KEROUAC UPPPER PENINSULA DIARY
(an excerpt)
st. ignace
"waiting for the ferry"
FINIS
dear neal,
writing this from my mackinaw bayview hotel room in st. ignace, sipping on second bottle of cheap green river rot-gut whiskey trying to keep my hands steady, keep the jack demons from taking over, looking out the window, staring at concrete bridge pilings in straits between the upper peninsula and mackinaw city, reminds me of mad flooded cemetery with gravestones rising up out of the water, cass, afraid i'm losing it for good this time, your old sal paradise "beat" buddy is going insane, falling to some doomed kerouac "canuck" curse or something, yesterday afternoon i was washing clothes, grand marais laundry, waiting for evening date with young good-looking waitress i met, jesus, neal sweet jesus kerrisakes, i was suddenly possessed by a mad urge to get away. flee, hopped a lift with logging truck driver going south to seney, dropping his day's cuttings off at the veneer mill, camped in some trees outside the city limits, and, sleep brought a terrifying nightmare, dreamt first i was back in old lowell, grainy black-and-white images jerking and flickering in slow motion like old home movies, drifting past the old pool hall, lunch wagon, along textile avenue, across moody street bridge, seeing the canals, mills, factory smokestacks, but nobody was there, no faces, and, suddenly i was lost in a blinding blizzard, freezing immaculate whiteness surrounding me everywhere, trudging hip deep in blowing drifting "white out" nothingness, like memere's cracked snow globe on the old lowell house mantel, feeling i was falling into an icy abyss, chilled, aching desire for sleep, sleep, sleep, collapsing on my knees, exhausted, hearing gerard's voice again, like mysterious snow ghost, brother's distant whispering, "no, jack, not this time, no, no, no, jack, it's not time yet, stay, stay, stay," his sweet words, soft like a snow angel's prayer, fading and gone, next i saw the face of ashley, fifteen year old girl i cut out on in frisco, telling me again, "jack, i loved you, why did you stay so close to me if you didn't really care about me, i thought i was too tough, grown up to get hurt, but, my pain and sadness feel like i'm suffering slow death, how could you break my heart so easily," so cass, woke up in early morning blackness, cold, sweating, shivering, knowing i had to get out of seney, on my way back home where maw could take care of me, the day is fall blurry, somehow i got my gear and stuff together, back on the road, escaped seney, dream of christina, grand marais, out dunes picnic, passions fading, distant phantom, made it to st. ignace, this hotel room, all i can remember was stopping in seney for something, iga store owner telling me this is hemingway "big two-hearted river" country, allard, i think the grocer's name was, allard showing me the old railroad depot out his store's backwindow, saying "the same one that young hem got off at when he came to the upper peninsula to go trout fishing, heal his ww i injuries, writer another chapter of 'nick adams' tales," neal, what does this dream mean, can you explain it, if you have any ideas, shoot me a letter out east fast, yes, memere wired me traveling funds for pale dog ticket home, been drinking whiskey steady since i made st. ignace, standing staring out the window, old wawatum ferry stoking up, blowing huge black coal clouds up its stacks, waiting on the ferry transit across the straits to mackinaw city, then grey-dogging it down to ohio, cutting across pennsy turnpike to new jersey and new york state lines, home sweet home, cass, i gotta stop drinking so much, the alky is making me too paranoid lately, i'm too sensitized by romance and my own pathos, booze is redundant, passionate bliss has become stagnation, but, neal, i can't seem to live without the reality of pain, i've got so much to learn about writing and style, my muse has gone into hiding or abandoned me, i feel bone-weary, whipped, i'm just to tired to talk about it or write anymore, this is the last letter, i feel very much like dimitri, his final karamazov wisdom, "i'm all right now, i had my dreams," write me, neal, i desperately need your help.
