I got a ringin in my head...

Before we start this off, two links that came up thanks to my dearest, loving sister-in-law:

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2010/10/12/beware-of-writer/

http://www.rebeccarosenblum.com/2010/10/07/why-date-a-writer/

Ah god.

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"Stumbled across an impression today, handprint melted deep into the concrete outside the Darlin Darlene down on 5th. Four small fingers and a thumb about an inch deep, stretched wide like the sunbeams spreading out from the east over the city.

Could hear the flicker of the neon lights proclaiming the closing of the bar as I stumbled past it, my eyes trailing behind me, not breaking focus. Pulled my Stetson down and flipped my collar up against the wind. Stuffed the brown end of a cigarette between my teeth and lit it up, the wind whipping the flame from my lighter around until the tip finally caught flame. Spitting smoke and phlegm I put my hands in the deep pockets of my coat and squeezed them around me. Buttons are too bothersome, and the weight of steel under my arm necessitated doing it the hard way.

Took a left on Woolridge, thought I might grab a coffee from the bakery down by Jimmy's, get the taste of whiskey off of my tongue for a little bit. About three blocks down I pulled up short to the curb, waiting for the red hand of the law to let me continue. That's when I heard the tinny sound of a muffler cascade down the street towards me, tires screeching as they really started to lean on it.

I opened my mouth and my cigarette tumbled down the front of my coat, getting swiped away as my hands left the pockets and reached deep inside the warmth to find the cold steel. Before the orange sedan could come to a stop I'd put three, four shots into the windshield, and another two into the front, passenger side tire.  Riding so low it didn't take kindly to the tread stripping away and the silver of the rim digging deep into the asphalt.

It cartwheeled halfway across the intersection before it finally stopped shiny side up. I'd slipped another magazine into the gun at this point, had the cigarette halfway to my mouth, and then two of the mangled doors finally creaked off their hinges with the help of some black, military style boots. They came out, swinging their peashooters up, and went down, swinging them all the way up to heaven. Two in the first, three in the second.

I spit out some more smoke, some more phlegm, and saw that the hand of the law was still red. I found that kinda ironic. I looked to my left, and saw a woman there, that same horrified look on her face as she clutched her kid to her. Tipped my hat and kept on walkin."

They look at me, stunned, clad in their blue uniforms and bold shields and no-nonsense haircuts. That cliche lightbulb swings over the metal slab of a table, as we sit here in this concrete room with one way mirrors.

"What?," I say, "there's my official statement. Now unless you're gonna be pressin charges, then I'd like to be on my way."

"Uh, well, discharging firearms within the city limits does carry a hefty fine, and-"

"Check with Roscoe, Inc. son, they've got my discharge permit on file."

They excuse themselves and head out, looking back at me while they shut the door. Yeup, hand of the law's still as red as can be. I lean back and kick my boots up on the table and light up while I wait. They'll be back soon.

There's a HUGE error in here...

An Unneeded Cry for Help

Preface: I would like to state that I am in no way personally criticizing the cultural and judicial significance that Howl has attained in either the Beat Movement or the obscenity trial that followed its publication which was quite obviously a precedent. I would rather take a look at Ginsberg’s intents for this poem, and perhaps his own criticism of the movement he helped set into motion.

   "Would there be any freedom of the press or speech if one must reduce his vocaublary to vapid innocuous euphemism?...an author should be real in treating his subject and be allowed to express his throught and ideas in his own words." - Judge Clayton W. Horn (Cohen)

            Ginsberg seems critical of the members of his generation right from the start, saying that he has seen the “best minds of [his] generation destroyed…” (Ginsberg, 1). As he progresses through the first section of the poem, he begins to list the catastrophic events that have led to the downfall of the people he considered to be so great. He addresses these in a somewhat categorized manner, as if making a detailed list of the follies that have befallen his peers. Throughout the poem we must repeat to ourselves the first line as the “who” that begins each thought is not merely a hanging idea, but a continuation. These are the “destroyed” minds. In most of the examples he lists of those who have been “destroyed”, we often see that the descriptions are disdainful; as if the events could have been avoided. In these sentences we can glimpse Ginsberg’s frustration with those brilliant, innovative minds.

