Wednesday, 31 July 2013

Andrea Gibson Feminist Poet & Activist

Andrea Gibson
Andrea Gibson is a  feminist poet, her verse is at once personal,
 political, feminist and universal..


Stay
There are snowflakes on my tongue
I want to melt on your inner thigh.
There's a face in the moon
I still call Jesus some nights.
My body is a temple where 
I've burned so many sciptures
I see smoke every time 
I look in the mirror.


Kiss me where the flames turned blue.
Tell me there are places on my skin
that look exactly like the sky
and your heart is a jet plane
heavy with the weight of businessmen and crying babies
but you're done running for the exit row.

'Cause god knows we have smoked the stars,
made wishes on falling ashes.
Something's gotta give,
it may as well be your fingers.
Touche me 'till my ribs become piano keys,
'till there is sheet music scrolled across the inside of my lungs
cause i"m breaking old patterns.
For anyone else I would rhyme and end this line with Saturn,
but you are not the type to wear rings,
and I'm not the type to want to celebrate forever
when Right Now is forever walking down the aisles unnoticed.

Hold me.
Sing me lullabies at dawn
when I've been up all night painting the wind
to remind myself that things are moving.

We were talking mountains and snowboards
when you said, "I'll teach you how to fall."

I said, 'I bet you will.'
But my bruises will be half-moons
hanging above corn fields
that grow only crop circles.
You are a mystery I promise I will never try to solve.
What science calls science I have always called miracle
and since we first met I have said "thank you" so many times
I have watched all of my broken pieces
curling into notes to plant themselves
in the soil of clarinets on the street corners
in the French Quarter
you can find music
in places where you cannot find air.

So when you say you are homesick for my skin
my body sends you postcards from all its darkest corners
and prays you will still see the sun
climbing my bones like octaves,
'cause baby, there were nights when my pulse did not win,
nights when my heartbeat stained the kitchen floor
bright red.

But you once told me
we are most alive in the split second before death,
so I call 'ugly' a four letter word
and tell you I am tired of hearing myself swear.

Beauty
is in the eye of the beholder.
You hold me so well
that I am almost convinced
that smoke in the mirror
might one day disappear.







The Flower Duet - Leo Delibes


The Flower Duet - Leo Delibes

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

Samuel Beckett - Waiting for Godot

 "If by Godot I had meant God I would have said God, and not Godot." 
Samuel Beckett 

Samuel Becket is quite funny, but often Beckett is more bitter- funny then just funny. He was one of the greatest human of the last century....
  K. S

Equal Marriage & True Democracy, Now, Everywhere!

 Equal Marriage & True Democracy, 

Now, Everywhere!


Fantastic & such a beautiful movie,

 but very sad story about Arthur Rimbaud 

and Paul Valere :)

Arthur Rimbaud-Total Eclipse



  Harvey Milk - Speech


Shattered -Milk

"I will not be silenced."








Monday, 29 July 2013

Samuel Beckett - The Lost Ones



 Samuel Beckett, Barney Rosset, Paris, 1986





The Lost Ones by Samuel Beckett  




 


  Samuel Beckett - Quadrat  



Saturday, 27 July 2013

Laurie Anderson


Well, you don't know me but I know you.. 
 I  very much appreciate Laurie Anderson's music and performance art! :)))))))))))
K. S 

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

'People of vietnam we are sorry'..The Sixties .. thanks god!

30 Renowned Writers Speaking About God


30 Renowned Writers Speaking About God

Ishi: The Last Yahi (1992)



"In 1492 when Columbus discovered America, there where more then 10 000 000 native people living in North America..".. 
P. s History is very bitter- funny... 
then like a Columbos, tomorrow I can discover China, like a new country and new land for me, or for somebody not for China people... ;D;D;D

Vladimir Nabokov - "Lolita"


Vladimir Nabokov

Vladimir Nabokov discusses "Lolita"


Lolita 


 



Vladimir Nabokov On Kafka - The Metamorphosis


Tuesday, 23 July 2013

Poets's Sarcastic Performance;"President's Inauguration"



 Poets's Sarcastic, Political Satire; "President's Inauguration" 
Performance Against the Authoritarian Presidential Elections and Political Violence.
General Roles;
Poets; Khatia Shiukashvili & Zurab Rtveliashvili
International observers; Matthew Bryza & Matthias Eorsh

Khatia Shiukashvili; On Project "Wake Up!"