jack
TROUT DANCING SONATA
(an excerpt)
increasingly playing stravinsky's "rites of spring as literary days wind down to evening feasting times, knowing very soon spring's "ice out" arrival will end the creative off season silence in our small backwater community hermitage, shortly returning sun's rays will cast shadows between hardly surviving fall leaves still hanging on, turgid stream, river tides again washing winter detritus into larger lake superior reservoir and isolated backwoods sloughs, wildflowers poking through matted, leafy dead grass humus, momentarily waiting to celebrate finish to upper peninsula season in the "long white," yooper passage locals jokingly refer to as eleven months of winter, another two, three weeks of pretty tough sledding, alya, her grizzled poet mate waiting perfect spring morning, day beginning with horizon over grand island streaked with warm early pale color, shafts of light filled with accumulated winter dust growing larger, saturating bard house shadows, off to celebrate spring, kicking up adams trail dust, sending small gravelly stones, pebbles flying, out to the hurricane river to watch foamy, frothing tides rush into the big lake, blending with larger superior waters, our sacred pictured rocks "quay of dreams" location, wandering through fresh spring trout lilies, wild violets, toasting the feelings of new beginnings, like rogue old brown bear waking, rising, crawling from his winter den, shaking off stiff, matted fur, thinking ripe berry feast, hiking barefoot along the beach, toes turning over shiny stones, looking for perfect agate gem, one with special splash and mixture of earthy tones, bending low, picking several up, holding them close to our ears, hoping word, message, sound of music, stones revealing wisdom from distant past, embracing alya's soft tiny body, kissing her lightly on wet, hungry lips, caressing flesh smooth, hard as ripe spring pears, staring through her open eyes beyond memories of being a little girl, knowing too soon there will come the blurred, fading vision, forced, final sighs, faint whispered goodbyes, poet's time to return on his swing around the sun, chasing others speeding ahead of him, halley, tycho brache, biela, ikeya seki, hoping to hear mother's sweet, soothing lullabies forgotten long ago, faint sounds of black irish blues melody, ancient sea shanty, gaelic hymn from blood history past, off to finish long journey around the universe before swinging back, heading homeward.
PORCUPINE MOUNTAINS PAPERS
(an excerpt)
ford tranny cooling down, lake of the clouds parking lot, carefully wrapping both ankles, tight ace-bandages bindings, stability so not at mercy of loose gravel on carp river basin descent, still in awe that it has come to this, achy, aging body like back of used car lot beater-special, shock absorbers kaput, nervous piston slap in ancient cylinders, mere hint of tire tread, lone existential adventurers motoring through early morning pale dawn, passing old logging towns and railheads, watton, covington, sidnaw, kenton, eben, bruce crossings, bergland, traveling during mid-week day when highways and "porkies" largely free of map and guide toting hordes of "touristas bastardus," summer season of transient aliens invading the upper peninsula, luxurious soft melodies of schubert's "trout sonata," flowing through sound-system speakers, thinking of "lucky lindy,' his lonely transatlantic flight years ago, 33 hours between roosevelt field, new york, and french le bourget aerodrome, daring "fly by your ass" airmail pilot taking $25,000 prize, return to the porcupine mountains to hike, find the old lafayette iron mine after an abortive early may search, nibbling jb's bakery "trail mix," rich collection of nuts, raisins, dried fruit, pumpkin seeds, sipping small can of iga "bluebird" oj, more nutritious fare this time, unlike earlier may warm killer miller lite and stale cheese breaky, slaking on the trail thirsts with empty nutri-sweet diet coke few calories, back to hike, explore the trails, scale the carp river cliffs, ease the pain and embarrassment of may's exhaustion, pushing self, going trail miles beyond wisdom and sanity, coming back a must, not wanting the mental reminder of "loser," becoming fixed, taking up a permanent residence directing my outlook and attitude, far too easy to accept the "alas, poor me," excuse of victimhood, joining the crowd of alienated, despairing others who have quickly learned to enjoy their misery, graybeard poet a little slow afoot, not ready for quiet park bench senior citizen's respite, still driven to life on the cutting edge of adventure, pushing the envelop in rare space where one finds a lightness of being, greater