Also here are some thoughts on the Spontaneous Prose Method.
Among the writings he set down specifically about his Spontaneous Prose method, the most concise would be Belief and Technique for Modern Prose, a list of thirty "essentials."
- Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for your own joy
- Submissive to everything, open, listening
- Try never get drunk outside your own house
- Be in love with your life
- Something that you feel will find its own form
- Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
- Blow as deep as you want to blow
- Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
- The unspeakable visions of the individual
- No time for poetry but exactly what is
- Visionary tics shivering in the chest
- In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
- Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
- Like Proust be an old teahead of time
- Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
- The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
- Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
- Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
- Accept loss forever
- Believe in the holy contour of life
- Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
- Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
- Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
- No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
- Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
- Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
- In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
- Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
- You're a Genius all the time
- Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven
| "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh..." —from On the Road |
16 comments:
A western kinsman of the sun, Dean.
There went your wrangler.
Go after him into the red West.
He won't be waiting but you'll be expecting
something more than what you've got.
Sorry Sal, you can't win 'em all.
He's out of reach and keeps getting farther.
Better let 'em go, cowboy.
He's your portion under the sun,
but you ain't his apple pie.
He was turned into thing and idea-
a ghost and shadow of the west.
Sal thought he saw Dean
--really Sal saw his straight red dream.
He killed Dean.
He watered him down then built him back up with misshapen muddy clay from the Mississippi -made him into a bloated caricature– until all that was left of him-
was what Sal wanted to see.
The Lights won't go out.
The Stars that Shine, the Fire that Burns.
Everything is bright.
They move, but never have one direction.
Dean has led all of us into the unknown.
Is there a way out?
We connect the dots
and find that there is hope.
There is a path,
but no direction.
Will we find where it starts?
And most of all,
Will we live to see the end?
The West has papier-mache mountains
the East has the skyline of paper America
a red line connects them
and the river divides them-
all ideas, all dreams, and all realities.
When he left the skyline behind that morning he saw Denver, Frisco, and LA-
his promise lands.
But when that day is over he just wants his bed-
not a bus station, not a cot, not a tent, not a barn,
but his bed next to the half written manuscript.
When the golden town becomes a jungle,
when the rose reaches the sea,
and when the line becomes a desperate circle,
it's the only place to be.
Faces pass by and inside the eyes is apple pie,
They all hold promise,
That a new story would capture me,
like the wind does a ghost
and a oyster does a pearl
But the reality being that I was traveling a straight line
Until I was able to let go on a mountain top
And yell and scream to the east for holding me captive
While thanking the west for giving me opportunity.
I heard all kinds laughter and different kinds of sadness
All of these voices telling me to go for the dream
To follow Dean, I thought, would be best
But my journey proving me wrong,
I head back towards the east.
Home is waiting to embrace me
Only to let me dive back into my story of a journey
Good, actually very good, but keep going...explode the form and push the boundaries of what a poem can be--and move into the possibility of what a poem should be.
Don't be afraid to color outside of the lines--instead find a new line, create new lines, and let the form mold to your ideas and not the other way around.
I am working right now on my poem--a 1/2 page already and it is already ancient because the sun has just only now started to go down.
Lastly, I would love to hear your thoughts about class today. So, find a time for us to talk if you would like.
Keep the amazing verses coming...and if you need some inspiration here are a couple verses from one of my favorite artists:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kp7ekqTj9eo
The life of Dean Moriarty
Is what you think you are
Is what you wish you were
Is what you wish to find
When really, You’re Sal
Sal you go on this road trip
To find something that’s hard to find
All this hitchhiking, All this thinking
Just to find a life of another
Is it really worth it?
When in the end, all you realized was
Fifteen seconds of your life
Were not yours
Sal is in hot pursuit of Dean.
He has the big rank smell in his nostrils
Leaving him with that burning sensation
The sensation to succeed in his search,
His search for what Dean already has.
Sal’s running from the Paper America
And finding this New America.
Leaving him changed and giving him hope for success.
Sal wants this Natural Fit
This Natural Joy
And he seeks this happiness,
But he only sees Dean.
Dean Moriarty
A papier-mâché model,
Dripping, warm, clippings of newspaper
A fresh made thing, incomplete,
All painted red in the setting sun
He guzzles like a dying engine
Each bite a new experience
Each bite taking him a little
-Closer, farther, up-down-inside-out-
And he’s a boy, still,
Big-eyed hungry wet mouth thing,
All eating, all running, all going all the time
He revs the engine, drunk on life,
Can’t stop-
Sprints all the way from one shore to the other,
Picking up gears along the side of the road
And fitting each one
Into his crazy mind, so full that they spill out into his conversation,
Convoluting his sentences,
Messy and oil slick, they darken his throat behind his eager teeth
Like twitchy fingers on the keys of each new car in the parking lot,
Shaking as they jam it into the ignition
He licks his lips.
And he knows.
