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About Me:18-year-old sixth form student, studying English Literature, History and Government and Politics. My articles will broadly cover topics from the current affairs of politics to reviews of books and albums, as well as adding my own creative pieces, whether it be short fiction or general opinion.
As I pass onto the road there is a faint metronomic booming, homogenous at first, but as I get closer the rhythm becomes divided, distorting into a sort of pounding syncopation. From this noise stands an impasse, a chasm, ornamented with posters, banners, barriers, horses and luminous jackets. ‘Society Bitterly Divided!’ reads a headline, as if providing a running commentary. Like a dissector, the sun emits a barrier-straight line down the middle of this division, separating the two factions. It lies in conjunction with a material barrier of bodies, their arms outstretched with shields, stopping the two from gnawing the faces off of the other.
Some few yards away from this stands Jack Kerouac. He’s dressed in his usual regalia: that dirtied flannel shirt stained with patches of red wine - the same stains that rouge his lips and teeth – a rucksack hangs loosely on his shoulders, his feet carry old and worn trainers that introduce the world to his toes, and his jeans are ripped too. His hair sparkles greasily as he rubs his bearded face, pensively looking into this decadent pit of adversaries with those angel-eyes.
What is he thinking, I wonder?
That the world is doomed in protest! Can’t they see that they themselves have become banners, standing there blubberin their song, have rendered themselves banners by erecting themselves as pillars of a solitary principle. ‘I am this cause’ may as well be stapled on their head, let their arms flail like a flag, a flag which is not subject to any internal breeze but must remain eternally as a certain formula of colours.
Is that what Ti Jean is musing over, I wonder?
That the protestor is clouded in his rage; he sees not his mother’s smile in the woman’s over that arbitrary divide, sees not his own joy and laughter in the humour of that stranger, he sees only a figure of repellence, sees only another pillar, not like him. They allow themselves to be incensed with that hot hot heat of rage that materialises out of mere disagreement, but fail to acknowledge this sun! (he lifts his eyes), this same sun that feels so good on all of our skin, this heavenly sun that hangs in that baby blue sky all childlike and playful, smiling, generously handing out its rays that drip down like honey - the sun that has the smile of god, that smile that says ‘all is well’, that blanket-like smile.
Is that what he is thinking, I wonder?
Might he be mourning the angel-headed hipsters, whom themselves point desperately to the halos of him and him and her and her, and even of this horse that stands unknowingly, begging them to look, even for a moment, above each other’s heads, to submit to the gregarious gravity within each that compels us to hug, to hold hands to kiss?
Might he be mourning them, I wonder?
Mourning, too, Neal Cassady, his brother and muse who danced to life’s throbs and pulse? Who danced in and out of jazz bars, dripping with carnal energy, moving his hands in undulation to the sweet melody of the sax of Bird, closing his eyes to find the divinity of the harmony in all the chaos? Will he be thinking of the time when such harmony was missed in the warring eyes that vied for the lust of that brunette babe? Now, attentive to now, will he align the two? That the people are blind to their mutual rhythm! If only they were to close their eyes, to find their inner calm, like the calm of Buddha, and hear this harmony! How joyous, how infantile and joyous they’d become, and he would stand above them and proclaim to the street that ‘it augurs something good in men that they’ll listen to the truth in harmony!’
Instead he sniffs his snot into his mouth, gargles his phlegm and spits it onto the ground. He then turns his back to the crowd and walks off.
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