spontaneity of thinking and actions, still believing the best or worse in a person comes out under pressure, during trying times, certain that in spite of my college degrees, honors, small passing literary successes, the core, most important thing in life rests inside me, traveling light this visit down into the carp river basin, camera, lenses, film, cans of air and mosquite dope, white salve, calm, early morning piney woods silence, sun rising slowly on eastern horizon, light rays filtering thorugh lush midsummer foliage, prospects for splendid shadowy filming contrasts, qickening steps, descending iinto the carp lowlands, suddenly remembering a jack armstrong radio drama of my youth, "the all-american boy" searching for the elephant's graveyard somewhere in africa, never finding out if elephants have honing instincts leading them to a special location to die, climbing up over talus and scree, often taking a step forward, sliding two steps back down the slope, hard hand-over-fist crawling toward the escarpment summit, skidding around and over trees, winter blowdown casualties, gaining momentary rocky foothold, surveying the craggy, granite heights above for good photo possibilities, dropping my usual caution in-the-outback-wilderness guard, while catching a second and third wind, slipping, weight of my daypack camera tote suddenly swinging around, throwing me off balance, flying through the air, falling down the talus and scree stony escarpment facing, surprised no frightened desperate yell, floating in slow motion of accidents happening in a few long seconds, hard to tell how long i lay unconscious, out cold long enough for blood to clot and dry on cuts and abrasions, but not time for the greedy black ravens to gather, hungrily ready to feast on my eyeballs first, conscious body, brain exploding with incredible pains, continuous stabbing sensations in the back, dull ache of bone chips loosened and floating free in both ankles, no feeling in right shin-thigh, grabbing my dad's old jackknife from pack, strange mystery of how and why i had managed to hang on to emery's old two-bladed folding barlow over the many and long passing years, crawling to young tag alder shoots growing near the tailings, hacking thin sticks, wrapping them around my middle legs with strips cut from red bandana head sweat band, looking closely at the gnarly, wrinkled hands with large bulging blue veins, calmly, methodically preparing the bandaged splint, thinking definitely not the fingers of a young man anymore, recalling the dexterity of my youth, young tommy practicing piano scales and playing etudes, aligning delicate balsa model airplane parts, inky stained hands from cleaning printing company presses, caressing femme-fille flesh moments before explosions of tiny silvery fish, rivers of fertile sperm swimming, soft cradle holding sons an daughter while logging early morning rocking chair miles.
sliding down the rest of the rocky slope, leaving small tufts of jean denim clusters on granite rocks, back at the trail, wobbling to a standing position, picking up sturdy branch of deadfall pine for walking stick balance, teeth clinched, energy nearly spent, piss and vinegar riding low on the bardic dipstick, old man at mercy of small pebbles, loose gravel, occasionally looking up from stooped slump, lake of the clouds growing slowly closer, flat trail passages barely negotiable, collapsing against fallen trees, large boulders, body often giving out on tough up hill rises, pain racked brain thinking back over my athletic heroes, driven, determined won't quit focus, "old pete" alexander, at 39, striking out tony lazzari, bases loaded in the seventh game, winning world series for the cardinals, 47-year-old lester patrick substituting for injured new york iceman, playing goalie, helping rangers win the stanley cup, willis reed, ankle full of 300 mm of cariezene, outplaying wilt chamberlain, knicks winning the seventh game, nba championship, frank gifford coming out of retirement after near fatal brain concussion from philly eagles chuck benarik tackle, leading new york giants to division championship, title game playoff, reaching back, patting emery's old barlow knife riding snug in my hop pocket, "give up, no, dad would never forgive me that," and, "damn, i failed to find the old iron mine again," wondering if my earlier discovery of the adit-entry was a hallucination, mysterious figment of imagination, at least good reason to heal and rehab, come back to the "porkies" again, after labor day when the tourists have vanished, frosts will have eliminated the bitey critters, graybeard poet and wilderness pilgrim hiking, searching anew for special spiritual home.