Khatia Shiukashvili; On Project "Wake Up!"

Me, in 2007. Tbilisi/Georgia,
I was Democratic Party ( United States) & Barack Obama's supporter :))


In 2007 - 2008 I was almost only one Barack Obama's and American democracy party  supporter in Georgia and I was proud and I'm still proud about...

 ( Photo 1;  Me in Barack Obama's t-shirt and The members of youth democratic league.

(Photo 2;  Me, I had speech)






( Me , in 2010, in my home , In old Tbilisi/Georgia.)

NICO

   Nico - Singer and Songwriter


Nico (born Christa Päffgen; 16 October 1938 – 18 July 1988) 
She was a German singer-songwriter, lyricist, composer, musician, fashion model, and actress, who initially rose to fame as a Warhol Superstar in the 1960s. She is known for both her vocal collaboration on The Velvet Underground's debut album, The Velvet Underground & Nico (1967), and her work as a solo artist from the late 1960s through the early 1980s. She also had roles in several films, including a cameo in Federico Fellini's La Dolce Vita (1960) and Andy Warhol's Chelsea Girls (1966), 




In 1965 Nico met Rolling Stones guitarist Brian Jones and recorded her first single, "I'm Not Sayin'" with the b-side "The Last Mile", produced by Jimmy Page for Andrew Loog Oldham's Immediate label. Actor Ben Carruthers introduced her to Bob Dylan in Paris that summer. Dylan played the song "I'll Keep It with Mine" for her shortly thereafter, which she recorded for her first album, Chelsea Girl, in 1967.


After being introduced by Brian Jones, she began working in New York with Andy Warhol and Paul Morrissey on their experimental films, including Chelsea Girls, The Closet, Sunset and Imitation of Christ.
When Warhol began managing The Velvet Underground he proposed that the group take on Nico as a "chanteuse". They consented reluctantly, for both personal and musical reasons. The group became the centerpiece of Warhol's Exploding Plastic Inevitable, a multimedia performance featuring music, light, film and dance. Nico sang lead vocals on three songs ("Femme Fatale", "All Tomorrow's Parties", "I'll Be Your Mirror") and backing vocal on "Sunday Morning", on the band's debut album, The Velvet Underground & Nico (1967). The album went on to become timeless in legend. It scored #13 on Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, though it was poorly received at the time of its release.


In 1967 Jackson Browne and Nico were romantically linked and he became a significant contributor to her debut album, Chelsea Girl, writing and playing guitar on several of the songs (including "These Days").

Nico passed away in July 1988,( age 49) as a result of injuries sustained in a cycling accident while vacationing in Ibiza with her son...




"Nico loved nobody - and nobody loved Nico."???

(I don't believe it!:( I loved you and still love Nico..  .  Nico is(was) a  very original, unique artist that I love very much. This song is written by Jackson Browne and it is included in her debut solo album "Chelsea Girl" released in October 1967 by Verve Record. the name of the album is a reference to Andy Warhol's 1966 film "Chelsea Girls", which Nico starred in. Many of the songs on the album have instrumental work from The Velvet Underground, whom Nico had previously collaborated with the year before on The Velvet Underground .... 

And This is Andy Warhols Nico Chelsea Girls Video , enjoy...




I will be your mirror

Monday, 22 July 2013

Rumi and the Play of Poetry



Rumi and the Play of Poetry

'Noted translator and poet Coleman Barks, a Distinguished Visiting Fellow in the UCSB College of Creative Studies, presents the poetry of 13th century Afghan-born Sufi mystic and poet, Jelaluddin Rumi. Bark's intense and artful translations convey Rumi's insights into the human heart and its longing for passion and daring. Barks performs the words of Rumi, accompanied by musicians Barry and Shelly Phillips. 

