“Which way does your beard point tonight?”

The other day driving home from my (surprisingly for an old man) regular exercise at the Landry Fitness Center at

Which way is his beard pointing?

Which way is his beard pointing?

Baylor Hospital (I walk in the “therapy” pool) I heard Krys Boyd on her “Think” program on KERA Radio say to the writer she was interviewing, “Since human beings can logically expect to live seventy years . . .” I have no idea how that sentence ended.

Logically expect to live 70 years! I’ve been here for 69 of the 70. Is it time for me to be preparing to shuffle off this mortal coil (Hamlet)?

When my Grandfather Knight died, I walked through the parlor of the funeral home where his body was in place for “viewing” at the moment my uncle (my mother’s brother) said to my father, standing by the casket, “Well, Glenn, we’re the older generation now.” Both of them were younger (my dad by six years and my uncle more) than I am now. I’ve been part of the “older generation” since my dad died two and a half years ago.

Funny thing about that. Almost everywhere I go, I am the oldest person there. By default I apparently am part of the older generation. I’m not sure if my dad or uncle ever thought much about being the older generation of our family. They both reached old age—my father, as I’ve said here many times, lived to be 97.

Subject shift.

This morning standing briefly in front of the bathroom mirror, I noticed my beard. Seeing myself with a beard after many years of shaving completely or allowing only stubble to grow on my face was a surprise even though I’ve had the beard for several months now.  Even more of a surprise is taking in, seeing and understanding and remembering that my beard is an old man’s beard. Mostly gray, but with this odd patch of brown almost as dark as it was thirty years ago.

I could, if I shaved around it very carefully, leave a brown moustache.

The scraggliest President

The scraggliest President

Don’t ask. I have no idea why I’m thinking about my beard this morning. Well, yes I do. I meant to ask a couple of friends last night where they get their hair cut. I need to find a barber who knows how to shape a beard. Not simply cut it. Shaping a beard is a fine craft. The guys at Super Cuts don’t know how.

When I was a kid (my apologies to a blogger I read yesterday who said one shouldn’t tell personal stories in their blog), my uncle (gay brother of my mother and of the uncle at my grandfather’s funeral) gave me a boxed set of plastic figures of all of the Presidents (up to Eisenhower, who was President at the time). Playing with those figures, I not only learned to recite the names of the Presidents in order, but also learned to identify each of them.

Many of them I recognized by their beards. My favorite was Martin Van Buren. He looked somehow wild and unkempt. Chester A. Arthur had a scraggly beard, too, but I was not nearly as enchanted by his.

Allen Ginsberg wrote,

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 Angel?
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

At first I thought this somehow belittled Walt Whitman. Ginsberg was only 29 when he wrote it. Brash young thing. But as I contemplated, I realized the poem is a fond—no, more than fond—picture of the “lonely old grubber” who helped Ginsberg find his voice, not among lofty ideas and magnificent natural wonders, but in the ordinary. At the grocery store.

It’s not so bad to be a lonely old grubber. Walt Whitman had a scraggly beard, too.

In Leaves of Grass Whitman answers the child who asks (in part 6) “What is the grass?”

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

I’m not sure I understand the image of the grass “darker than the colorless beards of old men.” Ginsberg’s poem continues as an obvious ode to Whitman’s influence in his own work.

      Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in a hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight?
(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 automo-
biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher. . .

We are the older generation now

We are the older generation now

Human beings can expect to live seventy years. I am the older generation now. Ginsberg’s question for us old guys, poets, Presidents, or me is “Which way does your beard point tonight?” Whitman answers that the grass, new sprouts of grass are new life.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death;
And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
I urge you to follow the links to the Whitman and Ginsberg poems below so you have something worth reading instead of my disconnected thoughts.

A Child said, What is the Grass, by Walt Whitman (scroll down to number 6)
A Supermarket in California, by Allen Ginsberg

“. . . which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish. . . “

Who was Peter Orlovsky's husband?

Who was Peter Orlovsky’s husband?

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the
starry dynamo in the machinery of night. . .
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in
the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish. . .

Five hundred forty-two. That’s the number of posts I’ve published on my two blogs in 48 months. That’s 10.9 per month. This is number 543. A blogger has no way to know how many people read her palaver. “Followers” aren’t counted in the stats if they read from their email.

