The Streets Of San Francisco


The Streets Of San Francisco Essay, Research Paper

I walked down to the laboratory, and got ready to time travel. I think I was still in shock, because I didn t fully believe they could do it. When I got there I went through some endurance test. After these tests, I was ready. I put on my special gravity suit, made out of titanium. I needed it so the force of gravity wouldn t liquefy my bones. I got into the pod, and shut the door 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

Strolling down the streets of San Francisco around 1 a.m., I came upon this small caf on the corner of Hate and Ash. I walked into the caf ; the sweet aroma of coffee hit me like a brick falling from the sky. I slowly walked towards the counter observing each and every individual, with the ferocity of an eagle soaring through the sky. After ordering my cappuccino, I walked towards the small stage, and took a seat. A young man walked on stage and opened a book, and started reciting poems from it. His poems were amazing, so thought provoking, intelligent, and sincere ( Howl ). Scanning the audience one more time, in hopes I would find a good-looking girl. I struck the jackpot, I thought. Sitting in the corner was a young woman in her late 20 s. She was wearing glasses, and was gorgeous. The young man reading poetry finished. The crowd started to dissipate; soon only the waiters, the poet now talking to the young lady, and myself. I walked up to the man, and introduced myself. I soon found out that the young man s name was Allen Ginsberg. Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, the clock rang 4:00 a.m. Realizing I had to work at 1 p.m. the next day. I told Allen, we would have to finish our conversation some other

time. He told me to go to the Six Gallery on Saturday at 11:00 p.m. ( Allen Ginsberg ). Completely forgetting about the woman, I told him I would be there. Walking down the street enjoying the early morning, I soon came to the apartment the research company set up for me, while working on my assignment. I quickly jumped in the shower. I dried myself, put my pajamas on, and was off to bed.

My alarm went off at 11:00 a.m., I walked into the kitchen and got myself some cereal. After eating my scrumptious bowl of cereal, I was off to contact my command leader. My mission is going as planned. I am meeting Ginsberg at the Six Gallery at around 11:00 p.m. on Saturday. I told my commander. My commander told me to continue as planned. I strolled down to the local music store; the awesome sound of Bill Haley s Rock Around the Clock was blaring out of a jukebox. I walked inside and to my delight saw a cute couple; the man wearing some rolled up pants and a collared shirt, and the woman wearing a cute polka-dotted skirt with a cute white sweater. They were both doing the hand jive, one of my personal favorites. I walked over to the new release section, and picked up Chuck Berry s new 45 rpm. On it was the song Maybellene, it is a great song ( Fifties Web ).

I walked next door to the bookstore, and looked for anything on Allen Ginsberg, finding very little. I looked for someone who looked like they might know anything about Allen, when my eyes came upon the young lady I saw at the caf . I walked up to her, and introduced myself to her. Her name was Cathy. I chatted with her for awhile, asking her question about Allen. Trying to find out as much as possible. I soon found out that Cathy was a good friend of Ginsberg s, so she could probably answer most of my questions. An easy one, where was Mr. Ginsberg born? I inquisitively asked.

He was born in Newark, New Jersey, she replied with ease.

How long have you known Mr. Ginsberg? I asked.

Actually, I have only know Allen for about 3 or 4 years. I can t really remember. I have a short term memory from all the drugs! she sarcastically replied.

So, you and Allen have done drugs together, would you like to elaborate on that? I questioned.

Well, what do you want to know? she replied.

Like, what kinds of drugs do you prefer. Do you think it has influenced his writing? I said.

We favor LSD, it totally fucks with your mind. It opens doors that our minds can t open by themselves, it puts you in a totally different state of mind. I wish I could stay there forever, she said, oh hell yes, I totally think his use of drugs have influenced his writing style.

Who are some of his influences? I asked.

Allen is totally into Walt Whitman the original Beatnik as he has been referred to many times, she said, I m sorry to cut this short, but I have to catch the bus. It s leaving like now, so I ll see you around, ok? ( Allen Ginsberg ).

Yah, totally! I said. I walked out with door, saying my last good-byes. I started down the street for my apartment. Today has been a long ass day! I thought to myself, while walking home. I reached my apartment around 4:30 p.m. Took a quick shower and was got some shuteye.