'

THE LOVER IS EVER DRUNK WITH LOVE (BY RUMI)
He is free, he is mad,
He dances with ecstasy and delight.
Caught by our own thoughts,
We worry about every little thing,
But once we get drunk on that love,
Whatever will be, will be.
Rumi

P.P.P - FILMMAKER & POET




VICTORY
by Pier Paolo Pasolini

Where are the weapons?
I have only those of my reason
and in my violence there is no place

for even the trace of an act that is not
intellectual. Is it laughable
if, suggested by my dream on this

gray morning, which the dead can see
and other dead too will see but for us
is just another morning,

I scream words of struggle?
Who knows what will become of me
at noon, but the old poet is “ab joy”

who speaks like a lark or a starling or
a young man longing to die.
Where are the weapons? The old days

will not return, I know; the red
Aprils of youth are gone.
Only a dream, of joy, can open

a season of armed pain.
I who was an unarmed Partisan,
mystical, beardless, nameless,

now I sense in life the horribly
perfumed seed of the Resistance.
In the morning the leaves are still

as they once were on the Tagliamento
and Livenza—it is not a storm coming
or the night falling. It is the absence

of life, contemplating itself,
distanced from itself, intent on
understanding those terrible yet serene

forces that still fill it—aroma of April!
an armed youth for each blade of grass,
each a volunteer longing to die.
. . . . . . . . .
Good. I wake up and—for the first time
in my life—I want to take up arms.
Absurd to say it in poetry

—and to four friends from Rome, two from Parma
who will understand me in this nostalgia
ideally translated from the German, in this archeological

calm, which contemplates a sunny, depopulated
Italy, home of barbaric Partisans who descend
the Alps and Apennines, down the ancient roads...

My fury comes only at the dawn.
At noon I will be with my countrymen
at work, at meals, at reality, which raises

the flag, white today, of General Destinies.
And you, communists, my comrades/noncomrades,
shadows of comrades, estranged first cousins

lost in the present as well as the distant,
unimagined days of the future, you, nameless
fathers who have heard calls that

I thought were like mine, which
burn now like fires abandoned
on cold plains, along sleeping

rivers, on bomb-quarried mountains. . . .
. . . . . . . . .
I take upon myself all the blame (my old
vocation, unconfessed, easy work)
for our desperate weakness,

because of which millions of us,
all with a life in common, could not
persist to the end. It is over,

let us sing along, tralala: They are falling,
fewer and fewer, the last leaves of
the War and the martyred victory,

destroyed little by little by what
would become reality,
not only dear Reaction but also the birth of

beautiful social-democracy, tralala.

I take (with pleasure) on myself the guilt
for having left everything as it was:
for the defeat, for the distrust, for the dirty

hopes of the Bitter Years, tralla.
And I will take upon myself the tormenting
pain of the darkest nostalgia,

which summons up regretted things
with such truth as to almost
resurrect them or reconstruct the shattered

conditions that made them necessary (trallallallalla). . . .
. . . . . . . . .
Where have the weapons gone, peaceful
productive Italy, you who have no importance in the world?
In this servile tranquility, which justifies

yesterday’s boom, today’s bust—from the sublime
to the ridiculous—and in the most perfect solitude,
j’accuse! Not, calm down, the Government or the Latifundia

or the Monopolies—but rather their high priests,
Italy’s intellectuals, all of them,
even those who rightly call themselves

my good friends. These must have been the worst
years of their lives: for having accepted
a reality that did not exist. The result

of this conniving, of this embezzling of ideals,
is that the real reality now has no poets.
(I? I am desiccated, obsolete.)

Now that Togliatti has exited amid
the echoes from the last bloody strikes,
old, in the company of the prophets,

who, alas, were right—I dream of weapons
hidden in the mud, the elegiac mud
where children play and old fathers toil—

while from the gravestones melancholy falls,
the lists of names crack,
the doors of the tombs explode,

and the young corpses in the overcoats
they wore in those years, the loose-fitting
trousers, the military cap on their Partisan’s

hair, descend, along the walls
where the markets stand, down the paths
that join the town’s vegetable gardens

to the hillsides. They descend from their graves, young men
whose eyes hold something other than love:
a secret madness, of men who fight

as though called by a destiny different from their own.
With that secret that is no longer a secret,
they descend, silent, in the dawning sun,

and, though so close to death, theirs is the happy tread
of those who will journey far in the world.
But they are the inhabitants of the mountains, of the wild

shores of the Po, of the remotest places
on the coldest plains. What are they doing here?
They have come back, and no one can stop them. They do not hide

their weapons, which they hold without grief or joy,
and no one looks at them, as though blinded by shame
at that obscene flashing of guns, at that tread of vultures

which descend to their obscure duty in the sunlight.
. . . . . . . . .

