"Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen"

The following is the poem, "America," by Allen Ginsberg accompanied by a video montage that I enjoyed. It is one of my favorite poems of all time.

"...they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835..."

Just wonderful.

San Francisco Pt. 2

This second installment of Northern California, going along in an intentionally non-chronological order, concerns our last full day in that beautiful and sunny city, because I want to. We were left to our own devices that day (these devices, in this case, being our own feet and wavering senses of direction) and Jill parted with us in the Fisherman's Wharf area (which according to this website is the suckiest part of Frisco, and I agree). Before our paths diverged, we went to the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero, which features an enormous clock tower front and center and sits right at the edge of the water. This former ferry terminal now is host to shops and restaurants inside, which center around local and sustainable fare, and a three-day-a-week farmer's market just in front. As some of the pictures will attest, there were shops dedicated to meat and lard, "Tasty Salted Pig Parts," fresh baked breads, gelato, fresh mushrooms and mushroom growing kits, as well as newspapers and assorted tourist detritus.

We were given a simple explanation of the SF Muni train system, by which we were to travel back for dinner, and then the aforementioned devices of ours took over. We traveled around in the Fisherman's Wharf area for a bit, passing the entryway for the Alcatraz tour and stopping in at a sourdough bakery called Boudin (they made their breads into various shapes and sizes such as a larger boule and an alligator) where we got a large sourdough wheat to bring home and a small one to eat as we walked. Sourdough has a special stake in San Francisco for nowhere else is there the same bacteria floating around in the fog-laden air. Lactobacillus sanfranciscensis is key to the sourdough starters there and it supposedly imbues these breads with a sourness not found outside the city. We chewed on the bread and honestly were not impressed. No extra sourness that I could detect. Maybe there is a secret place we didn't go.

Chewing mindlessly and wandering about the Wharf area, we began to feel like everything around us was merely high-priced San Francisco advertisements -- shirts with Golden Gates hanging from awnings, chain restaurants, street performers whose allure only works on tourists -- and we quickly made flight towards Coit Tower, a defining landmark which would bring us into North Beach and closer to City Lights Bookstore. We didn't go to Coit Tower since we went last visit, but found our way out of the tourist trap nicely. Before reaching City Lights Bookstore (the place of Beat legend and publisher of many a Ginsberg poem) we stumbled upon two churches of classical enormity and style. The first was the church wherein Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio were married called Saints Peter and Paul Church. The other church was less about the church and more about the section attached to its hip. Inside there was the city's as well as the national Shrine of Francis of Assisi, which was a 75% reproduction of the Basilica of San Francesco d'Assisi. The man inside who showed us around and explained the history (as well as the papal decree which would absolve all who entered that they never see Hell i.e. us) we found out was a Knight of St. Francis as outed by a young and overly zealous Catholic boy who knew all the ins and outs of the transportation of religious iconic statuary. 


Now that we would never see Hell, we walked a little lighter on our toes. It took some time to locate it, but we finally found City Lights. We searched the shelves lazily but were really hoping for used books which they didn't have. Quickly soaking up the history of the place, including the basement section where I could feel the quiet energy of jazz poetry spoken live 50 years prior bouncing off the walls, many people clapping with their fingers. We left and didn't get far. Next door was a bar. It was called Vesuvio and it felt good to know that Beat legends such as Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady spent nights writing and drinking there. I got Merlot. Anne got beer. It was around 3 o' clock and the sun poured in on us where we sat upstairs. Regulars lined the bar and spoke about things we didn't understand in grizzled happy voices. It was fun.


After this, a little buzzed, wine-toothed and sun-touched, we walked to the train and went back for some amazing soup Jill created, which we accompanied with bread from the bakery around the corner and some Portuguese beer that was $5.99 a six pack at the wine shop. Our night finished at a bar with some strangers where our team got second place on Trivia Night. 

 

Beauty.

More after the jump ~

A Supermarket in California

A Supermarket in California

Allen Ginsberg

   What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, 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 to the neon fruit 

supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

   What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families 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?

Berkeley, 1955                                                                                                 1956

The last line refers to forgetfulness. In Greek mythology, Lethe was one of the rivers of Hades. Charon was the boatman who ferried the dead to the underworld. 

 

 

HOWL

The following poem, Howl, was subject, in 1957, to obscenity trials on the basis of its contents, including illicit drug use and sexual references, both homo- and heterosexual. These claims were brought to an end on October 3rd, 1957 with Judge Clayton W. Horn's ruling that it was not, in fact, obscene but actually had "redeeming social importance," as verified by the testimonies of nine literary experts. The poem gained extreme popularity and helped spawn an era in which people became less afraid of their natural bodies and more worried about their own encroaching egos. It didn't take long, though, for people to once again couch themselves comfortably inside their egos again and rally against the blasphemy of their own tainted nakedness. Anyway, the poem is long, and as I said, it contains words and ideas that some have considered "obscene." Close your eyes and enjoy hearing it straight from the poet's mouth.

HOWL by Allen Ginsberg