terror of those waves.
13:58Those rocks.
14:005.
14:02Dr. Sacks lived in the woods.
14:05He was no city shroud.
14:07I see him stalking with the incredible Jean Fauchette,
14:11woodsman of the dump, idiot, giggler, toothless, broken brown.
14:16Searched.
14:17Sniggerer at fires.
14:19Loyal, beloved companion of long childhood walks.
14:23The tragedy of Lowell and the Sacks snake is in the woods.
14:27The world round.
14:29In the fall, there were great seer brown side fields, sloping down to the Merrimack, all rich
14:36with broken pines and browns.
14:39Fall.
14:40The whistle was just shrill to end the third quarter in the wintry November field, where
14:46crowds and me and father stood watching, scuffling uproars of semi-pro afternoons like in the
14:53days of old Indian Jim Thor.
14:56Boom.
14:57Touchdown.
14:58There were deer in the Billerica woods, maybe one or two in Dracut, three or four in Tingsboro,
15:07and a hunter's corner in the Lowell Sun sports page.
15:11Great, serried, cold pines of October morning, when schools restarted and the apples are in,
15:18stood naked in the northern gloom, waiting for denudement.
15:23In the winter, the Merrimack River flooded in its ice, except for a narrow strip in the
15:30middle, where ice was fragile with crystals of current.
15:34The whole swing-around basin of Rosemont and the Aiken Street Bridge was laid flat for winter
15:41skating parties that could be observed from the bridge with a snow telescope in the gales,
15:47and along the lake view side dump minor figures of Netherlander.
15:52Snowscapes are marooning in the whirly world of pale white snow.
15:57A blue saw cracks down across the ice.
16:00Hockey games devour the fire where the girls are huddled.
16:03Billy Arto, with clenched teeth, is smashing the opponent's hockey stick with a kick of spiked
16:10shoes in the fiendish glare of winter fighting days.
16:14I'm going backwards in a circle at forty miles an hour, trailing the puck till I lose it on a bounce.
16:21And the other Arto brothers are rushing up, pell-mell, in a clatter of did-clappers to roar into the fray.
16:28This, the same raw river, poor river, March melts, brings Dr. Sacks and the rainy nights of the castle.
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