Who has the courage to tell them
that the ideal secretly burning in their eyes
is finished, belongs to another time, that the children

of their brothers have not fought for years,
and that a cruelly new history has produced
other ideals, quietly corrupting them?. . .

Rough like poor barbarians, they will touch
the new things that in these two decades human
cruelty has procured, things incapable of moving

those who seek justice. . . .

But let us celebrate, let us open the bottles
of the good wine of the Cooperative. . . .
To always new victories, and new Bastilles!

Rafosco, Bacò. . . .  Long life!
To your health, old friend! Strength, comrade!
And best wishes to the beautiful party!

From beyond the vineyards, from beyond the farm ponds
comes the sun: from the empty graves,
from the white gravestones, from that distant time.

But now that they are here, violent, absurd,
with the strange voices of emigrants,
hanged from lampposts, strangled by garrotes,

who will lead them in the new struggle?
Togliatti himself is finally old,
as he wanted to be all his life,

and he holds alarmed in his breast,
like a pope, all the love we have for him,
though stunted by epic affection,

loyalty that accepts even the most inhuman
fruit of a scorched lucidity, tenacious as a scabie.
“All politics is Realpolitik,” warring

soul, with your delicate anger!
You do not recognize a soul other than this one
which has all the prose of the clever man,

of the revolutionary devoted to the honest
common man (even the complicity
with the assassins of the Bitter Years grafted

onto protector classicism, which makes
the communist respectable): you do not recognize the heart
that becomes slave to its enemy, and goes

where the enemy goes, led by a history
that is the history of both, and makes them, deep down,
perversely, brothers; you do not recognize the fears

of a consciousness that, by struggling with the world,
shares the rules of the struggle over the centuries,
as through a pessimism into which hopes

drown to become more virile. Joyous
with a joy that knows no hidden agenda,
this army—blind in the blind

sunlight—of dead young men comes
and waits. If their father, their leader, absorbed
in a mysterious debate with Power and bound

by its dialectics, which history renews ceaselessly—
if he abandons them,
in the white mountains, on the serene plains,

little by little in the barbaric breasts
of the sons, hate becomes love of hate,
burning only in them, the few, the chosen.

Ah, Desperation that knows no laws!
Ah, Anarchy, free love
of Holiness, with your valiant songs!
. . . . . . . . .
I take also upon myself the guilt for trying
betraying, for struggling surrendering,
for accepting the good as the lesser evil,

symmetrical antinomies that I hold
in my fist like old habits. . . .
All the problems of man, with their awful statements

of ambiguity (the knot of solitudes
of the ego that feels itself dying
and does not want to come before God naked):

all this I take upon myself, so that I can understand,
from the inside, the fruit of this ambiguity:
a beloved man, in this uncalculated

April, from whom a thousand youths
fallen from the world beyond await, trusting, a sign
that has the force of a faith without pity,

to consecrate their humble rage.
Pining away within Nenni is the uncertainty
with which he re-entered the game, and the skillful

coherence, the accepted greatness,
with which he renounced epic affection,
though his soul could claim title

to it: and, exiting a Brechtian stage
into the shadows of the backstage,
where he learns new words for reality, the uncertain

hero breaks at great cost to himself the chain
that bound him, like an old idol, to the people,
giving a new grief to his old age.

The young Cervis, my brother Guido,
the young men of Reggio killed in 1960,
with their chaste and strong and faithful

eyes, source of the holy light,
look to him, and await his old words.
But, a hero by now divided, he lacks

by now a voice that touches the heart:
he appeals to the reason that is not reason,
to the sad sister of reason, which wants

to understand the reality within reality, with a passion
that refuses any extremism, any temerity.
What to say to them? That reality has a new tension,

which is what it is, and by now one has
no other course than to accept it. . . .
That the revolution becomes a desert

if it is always without victory. . . that it may not be
too late for those who want to win, but not with the violence
of the old, desperate weapons. . . .

