I look upon a pinhead and I see angels dancing.

 

I felt the sensation of each of the directions I mentally and emotionally turned into amazed at all the possible directions you can take with different motives that come in, like it can make you a different person - I’ve often thought of this since childhood, of suppose instead of going up Columbus as I usually did I’d turn into Filbert would something happen that at the time is insignificant enough but would be like enough to influence my whole life in the end? - What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take?” - and all that, so if this had not been such a constant preoccupation that accompanied me in my solitude which I played upon in as many different ways as possible I wouldn’t bother now except but seeing the horrible roads this pure supposing goes to it took me to frights, if I wasn’t so damned persistent - and so on deep into the day, a long confusing story only pieces of which and imperfectly I remember, just the mass of the misery in connective form

Jack Kerouac - The Subterraneans.

I found the love of my life again


But I don’t know
where to start

She seems to be my past
my future
But her present scrabbled free
of my world-worn grasp

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love’s not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

Sylvia Plath

As I sit here, exhausted sipping my last whisky; tapping away at a twice stolen, cracked typewriter in that shade of green reserved for old British cars and grandpa’s cardigan, I ponder on how a story is only worth the telling if it is worth telling thoroughly. Not one minutiae spared or held back, but rather scattered and poured over the page like a build up of summer dewdrops across a blue-green lawn that cling to your clothes and lend everything a delicious freshness. This goes double for your own story, your own life, your loves, losses, defeats and triumphs. Live your life according to its finer, minutest points. Embrace meandering conversations with the elderly homeless, map the lines on a lovers face and bet on the raindrops that trickle and race down your misted windowpane. Marvel at the prisms floating in sun-drenched morning fog as it clears to welcome the world. In the end, these will be your treasured memories, the 4am talks over nothing where you realise what love is, and I’ll be there with you counting cracks in our pavement. If the devil’s in the details, then angels can go to hell.

A re-write (of potentially hundreds) of what will become part of the epilogue from a near first drafted short first person novel.

By, Simon Fruin

I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry. It’s all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever. Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect

Jack Kerouac

You came out of the bar with your back to the wall and edged back to the street. They served coffee mixed with rum and nutmeg. Mambo blared from everywhere. Hundreds of whores lined themselves along the dark and narrow streets and their sorrowful eyes gleamed at us in the night. We wandered in a frenzy and a dream.

Jack Kerouac

What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.

Jack Kerouac

This is the one and only
firmament; therefore
it is the absolute world.
There is no other world.
The circle is complete.
I am living in Eternity.
The ways of this world
are the ways of Heaven.

Allen Ginsberg

everybody in the world is beautiful and sweet but dumb

Lucien Carr

Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic.

Oscar Wilde

Take the risk of thinking for yourself, much more happiness, truth, beauty, and wisdom will come to you that way.

Christopher Hitchens

Collapse, by Simon Fruin (draft)

Right here he saw his world collapse,
as fire swallowed his home
sucking at the curtains in great hot slurps.

His heart rose to a climax…
And stopped

Frozen stiletto jabs of terror
punctured him
turned his blood to ice
before letting all that heat in

Jesus, the heat.

It seared his hands, his feet and
burned his side, flames
kissed his brow and woke him

At night he still hears her screams
at once he saw the future
that she’s no longer in,

It melts before him like skin,
he knows she’s gone
and worse

he’s still here.

God it’s cold.

Why not give up?
asks the dawn of the sinking moon
you know I’ll be here tomorrow.

But night time comes
the moon retorts
and dancing stifles sorrows.

You’re just an orb,
a pale reflection
you’ll never match my heat.

I am romance
I bring music, dancing, conquest and
the morning brings defeat.

Heed me now
oh little one
I light your cratered face.

You illuminate
the grievous errors
I heal all known mistakes.

I feed the crops!
the sun explodes
all your glory’s borrowed.

But night time comes
the moon just smiles
and dancing stifles sorrows.

Dawn Again. (draft) Simon Fruin

summer.

a hundred coloured umbrellas
hang from the trees,
to form
a dreamcoat canopy
and sing a fluttering serenade.

now though,

a new year dawns
and all there is
is a single shopping bag,
tattered in plastic
screaming a bitter railroad
wail

into the tearing winds.

Simon Fruin - Dreamcoat Canopy (draft)