Big Sur Page #3

But I can't believe

old Zen master Albert

is going to allow

his body to die.

He's in a bathrobe and looks up

at us almost displeased.

He sighs, and the expression

on his face says,

"Well, ah, so you've come

to see me because I'm sick,

but what do you

really want?"

Hey.

You're gonna be

all right, Albert.

I don't know.

I guess all that dharma talk

about everything is nothing

is sinking in my bones.

He really

means, "I don't care. "

And always warm

and courteous with me,

he now hardly pays much

of ragged beatniks.

Do you remember those

dancing girls in St. Louis?

Whore candy.

How about the nurses here, huh?

They hot?

There's one.

But Albert

doesn't care anymore,

and, anyway,

it's time to leave.

The other kids are

all back at the car

wondering what's keeping me.

What's keeping me is that I know

Albert will get better

and live

and teach the joyful truth,

and Albert knows I know this.

That's why he's playing

the game with me,

the magic game of glad freedom,

which is that Zen or, for that

matter, the Japanese soul

ultimately means I say.

And someday I will go

to Japan with Albert,

I tell myself,

because I've heard

the supper bell, right?

And knowing Albert's

fantastic appetite,

I don't want to hang him up.

Though he nevertheless

does one last trick.

Yeah?

I lost that tire job.

Because we were there?

Nah, nah, nah.

He's got to lay off some men.

Everything's all f***ed

up down here, Jack.

So, uh...

loan me $100, will you?

I'll be right down

and give you $100.

Really?

Ah, listen. Listen.

You can just loan it to

me, but if you insist.

How you gonna get down here and

give me that money then, huh?

I'll have Lew drive me down.

Really?

Yeah, you'll do that?

Ah, listen,

I'll pay the rent

with it right away.

It's Friday, right?

Or what day is it, Thursday?

Yeah, it's Thursday,

so I don't need to be looking

for a new job till Monday,

so you and me, we can hang out

and talk like we used to do,

and I will

demolish you at chess.

Maybe even go see

a baseball game,

maybe go sneaking

into town and see my...

see my pretty little baby.

What do you say?

All right, I'll see you soon.

I ask Lew, and,

yes, he's ready,

and, yes, he's ready

to go any time.

He's just following me,

like I often

follow people myself,

and so off we go again.

The idea suddenly comes to me

for Lew and me and Neal

to go to the cabin and spend

a big, quiet, crazy weekend,

but when Ferlinghetti

hears this, he'll come, too.

In fact, he'll bring his little

Chinese buddy, Victor Wong,

and we'll catch Michael McClure

at Santa Cruz

and go visit Henry Miller,

and suddenly another big,

huge ball has begun.

I'll just spend a couple

days with Jack and the gang

and look for a new job Monday.

Bye.

There you go.

Have fun.

Whoo!

Get out.

Well...

The air's so good.

Here we go.

Thank you.

Not that I'm talking about

us or anybody in particular.

I wouldn't even dare that.

Must be awful at night.

Reminds me of

the old Colorado, by God.

It's like they say. It's like

a cathedral of redwoods.

This is the kind of place where you

should really be alone, you know.

There's such a sad

sweetness to these trees,

as though yelling

would insult them.

Whoo!

Whoo!

Hey, over here, Lawrence!

McClure is

the handsome young poet

who's just written

the most fantastic poem

in America called "Dark Brown,"

which is every detail

of his and his wife's body

described in ecstatic union

and communion

and inside out

and every which way,

and not only that,

he insists on reading it to us.

But I want to read

my sea poem, too.

"Let me be a torch to myself.

"Oh, heart-sick, burn

strive past the drift-ease

"to the depth within, making a

film of the gene over the surface.

Say meat hand the hand black in the

deed as this damned pleasure!"

Whoo!

You are beautiful!

Too many people

now want to talk to us

and tell us their stories.

We've been hemmed in and

surrounded and outnumbered.

The circles closed in on

the old heroes of the night.

That's what he

told me last week.

Uh-oh.

Oh, what was it?

Oh, yes.

I've gotten

the idea in my head

I'm the leader

of a guerilla warfare unit,

and I'm marching ahead, the

lieutenant giving orders.

With all our flashlights

and yells,

we come swarming

down the narrow path,

going hup, one, two, three,

and challenging the enemy

to come out of hiding.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!

Hey, Jack! Jack.

Whoo! You got

to see this, man.

The night ending

with everybody passing out

exhausted on cots,

in sleeping bags.

Outside, McClure goes home

with wife.

Victor and I

by late fire keep up,

yelling spontaneous

questions and answers

right till dawn like.

Circles momentarily complete

the balance of forces

lying together

into love that never

have slipped out.

I kiss your shoulder,

and it reeks of lust.

Well, Jack, I didn't get a

chance to talk to you yesterday

or last year or even 10 years

ago when I first met you.

You know, I can remember

being so terrified

when I first met you and Neal.

You looked like a couple of

bank robbers or car thieves.

You know, all this sneery stuff

they've written against us,

against San Francisco,

against Beat poetry writers,

that's because none of us

really look like that.

We don't look like writers or

intellectuals or anything.

I... I must say that

you and Neal, well,

you look pretty awful in a way.

I... I must say that,

you know, well,

let's just say

you've seen better days.

Man, you ought to go to Hollywood

and play Billy the Kid.

What I'd rather do is go to

Hollywood and play Rimbaud.

Well, you can't

play Jean Harlow.

You know what I really want?

I want to get "Dark Brown"

published in Paris.

So, if ever possible...

I don't know...

a word from you

to Gallimard or Girodias,

it... it would help.

I don't know.

You know, when I first read your

book of poems, "Mexico City Blues,"

I turned around, and I started

writing completely differently.

Everything changed, man.

That book...

it enlightened me.

That's nothing like

what you do.

In fact, it's miles away.

I'm a language spinner,

and you're an idea man.

I used to do this in a work

gang in southern Arizona.

Who's got the chops?

Lawrence, show 'em

how it's done!

No tree was left alive.

I realized you can

always study the character of a man

by the way he chops wood.

Ferlinghetti took neat,

little, short-handled chops.

Oh, whoa.

Whereas old Whalen

slogged away,

I guess, the way he

learned in Oregon,

getting his job done

silently, not a word.

Little Victor thereupon

tried his luck,

but gave up after five strokes.

The ax was likely

to carry him away anyway.

I'm really happy for the

first time in three years.

Then Lew Welch demonstrated

with big, easy strokes,

and in no time, we had

five huge logs to use.

Neal's fantastic,

fiery character showed

in the way he went at that

log with horrible force.

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