That one must sacrifice coherence
to the incoherence of life, attempt a creator
dialogue, even if that goes against our conscience.

That the reality of even this small, stingy
State is greater than us, is always an awesome thing:
and one must be part of it, however bitter that is. . . .

But how do you expect them to be reasonable,
this band of anxious men who left—as
the songs say—home, bride,

life itself, specifically in the name of Reason?
. . . . . . . . .
But there may be a part of Nenni’s soul that wants
to say to these comrades—come from the world beyond,
in military clothes, with holes in the soles

of their bourgeois shoes, and their youth
innocently thirsting for blood—
to shout: “Where are the weapons? Come on, let’s

go, get them, in the haystacks, in the earth,
don’t you see that nothing has changed?
Those who were weeping still weep.

Those of you who have pure and innocent hearts,
go and speak in the middle of the slums,
in the housing projects of the poor,

who behind their walls and their alleys
hide the shameful plague, the passivity of those
who know they are cut off from the days of the future.

Those of you who have a heart
devoted to accursèd lucidity,
go into the factories and schools

to remind the people that nothing in these years has
changed the quality of knowing, eternal pretext,
sweet and useless form of Power, never of truth.

Those of you who obey an honest
old imperative of religion
go among the children who grow

with hearts empty of real passion,
to remind them that the new evil
is still and always the division of the world. Finally,

those of you to whom a sad accident of birth
in families without hope gave the thick shoulders, the curly
hair of the criminal, dark cheekbones, eyes without pity—

go, to start with, to the Crespis, to the Agnellis,
to the Vallettas, to the potentates of the companies
that brought Europe to the shores of the Po:

and for each of them comes the hour that has no
equal to what they have and what they hate.
Those who have stolen from the common good

precious capital and whom no law can
punish, well, then, go and tie them up with the rope
of massacres. At the end of the Piazzale Loreto

there are still, repainted, a few
gas pumps, red in the quiet
sunlight of the springtime that returns

with its destiny: It is time to make it again a burial ground!”
. . . . . . . . .
They are leaving . . .  Help! They are turning away,
their backs beneath the heroic coats
of beggars and deserters. . . . How serene are

the mountains they return to, so lightly
the submachine guns tap their hips, to the tread
of the sun setting on the intact

forms of life, which has become what it was before
to its very depths.  Help, they are going away!—back to their
silent worlds in Marzabotto or Via Tasso. . . .

With the broken head, our head, humble
treasure of the family, big head of the second-born,
my brother resumes his bloody sleep, alone

among the dried leaves, in the serene
retreats of a wood in the pre-Alps, lost in
the golden peace of an interminable Sunday. . . .
. . . . . . . . .
And yet, this is a day of victory.

1964
( Pier Paolo Pasolini  with Antonio Gramsci's grave, Rome, 1961.)


(P.P. Pasolini &  E. Pound)


( translated by Norman MacAfee with Luciano Martinengo)

All politics is Realpolitik," warring

soul, with your delicate anger!
You do not recognize a soul other than this one
which has all the prose of the clever man,

of the revolutionary devoted to the honest
common man (even the complicity
with the assassins of the Bitter Years grafted

onto protector classicism, which makes
the communist respectable): you do not recognize the heart
that becomes slave to its enemy, and goes

where the enemy goes, led by a history
that is the history of both, and makes them, deep down,
perversely, brothers; you do not recognize the fears

of a consciousness that, by struggling with the world,
shares the rules of the struggle over the centuries,
as through a pessimism into which hopes

drown to become more virile. Joyous
with a joy that knows no hidden agenda,
this army-blind in the blind

sunlight-of dead young men comes
and waits. If their father, their leader, absorbed
in a mysterious debate with Power and bound

by its dialectics, which history renews ceaselessly-
if he abandons them,
in the white mountains, on the serene plains,

little by little in the barbaric breasts
of the sons, hate becomes love of hate,
burning only in them, the few, the chosen.