            Drugs are a common and recurring category, easily picked out from the poem. The minds that were destroyed have been “dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix” (2) and continue on past those attempting to smuggle marijuana into New York (9). Ginsberg also describes the suffering that those destroyed have submitted to, namely foreign narcotics from China and Tangier (21), noting that they are sweating and suffering from migraines all because of an addiction.  This was arguably one of the aspects of those involved with the Beat movement, with figures like Timothy Leary, William Burroughs, and eventually Ginsberg himself among others being strong advocates for their use. To willingly suggest their use, and then remark on how they have led to the downfall of great men and women seems highly conflicted, but it is still an observation that is made and admitted by Ginsberg in Howl.  Shockingly enough, with this perspective of the poem as being a cavalcade of shame, we see that Ginsberg regards Neal Cassidy as having been destroyed as well from his own avoidable actions. “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed…who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit…” (64). It is noted in a timeline of events during Ginsberg’s life, that Neal Cassady was found dead in Mexico by train tracks after mixing a strong alcoholic drink with barbiturates (“Allen Ginsberg Project”). This death was ruled to be by exposure, which is an easy death to avoid sober. Line 45 echoes the never ending search for a “fix” of line 2. “Who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks / waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat / and opium.” In this we see a wounded person dragging themselves through the elements in search of narcotics, something to take their pain away, instead of taking care of the problem directly. We see time and time again in these lines and others the sacrifice of health for the hope of that “ancient heavenly connection” (3)

            The more carnal, earthly connection of sexuality is also addressed in the poem. Displaying not only sodomy and homosexuality, but also heterosexuality, pederasty, and general “whoring” (43) about, Ginsberg manages to touch on just about every orientation a person could have, including his own. The running theme for most of the sexual references seem to be a loss of control, the subjects often being so engrossed by the act that it is seemingly “endless” (11), thus losing themselves, and their purpose. To mirror this seduction and spiraling descent into sexual hedonism, Ginsberg himself lets it take over his writing and continue for almost an entire page completely filled with sex. Starting in line 36 we alerted to the destruction of those “who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy” and ending with the sexual escapades of Neal Cassady ending in “secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys / too” (43). These long, seven lines are some of the longest, drawn out thoughts of the poem, and are not interrupted by a different category of problems, such as drug abuse, suicide, or madness. It would not be a stretch to consider that Ginsberg meant these passages to mirror the continual acts described within. Again, these are all started with the ever ominous “who”, those who have been “destroyed”. Even outside these 7 lines, we see where certain sexual orientations reap nothing but problems. In line 34, he writes that there have been those who have been “committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty” which seems almost sarcastic. How dare the police have the audacity to arrest a person for their sexual tastes? he asks. Yet if he were asking it in such a way, his own sexual orientation would be challenged. Since he quite obviously supports homosexuality, does that mean that in this case he is accepting of pedophilia? If so, then one would have to assume that his view on any subject addressed in Howl is fatally skewed. However he does not attack any one category of problems directly. Instead of attacking an orientation, he notes that those destroyed by sexual acts are those who are indiscriminate with them:

“Who sweetened the snatches of a million girls…” (42)

“Who balled in the morning in the evenings…” (38),

“Who went out whoring through Colorado…” (43),

“With dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls” (11),

In each of these lines there is seen a never ending cavalcade of earthly delights. They can all be preceded by the ever present preface of “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed…”

            And we see a continuing trend through each category of downfalls. It is a trend of catastrophe willingly suffered by the individual. The descriptions those who have turned mad often seem to accuse the individuals of bring it all upon themselves. For example those “who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism…” who continue on to go to the insane asylums and demand “instantaneous lobotomy” (66). The act of potato salad being thrown by educated people is absurd, and at a lecture on Dadaism, which the footnote in our texts describes as the “artistic cult of absurdity” (p. 1420, Norton), seems to be taken as a juvenile act proving just their devotion to such a cult, no matter their intellectual potential. This is brought across as more of a ‘look at me, look how crazy I can be’ type situation instead of the true madness that Ginsberg had experienced in dealing with his own mother. Ginsberg goes on to describe the madness that has taken its toll on his generation, citing the paranoia of some who “[pass] out incomprehensible leaflets” (30). Here Ginsberg has taken a step back from his own involvement with government conspiracies and dealings, and recognizes the absurdity that the followers of the Beat Movement gladly put on display. We see this self-destruction again and again throughout the poem, from those burning themselves with cigarettes, those dying in volcanoes, to the many accounts of suicide and self-mutilation. Above all else, we see a genuine criticism of those so entrenched in the Beat Movement in line 48; “Who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions / and bad music.” Ginsberg presents us with a million false tears for a beauty the cart pusher pretends to see, his or her emotions (or lack thereof) masked by the use of onions, and their questionable tastes in what is beautiful.

            And even past the evidence in section I of the poem, in section II where Ginsberg speaks out against the ever oppressive Moloch, he includes this last whimper of rebellion: “Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!” (91). Perhaps Ginsberg’s own resolve in the face of those who took the movement to a ‘hip’ level wavered, even if only slightly.

Works Cited

"Allen Ginsberg Project - Lifeline." Allen Ginsberg Project. Allen Ginsberg Project, 2010. Web.

2 Nov 2010. .

Cohen, Patricia. "'Howl' in an Era That Fears Indecency." New York Times. The New York

Times Company, 06/10/2007. Web. 2 Nov 2010.

.

Ginsberg, Allen. "Howl." The Norton Anthology of American Literature. 'Ed'. Nina Baym. New

York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2008. Print. 1416-1424