I got up around 11:30 a.m. on Saturday, and got some cereal. Then headed for the streets, today I m going to get some new clothes for myself. I might as well take advantage of being in the 50 s and get me some new threads. I walked past a few stores, but didn t find much. Obsessed with finding the coolest clothes, I walked aimlessly

down the streets, up and down and back and forth. Time seemed to fly by in my trance like search for new clothes. I soon looked at my watch and noticed it was too dark to see it, I turned on the light. My clock read 10:00 p.m., realizing I had to meet Allen Ginsberg at 11:00 p.m. at the Six Gallery. I started walking, going over the questions I needed to ask him. I got to the Gallery at around 10:45. I walked in and ordered a cappuccino. I went to the front and got a seat in front of the stage, where Allen was going to read some poetry. At about 11:15ish Allen came out and sat in a chair, in the middle of the stage. Opened a book, and started reading a poem:

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit-

man, 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 into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of

your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam-

ilies 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


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


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


(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


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? ( A Supermarket in California ). Read Allen. He read a few more poems, and we applauded. Then he came out into the audience, and took a seat. I walked up next to him, and shook his hand. I told him he did an excellent job. He smiled and said, thanks! I then asked him, if we could go somewhere private, so we could talk. We headed for a table in the corner of the Gallery. Once we got over there, I started to ask him some questions. I was mostly interested, in what events in his life had influenced his work. Tell me about your past, I said.

Well, I guess I ll start from the beginning. My dad, Louis Ginsberg was a published poet, a high school teacher and a moderate Jewish Socialist. His wife, my mother Naomi, was a radical Communist and irrepressible nudist who went tragically insane in early adulthood. Somewhere between the two in temperament was I, Irwin Allen. A shy and complicated child growing up in Paterson, New Jersey, my home life was dominated by my mother s mother’s bizarre and frightening episodes. A severe paranoid, she often trusted only me when she was convinced the rest of the family and the world were plotting against her. As the sensitive me tried to understand what was happening around him, I also had to struggle to comprehend what was happening inside of me, because I was consumed by lust for other boys my age. That was pretty much my early childhood. He stated.

Now Allen, when did you start having an interest in poetry? I asked.

I first discovered the poetry of Walt Whitman the original Beatnik in high school, but foolishly I followed my father s advice and began planning my career as a labor lawyer. I attended Columbia University, but fell in with a crowd of wild souls there, including my fellow students Lucien Carr and Jack Kerouac and non-student friends

William S. Bourroughs and Neal Cassady. These delinquent young philosophers were equally obsessed with drugs, crime, sex and literature. I was the youngest and most innocent member of the circle. I helped them develop their literary smarts, while they helped me turn by utterly shattering his bookish naivete. He stated.

So, how do you think all of this has influenced your writing? I questioned.

Well, he stated, In Buddhism, everything happens for a reason. It is planned for you, but you can control it ( Allen & the Beats ). I think that my childhood and my disgust for society have influenced my writing a great deal. I also think drugs have influenced my writing they open doors in your mind that you d never think could be opened. They allow you to see everything in a whole new way; it s quite pleasing.

Wow, look at the time, I shouted. I went to look at the clock and noticed that the sun was up, we had talked all night. Now it was time for me to leave, go back to my own time, so I can finish my essay before the weekend is over. I told Allen it was nice talking to him, and how great of a writer he is, he thanked me and I was off. I walked down to the alleyway where I was going to be transported back to the year 2000. I made it to the alley just in time. Got into my pod that I had hid and in a few seconds was back in the year 2000. I got home, and sat at my computer. Opened a new document, and started typing. I soon finished, and turned it in

Allen Ginsberg: Shadow Changing into Bone. 10 January 1997. Mongo BearWolf.

20 Mar. 2000

Costello, Bonnie. Ginsberg, Allen. Wolrd Book Encyclopedia. 1992 ed.

Allen Ginsberg and the Beats. 20 December 2000. Naropa Institute. 19 Mar. 2000

Allen Ginsberg. 25 September 2000. Literary Kicks. 20 Mar. 2000.

Fifties Web. 19 April 1998. Rich Designs. 20 Mar. 2000.

Coale, Samuel Chase. American Literature. World Book Encycolpedia. 1992 ed.

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