Monthly Archives: November 2018

“Mississippi” released by John Phillips

Hit it, Hal

Early in the mornin, she hitched a ride down to Louisville
Holdin onto a hundred dollar bill
Dressed herself like a Cajun Queen in New Orleans, baby
Yeah, she looked good, like a lady

Do it to me, James

And the Mississippi River runs like molasses in the summertime
And me, you know, I don’t hardly mind

Sippin on a beer in Bourbon Street and I’m sittin easy
Don’t get me wrong, it takes a lot to please me

Have a seat an take a load off your feet, and she said Yes
So I said, I like your dress
Swamps all around make ya feel kinda funny, don’t they, honey
She crossed her legs and looked at me funny

Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin

Joseph

Early in the mornin, she hitched a ride down to Louisville
Holdin onto a hundred dollar bill
Dressed herself like a Cajun Queen in New Orleans, baby
Yeah, she looked good, like a lady

And the Mississippi River, it runs like molasses in the summertime
And me, you know, I don’t hardly mind

Sippin on a beer in Bourbon Street and I’m sittin easy
Don’t get me wrong, it takes a lot to please me

Everybody sing

Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin

Have a seat, take a load off your feet, and she said Yes
So I said, I like your dress
Swamps all around make ya feel kinda funny, don’t they, honey
She crossed her legs and looked at me funny

Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin
Down on the bayou, why, you never know just what you’re doin

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Excerpt from “The Subterraneans” by Jack Kérouac ~~Love~~

The adolescent cocksman having made his conquest barely broods at home the loss of the love of the conquered lass, the blacklash lovely – no confession there. – It was on a morning when I slept at Adam’s that I saw her again, I was going to rise, do some typing and coffee drinking in the kitchen all day since at that time work, work was my dominant thought, not love – not the pain that impels me to write this even while I don’t want to, the pain which won’t be eased by the writing of this but heightened, but which will be redeemed, and if only it were a dignified pain and could be placed somewhere other than in this black gutter of shame and loss and noisemaking folly in the night and poor sweat on my brow – Adam rising to go to work, I too, washing, mumbling talk, when the phone rang and it was Mardou, who was going to her therapist, but needed a dime for the bus, living around the corner, ‘Okay come on over but quick I’m going to work or I’ll leave the dime with Leo.’ – ‘O is he there?’ – ‘Yes.’ – In my mind man-thoughts of doing it again and actually looking forward to seeing her suddenly, as if I’d felt she was displeased with our first night (no reason to feel that, previous to the balling she’d lain on my chest eating the egg foo young and dug me with glittering glee eyes) (that tonight my enemy devour?) the thought of which makes me drop my greasy hot brow into a tired hand – O love, fled me – or do telepathies cross sympathetically in the night? Such cacoëthes him befalls – that the cold lover of lust will earn the warm bleed of spirit – so she came in, 8 a.m., Adam went to work and we were alone and immediately she curled up in my lap, at my invite, in the big stuffed chair and we began to talk, she began to tell her story and I turned on (in the grey day) the dim red bulb-light and thus began our true love –

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Excerpt from “Missing – Believed Killed” by Margaret Hayes ~~The Men~~