Ah, Desperation that knows no laws!
Ah, Anarchy, free love
of Holiness, with your valiant songs!


(P.P. Pasolini  &  Maria Callas)



Sergei Rachmaninoff


Sergei Rachmaninoff

Sunday, 21 July 2013

Pierre de Ronsard - Sonnet To Helene

Pierre de Ronsard
(Prince of poets:)

 (1524-1585)
  (Photo; French poet Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585) and Cassandre Salviati, engraving for 1552 edition of "Amours")
 Sonnet To Helene
When you are truly old, beside the evening candle,
Sitting by the fire, winding wool and spinning,
Murmuring my verses, you’ll marvel then, in saying,
“Long ago, Ronsard sang to me, when I was beautiful.”

There’ll be no serving-girl of yours, who hears it all,
Even if, tired from toil, she’s already drowsing,
Fails to rouse at the sound of my name’s echoing,
And blesses your name, then, with praise immortal.

I’ll be under the earth, a boneless phantom,
At rest in the myrtle groves of the dark kingdom¹:
You’ll be an old woman hunched over the fire,

Regretting my love for you, your fierce disdain,
So live, believe me: don’t wait for another day,
Gather them now the roses of life, and desire.

Passenger Without A Ticket (Khatia Shiukashvili)


My Book's Lunch; 'Passenger Without A Ticket' , Then in 2004, i was quite young, I was afraid journalists & polices.. because they are similar in my own country...;D;D;D
  (Pic Khatia & Achiko, Batumi, 2008)

 (Unknow, Shota, Zaza,  Unknow, Alexa, Khatia, Vakho 2010)



Poetry Without Words, by Khatia Shiuka

Poetry Without Words  




Photo; "Khatia Shiuka - I'm A Real Poet"
By A. Wharton 
From 'ThePoetry Spoke' - UK


TS Eliot, Emanuel Litvinoff - Anti-Semitism


TS Eliot, Emanuel Litvinoff - anti-Semitism


                 The Waste Land, read by T.S Eliot 


Saturday, 20 July 2013

I'm A Real Poet


I'm A Real Poet 

I'm a real poet, and I'm not happy about that...

18 july, 2013

Photo; by British photographer A.Wharton

   DADA

Poem Without Words

 * * * * * * * * *
 * * * * * * * * *
 * * * * * * * * *
 * * * * * * * * *
       khatia  Shiuka








 
 "'The Poetry Spoke rocked last night! Guest Poet Päul Richie turned up the heat on an already sweltering audience with his 15 minute set of sensual poetry, the listeners were immersed into his world of sex, raw emotion, sense of place and explorations of character and identity. It was a unique and most entertaining poetic journey that I was honoured to be part of. The Open Mic poets delivered their usual diverse talented mix of comedy, tragedy and philosophy, most notably newcomer Khatia Shiuka with her powerful Dadaist performance and Jason with his dark philosophical piece. Can't wait for the next Poetry Spoke on Thursday August 1st, it's going to be a rocking one! " 'The Poetry Spoke' review, 19 July, 2013




K. Shiukashvili; 2007

Saturday, 13 July 2013

The Great Sex Letter

The Great Sex Letter

Neal Cassady & Jack Kerouac in 1952
On March 7th of 1947, a drunken Neal Cassady - the man on whom Dean Moriartyin On the Road would later be based - wrote the following letter to his friend, Jack Kerouac, and described two recent sexual encounters. Cassady's uninhibited, free-flowing prose was a huge influence on Kerouac's writing and this letter in particular caught his imagination. After passing it around his circle of friends and singing its praises, Kerouac later dubbed it, the "Great Sex Letter."

March 7, 1947

Dear Jack,

I am sitting in a bar on Market St. I'm drunk, well, not quite, but I soon will be. I am here for 2 reasons; I must wait 5 hours for the bus to Denver & lastly but, most importantly, I'm here (drinking) because, of course, because of a woman & what a woman! To be chronological about it:

I was sitting on the bus when it took on more passengers at Indianapolis, Indiana – a perfectly proportioned beautiful, intellectual, passionate, personification of Venus De Milo asked me if the seat beside me was taken!!! I gulped, (I'm drunk) gargled & stammered NO! (Paradox of expression, after all, how can one stammer No!!?) She sat – I sweated – She started to speak, I knew it would be generalities, so to tempt her I remained silent.