But the number of “hits” my blogs get from search engines or “ping-backs” or whatever source keeps growing. Apparently more people have time on their hands than one would have guessed (and less rigorous mental discipline than one might have hoped).

The fact is I’m both amazed and grateful that anyone reads what I write.

I intended to announce a contest with a valuable and covetable prize for the first person who named the poet quoted above. But then the “inspiration” for this writing would have been obscured (don’t you love the passive voice—Prof. Carolyn Channell, a colleague at SMU, calls it “bafflegab,” the purposeful or painfully unaware obscuring of the subject of a sentence so as to baffle the reader).

The Emperor of Filmdom has no clothes?

The Emperor of Filmdom has no clothes?

Oh, yes, back to the inspiration.

I heard Terry Gross interview Daniel Radcliffe who plays Allen Ginsberg in a new movie about the beat generation poets. Kill Your Darlings has received good reviews at both the Toronto and Sundance festivals.  I have it on good authority that many people will see it to see Daniel Radcliffe. I’m one of three people in the country who has never seen a Harry Potter movie, so I don’t have a clue what that’s about.

Oh, yes. The lines above are from the opening of Alan Ginsberg’s “Howl, Part I.” I don’t knows lots and lots of poetry and other literature. But “Howl” was new—and riveting to gay boys—when I was in high school, and I read it surreptitiously, without much understanding, I must say. Ginsberg (actually the City Lights Bookstore) was tried in 1957 for obscenity for the poem’s mention of homosexuality (I had learned the word a couple of years before and knew I was one) and acquitted.

Last year when my college rhetoric classes were writing about the First Amendment, I came across Judge Clayton W. Horn’s ruling acquitting Ginsberg saying, “Would there be any freedom of press or speech if one must reduce his vocabulary to vapid innocuous euphemisms?”

Allen Ginsberg endeared himself to me not so much as a poet (I really am NOT a sophisticated reader) but for his listing of his lifetime partner, the poet Peter Orlovsky, as his “spouse” in Who’s Who in America at a time when most of us gay boys were afraid to say publicly that we were. Here’s a little-known fact that will be left out when my biography is written: I remember being—Oh, come on, stop being a prude—sexually aroused seeing that in print.

So the movie Kill Your Darlings (a caution for writers to delete the sentences over which they have labored to get them just right, thereby destroying all spontaneity—no one can accuse me of that because most of my writing is unedited, but I do often tell my students that “your words are not your children—you can kill them”) is being released in places like Amsterdam and New York, so none of us will get to see it.

I will live awhile longer without knowing why Daniel Radcliffe is a heartthrob to so many people. But I’ve never watched an episode of Breaking Bad, either, so you know what kind of pop-culture-deprived bore I am. Or perhaps I’m one of three people in the country who has the suspicion the emperor-of-filmdom wears no clothes (and I don’t mean in Equus).

The beat poets were my favorites in high school and college. I’ve written about Kerouac in earlier posts. I once tried writing on a roll of toilet paper (being as susceptible as the next guy to urban legends) to see if my prose came out like Kerouac’s.  It didn’t. Have you ever tried to write on toilet paper?

Like everyone else in the country, I grew weary on the second day of the Great Government Shutdown and Tea Bagger Attempt to Blackmail Us All into Submission. (You realize, of course, they were trying to do exactly what they—led by Michelle Bachmann—praised the new military dictators of Egypt for doing, that is, subverting the will of the people as expressed through [more or less] free and open elections. That Bachmann and Cruz love military dictators ought to tell Americans who they really are. But it won’t.)

To coin a phrase, I digress.
I reread part of Howl last night and came to this stanza.

. . . who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue
amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regi-
ments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertis-
ing & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down
by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality. . .

The nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising.

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it. Every goddamned aspect of our lives, from Facebook to the Tea Party to Harry Potter to Kroger’s Shell gasoline giveaway points is controlled by the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising. I didn’t start this writing thinking that was my point, but that’s the anguished angry place I’ll stop. Without killing my darlings. Just stop.

". . .reduce his vocabulary  to vapid innocuous  euphemisms. . ."

“. . .reduce his vocabulary
to vapid innocuous
euphemisms. . .”