Some of the Congolese sisters at the convent arrived about 3pm (all time from now on was judged by the sun). They had come with bread and butter, and some black coffee and sugar. The women were allowed to eat, and we ate hungrily. The men were not allowed a thing; the Simbas said they no longer had need. The Congolese sisters whispered that they had seen the fathers through the windows. They had been told of the sentence of death and were very calm and resigned. They added that they were worried about them. So were we. The sisters added, “For you, we have no fear, but for them there is no hope.”
The bread finished, the Congolese sisters went back to the convent, and we returned to our prison-room.
Suddenly at about 4pm we heard shouts, and people running, and somebody screaming hysterically, “Give them the command,” followed by a loud cheer. My blood ran cold. The sisters did not know what the “command” was, but I knew it was the special Simba torture. It seemed as if my heart was trying to burst out of my chest, and going so rapidly and loudly, I was sure it could be heard.
The man in the room opposite was dragged out, and the Simba guards kept us informed with a running commentary. The priests were dragged out into the street and “the command” was administered. How they stood it is beyond any human comprehension. As the ropes were tightened on their legs and arms, making their bodies into a backward arch, one screamed, the first we had heard.
Some of the sisters were crying, but most were like marble statues, and their moving lips alone showed that they were indeed alive. They had known some of these men for years, in the course of their work and their worship. Some of the men were old; two in particular were over seventy and had long white beards. Some were young, the youngest was only twenty-four, others in their late twenties and early thirties.
A truck pulled up, more beatings; the truck moved away, and shortly afterwards was silence, an uneasy silence. Our guard told us the men had been released from their bonds, stripped naked, and were being marched down to the river Rubi. How we prayed for those men; words are inadequate.
After a short while, more shouts, this time in the distance; then the rattle of machine-gun fire and we knew the thirty-one men were in eternity. The time was 5:30pm. The sisters surreptitiously crossed themselves. I asked the Lord to forgive the Simbas. Later we heard they had been lined up at the river, then called upon one by one, a stab into the left chest, when they fell, machetes to their necks. Any still living when they were in the water were given a coup-de-grace by Simbas in canoes, which explained the machine-gun fire we had heard.
The population of Buta, realising the enormity of the crime, fled to the forest. An unnatural silence fell on the town.
It must have been about 6:30pm. The light was on in our room, nobody had moved or spoken since the men had been shot about an hour previously. Suddenly the door opened, and before our horrified and sickened gaze, there stood a half-naked Simba. The perspiration was running down his body in rivulets. He held a dripping leg of a white man! It had been crudely severed at the knee. His long two-edged hunting knife was in his other hand, still bloody. I wanted to take my eyes off the leg, but could only stare at it, transfixed. Nobody in the room had moved, but we were each conscious of the reactions of the others.
He advanced into the room, still out of breath with running. He stood there, holding the leg for all to see clearly. He asked what it was, and not getting an answer, asked again, directing his question at me, as I was nearest. My equilibrium quickly restored, I answered the obvious thing, “It is a white man’s leg.” Satisfied that it had been identified as white, he asked another sister what she thought of it; she calmly replied that the man was dead, and that this was only the body, and it didn’t matter. He then thrust the leg into her hands, and made us all in turn hold it in two hands, even the children. Chantal asked her mother, “What is it?” And Madame answered “It is something they killed today,” giving the impression it was an animal. The children were satisfied.
The man put the leg on the floor, and gave us a long talk on the fate of those who communicate with the National Army.

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Excerpt from “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” by James Joyce ~~Confession~~

The slide was shot to suddenly. The penitent came out. He was next. He stood up in terror and walked blindly into the box.
At last it had come. He knelt in the silent gloom and raised his eyes to the white crucifix suspended above him. God could see that he was sorry. He would tell all his sins. His confession would be long, long. Everybody in the chapel would know then what a sinner he had been. Let them know. It was true. But God had promised to forgive him if he was sorry. He was sorry. He clasped his hands and raised them towards the white form, praying with his darkened eyes, praying with all his trembling body, swaying his head to and fro like a lost creature, praying with whimpering lips.
—Sorry! Sorry! O sorry!
The slide clicked back and his heart bounded in his breast. The face of an old priest was at the grating, averted from him, leaning upon a hand. He made the sign of the cross and prayed of the priest to bless him for he had sinned. Then, bowing his head, he repeated the Confiteor in fright. At the words my most grievous fault he ceased, breathless.
—How long is it since your last confession, my child?
—A long time, father.
—A month, my child?
—Longer, father.
—Three months, my child?
—Longer, father.
—Six months?
—Eight months, father.
He had begun. The priest asked:
—And what do you remember since that time?
He began to confess his sins: masses missed, prayers not said, lies.
—Anything else, my child?
Sins of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedience.
—Anything else, my child?
There was no help. He murmured:
—I… committed sins of impurity, father.
The priest did not turn his head.
—With yourself, my child?
—And… with others.
—With women, my child?
—Yes, father.
—Were they married women, my child?
He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled in shameful drops from his soul, festering and oozing like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy. There was no more to tell. He bowed his head, overcome.
The priest was silent. Then he asked:
—How old are you, my child?
—Sixteen, father.
The priest passed his hand several times over his face. Then, resting his forehead against his hand, he leaned towards the grating and, with eyes still averted, spoke slowly. His voice was weary and old.
—You are very young, my child, he said, and let me implore of you to give up that sin. It is a terrible sin. It kills the body and it kills the soul. It is the cause of many crimes and misfortunes. Give it up, my child, for God’s sake. It is dishonourable and unmanly. You cannot know where that wretched habit will lead you or where it will come against you. As long as you commit that sin, my poor child, you will never be worth one farthing to God. Pray to our mother Mary to help you. She will help you, my child. Pray to Our Blessed Lady when that sin comes into your mind. I am sure you will do that, will you not? You repent of all those sins. I am sure you do. And you will promise God now that by His holy grace you will never offend Him any more by that wicked sin. You will make that solemn promise to God, will you not?
—Yes, father.
The old and weary voice fell like sweet rain upon his quaking parching heart. How sweet and sad!
—Do so, my poor child. The devil has led you astray. Drive him back to hell when he tempts you to dishonour your body in that way—the foul spirit who hates Our Lord. Promise God now that you will give up that sin, that wretched wretched sin.
Blinded by his tears and by the light of God’s mercifulness he bent his head and heard the grave words of absolution spoken and saw the priest’s hand raised above him in token of forgiveness.
—God bless you, my child. Pray for me.
He knelt to say his penance, praying in a corner of the dark nave; and his prayers ascended to heaven from his purified heart like perfume streaming upwards from a heart of white rose.
The muddy streets were gay. He strode homeward, conscious of an invisible grace pervading and making light his limbs. In spite of all he had done it. He had confessed and God had pardoned him. His soul was made fair and holy once more, holy and happy.