She (her name Patricia) got on the bus at 8 PM (Dark!) I didn't speak until 10 PM – in the intervening 2 hours I not only of course, determined to make her, but, how to DO IT.

I naturally can't quote the conversation verbally, however, I shall attempt to give you the gist of it from 10 PM to 2 AM.

Without the slightest preliminaries of objective remarks (what's your name? where are you going? etc.) I plunged into a completely knowing, completely subjective, personal & so to speak "penetrating her core" way of speech; to be shorter (since I'm getting unable to write) by 2 AM I had her swearing eternal love, complete subjectivity to me & immediate satisfaction. I, anticipating even more pleasure, wouldn't allow her to blow me on the bus, instead we played, as they say, with each other.

Knowing her supremely perfect being was completely mine (when I'm more coherent, I'll tell you her complete history & psychological reason for loving me) I could concieve of no obstacle to my satisfaction, well, "the best laid plans of mice & men go astray" and my nemesis was her sister, the bitch.

Pat had told me her reason for going to St. Louis was to see her sister; she had wired her to meet her at the depot. So, to get rid of the sister, we peeked around the depot when we arrived at St. Louis at 4 AM to see if she (her sister) was present. If not, Pat would claim her suitcase, change clothes in the rest room & she and I proceed to a hotel room for a night (years?) of perfect bliss. The sister was not in sight, so She (note the capital) claimed her bag & retired to the toilet to change - - - long dash - - -

This next paragraph must, of necessity, be written completely objectively - - -

Edith (her sister) & Patricia (my love) walked out of the pisshouse hand in hand (I shan't describe my emotions). It seems Edith (bah) arrived at the bus depot early & while waiting for Patricia, feeling sleepy, retired to the head to sleep on a sofa. That's why Pat & I didn't see her.

My desperate efforts to free Pat from Edith failed, even Pat's terror & slave-like feeling toward her rebelled enough to state she must see "someone" & would meet Edith later, all failed. Edith was wise; she saw what was happening between Pat & I.

Well, to summarize: Pat & I stood in the depot (in plain sight of the sister) & pushing up to one another, vowed to never love again & then I took the bus to Kansas City & Pat went home, meekly, with her dominating sister. Alas, alas - - -

In complete (try & share my feeling) dejection, I sat, as the bus progressed toward Kansas City. At Columbia, Mo. a young (19) completely passive (my meat) virgin got on & shared my seat ... In my dejection over losing Pat, the perfect, I decided to sit on the bus (behind the driver) in broad daylight & seduce her, from 10:30 AM to 2:30 PM I talked. When I was done, she (confused, her entire life upset, metaphysically amazed at me, passionate in her immaturity) called her folks in Kansas City, & went with me to a park (it was just getting dark) & I banged her; I screwed her as never before; all my pent up emotion finding release in this young virgin (& she was) who is, by the way, a school teacher! Imagine, she's had 2 years of Mo. St. Teacher's College & now teaches Jr. High School. (I'm beyond thinking straightly).

I'm going to stop writing. Oh, yes, to free myself for a moment from my emotions, you must read "Dead Souls" parts of it (in which Gogol shows his insight) are quite like you.

I'll elaborate further later (probably?) but at the moment I'm drunk and happy (after all, I'm free of Patricia already, due to the young virgin. I have no name for her. At the happy note of Les Young's "jumping at Mesners" (which I'm hearing) I close till later.

To my Brother
Carry On!
N.L. Cassady

P.S. I forgot to mention Patricia's parents live in Ozone Park & of course, Lague being her last name, she's French Canadian just as you.

I'll write soon,
Neal.

P.P.S. Please read this illegible letter as a continuous chain of undisciplined thought, thank you.

N.

P.P.P.S. Postponed, postponed, postponed script, keep working hard, finish your novel & find, thru knowledge, strength in solitude instead of despair. Incidentally I'm starting on a novel also, "believe it or not". Goodbye.