Beatnik Mood: Three in the Morning Come a Bang Bang Bang while I'm with You in Rockland.

Today, I was set on mixing things up a bit, therefore I woke up to the sound of a cowbell in the first seconds of "California Waiting" by King of Leon. It was actually quite refreshing, you know, after being so keen on the melodic side for the past few days (excusing maybe the couple "intense" moments that Bonnie "Prince" Billy, Belle & Sebastian, and etc can have) I just wanted to break free and experience something else . . . you know something that fit the mood I was and am currently occupying.

I suppose the entirety of my mood was set into play by the current material that is presiding on my reading list. After my wonderful stint with Darkness Visible by Golding, and that short period I spent with Running with Scissors, and then onto a conquest into the mind and world of junk in Junky by Burroughs, I was kind of on one of those kicks. You, know those, beatnik kicks, where you just want to run out get some morphine and become a user yourself. To calm that urge and rid myself of those "unhealthy" thoughts, I pulled out the old standby, Noam Chomsky. In a sensible world, I would never own a copy of any of his works, however, the world is not sensible, and alas! I own more Chomsky than I could ever wish to. This one was entitled Failed States: The Abuse of Power and the Assault on Democracy, from the title you might be able to assume how intense the read could be . . . I it a fourth of the way through before I had to stop. My eyes were bleeding . . . metaphorically, not literally.

It was after that heavy read that I found myself in another beatnik mood. I wanted something with passion, with words for life, and inspiration for . . . something yet to be described. In most situation like this people would look to Kerouac, however, as stated previously, I am in a fit with him and all of his pretty passages. In dire need, I finally pulled off the shelf something that had been discarded long ago, out of a certain . . . uneasiness towards poetry. At the time, I could withstand Plath and Browning, but as a purely fiction girl I'd was just beyond breaking point if I read anymore stanzas. However, now, I am on a total and complete Ginsberg kick. I had like a handful of his works on the shelf mailed to me by my brother when he was having a inspirational crisis/revelation (yes, my brother mails me books as well as music . . . but, again, he still can't use the tele. I think he finds some sort of simple pleasure in using the postal system.) I looked through the first couple pages and stacked them on the shelf.

Here, now, I am completely crazed about his poems. The wondrous flow of words, the repetition, and the unsurpassed singular beauty of them. He makes me feel alive somehow . . . or maybe its the music. Could be both.