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Excerpt from “The Pigman” by Paul Zindel ~~Magic~~

“Number from one to five.” The Pigman started getting a little bit of the old gleam back. “This is going to tell you what kind of a person you are.” He drew a diagram on a piece of paper and laid it in front of us. I thought he had completely flipped.
“I’m going to tell you a murder story, and your job is just to listen.” When he drew the skull and wrote “ASSASSIN,” John perked up a little.
“There is a river with a bridge over it, and a WIFE and her HUSBAND live in a house on one side. The WIFE has a LOVER who lives on the other side of the river, and the only way to get from one side of the river to the other is to walk across the bridge or to ask the BOATMAN to take you.
“One day the HUSBAND tells his WIFE that he has to be gone all night to handle some business in a faraway town. The WIFE pleads with him to take her with him because she knows if he doesn’t she will be unfaithful to him. The HUSBAND absolutely refuses to take her because she will only be in the way of his important business.
“So the HUSBAND goes alone. When he is gone, the WIFE goes over the bridge and stays with her LOVER. The night passes, and dawn is almost up when the WIFE leaves because she must get back to her own house before her HUSBAND gets home. She starts to cross the bridge but sees an ASSASSIN waiting for her on the other side, and she knows if she tries to cross, he will murder her. In terror, she runs up the side of the river and asks the BOATMAN to take her across the river, but he wants fifty cents. She has no money, so he refuses to take her.
“The wife runs back to the LOVER’s house and explains to him what her predicament is and asks him for fifty cents to pay the BOATMAN. The LOVER refuses, telling her it’s her own fault for getting into the situation.
As dawn comes up the WIFE is nearly out of her mind and decides to dash across the bridge. When she comes face to face with the ASSASSIN, he takes out a large knife and stabs her until she is dead.”
“So what?” John asked.
“Now I want you to write down on the paper I gave you the names of the characters in the order in which you think they were most responsible for the WIFE’s death. Just list WIFE, HUSBAND, LOVER, ASSASSIN, and BOATMAN in the order you think they are most guilty.”

Mr. Pignati had to explain the whole story over to me again because it was too complicated to get the first time, but I ended up listing the guilty in this order:
1. BOATMAN, 2. HUSBAND, 3. WIFE, 4. LOVER, 5. ASSASSIN.
John listed them in this order:
1. BOATMAN, 2. LOVER, 3.ASSASSIN, 4. WIFE, 5. HUSBAND.
“So what?” John repeated.
Mr. Pignati started laughing when he looked at our lists. “You both picked the BOATMAN as the one who is most guilty in the death of the woman. Each of the characters is a symbol for something, and you have betrayed what is most important to you in life.”
Then he wrote down what the different characters represented.

wife = fun
husband = love
lover = sex
assassin = money
boatman = magic

“Because you picked the BOATMAN as being most guilty, that means you’re both most interested in MAGIC,” he said.
“I’m glad I picked the boatman,” I said, blushing a little.
The order in which John liked things in the world was supposed to be magic, sex, money, fun, and love. The order in which I was supposed to prefer these qualities was magic, love, fun, sex, and money. I thought that was sort of accurate, if you ask me. So John and I laughed a lot for the Pigman, making him think we thought the game was two tons of fun. It wasn’t bad, but it certainly wasn’t two tons of fun. But he always had to do something to try to top us. The longer he knew us, the more of a kid he became. It was cute in a way.

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