The Streets Of San Francisco Essay Research — страница 2

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what kinds of drugs do you prefer. Do you think it has influenced his writing? I said. We favor LSD, it totally fucks with your mind. It opens doors that our minds can t open by themselves, it puts you in a totally different state of mind. I wish I could stay there forever, she said, oh hell yes, I totally think his use of drugs have influenced his writing style. Who are some of his influences? I asked. Allen is totally into Walt Whitman the original Beatnik as he has been referred to many times, she said, I m sorry to cut this short, but I have to catch the bus. It s leaving like now, so I ll see you around, ok? ( Allen Ginsberg ). Yah, totally! I said. I walked out with door, saying my last good-byes. I started down the street for my apartment. Today has been a long ass day! I

thought to myself, while walking home. I reached my apartment around 4:30 p.m. Took a quick shower and was got some shuteye. I got up around 11:30 a.m. on Saturday, and got some cereal. Then headed for the streets, today I m going to get some new clothes for myself. I might as well take advantage of being in the 50 s and get me some new threads. I walked past a few stores, but didn t find much. Obsessed with finding the coolest clothes, I walked aimlessly down the streets, up and down and back and forth. Time seemed to fly by in my trance like search for new clothes. I soon looked at my watch and noticed it was too dark to see it, I turned on the light. My clock read 10:00 p.m., realizing I had to meet Allen Ginsberg at 11:00 p.m. at the Six Gallery. I started walking, going over

the questions I needed to ask him. I got to the Gallery at around 10:45. I walked in and ordered a cappuccino. I went to the front and got a seat in front of the stage, where Allen was going to read some poetry. At about 11:15ish Allen came out and sat in a chair, in the middle of the stage. Opened a book, and started reading a poem: What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam- ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!–and you, Garcia Lorca, what were

you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add

shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage- teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe? ( A Supermarket in California ). Read Allen. He read a few more poems, and we applauded. Then he came out into the audience, and took a seat. I walked up next to him, and shook his hand. I told him he did an excellent job. He smiled and said, thanks! I then asked him, if we could go somewhere private, so we could talk. We headed for a table in the corner of the Gallery. Once we got over

there, I started to ask him some questions. I was mostly interested, in what events in his life had influenced his work. Tell me about your past, I said. Well, I guess I ll start from the beginning. My dad, Louis Ginsberg was a published poet, a high school teacher and a moderate Jewish Socialist. His wife, my mother Naomi, was a radical Communist and irrepressible nudist who went tragically insane in early adulthood. Somewhere between the two in temperament was I, Irwin Allen. A shy and complicated child growing up in Paterson, New Jersey, my home life was dominated by my mother s mother’s bizarre and frightening episodes. A severe paranoid, she often trusted only me when she was convinced the rest of the family and the world were plotting against her. As the sensitive me