He knows someday.
Someday, he will become the machine.
a clarifying burst of magnesium flare from the cupped palms of your crucible, a distracted vision that stands amidst the forest of your hopes
as the sun rises, feet up to the ankles buried in the rich ground.
she would have stood there longer, but all these springs & pulleys, tedious machineries really, loping, tugging, straining, stretching, grinding, groaning, she can't stand the noise & uproots herself, limping on fragile white ankles that have never seen the sun more than they have been bent & flexed while learning how to walk.
the flame ignites across the red fuse (a cat's tongue) burning, burning. the ground, the road, becomes your hunger, chafing away at the bottom of your feet. it's the cat's sandpaper tongue that wears down the fuse & scrapes the sides of your stomach walls, all the while calling
let me out
because these words are not yours.
This is Rachel's. Not some religious freak, although I can pretend to be one if you truly want. And my email address means: Keep the faith forever, due to the red sox. Just to clear that all up.
Here goes nothing,
a search for discovery.
A walk on a semi meaningless path,
taking up a long time.
That is until you find what you're looking for.
There’s a red straight line
and apparently it’s guiding us,
on a journey through the country.
But is this the answer that
Sal has been searching for?
Was it written in red all along?
What is red?
Red is the color of the sunrise in the east
and another hue in the sunset of the west.
Where will this red line lead us?
Will it take us to Dean?
Will it allow us to follow the heart?
Will it bring us to the Mississippi bathed in it’s rank smell and all?
What is the answer?
Where is it taking us?
Why does the line have to be straight?
Isn’t it boring to take a path,
that others have embarked on?
We need to make our own footsteps.
Let’s create our own story.
On our way, we can allow other people’s stories
to help influence our own.
Dean has sex,
where is it leading him?
Sal has been traveling,
lost, loosing who he was for moments on end.
It’s a process of self discovery,
a different type of journey.
Forget the line.
What difference does it make?
Why do you want to follow Dean’s story?
He’s not you, you’ll never be him.
Write your own legacy.
Today is yours.
Tomorrow is the future.
The past is history.
Live for the present day.
East? West? North? South?
who decides where the lines intersect?
Are there lines?
Or is it just a notion that is stuck into our brain.
We are brainwashed into believing that there is divisions in our country, our world.
Ideas upon ideas, life styles on life styles.
Is there a difference?
Arn't we all Americans, bred under the same sky.
We were all just humans at birth, with all the same knowledge.
The knowledge that we were alive.
The journey, vast and magical
A certain importance floating around the air
Although at the same time a strong feeling of loss
Confusion almost, overwhelms me.
Who am i? Will I ever find my own story?
Is there any sense in continuing to try?
The paths lead me all around this great country,
Seeing things I wouldn’t have imagined,
Meeting people I’ve never encountered,
Hearing some of the greatest sounds of laughter I will ever hear.
Somehow I ended up back where I started.
The great city of New York has called me back,
Is my journey over?
Was that all there was to see?
This whole circle around America just to realize that my home is New York
Where it was this whole time.
Has anything changed?
Will the changes I set out for begin now that I’ve returned?
Dean’s life, so great, filled with suspense.
Can I reach the point of complete carelessness and let the roads take me wherever they choose?
For the moment I’m back.
For the moment I’m Sal.
After this I am unsure.
After this, I am going to be new.
'Stop the machine'??
Jesus Christ, how much more naïve could you get?
The machine took off without you years ago, while you were shuffling about at Columbia with your writing classes. Learning how to write would be a lot more useful for you if you could actually do it, but you can't write Jack squat because there is no story yet! Where's the story? You gotta have a story.
Call out to the machine, see if that helps. Scream at the top of your lungs until you've got nothing left in your lungs or your heart, and you just have to crawl back into bed so you can rest your voice. The machine is not going to slow down. It's not going to stop to let you on. You missed it. It came and went. Now, you have to go after it yourself.
Don't fret. The exercise is good for you, and it's a beautiful country. Maybe you can find your machine out there in Colorado or California or Texas or Nevada or New Jersey. Maybe you'll pick up a story to plop down onto that manuscript you've been keeping back home.
The machine does not wait for people. It didn't wait for Dean, it didn't wait for Ben, and it sure as hell won't wait for you.
A new journey, a new adventure, a new experience
That’s what I’m looking for
Inspiration, knowledge, freedom
I crave it, I need it
It’s my hope, my dream; the pearl
The jewel I’ve been searching for
A new experience, a new memory
One that I can hold in my palm forever
A journey is how I can capture it
Traveling is how I’ll grab a hold of its wing
And never let it flutter away
On the road is how I’ll find my adventure
It’s there in the west, I can sense it
A new journey, a new experience, a new life.
Thank you for your words, for your poems--they are amazing...they stand as a testament to the ideas JK is trying express through his 'holy' words.
Keep up the good work,
AK
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