First Party At Ken Kesey's With Hell's Angels

First Party At Ken Kesey's With Hell's Angels

Cool black night thru redwoods
cars parked outside in shade
behind the gate, stars dim above
the ravine, a fire burning by the side
porch and a few tired souls hunched over
in black leather jackets. In the huge
wooden house, a yellow chandelier
at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers
hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles
Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths
dancing to the vibration thru the floor,
a little weed in the bathroom, girls in scarlet
tights, one muscular smooth skinned man
sweating dancing for hours, beer cans
bent littering the yard, a hanged man
sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,
children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.
And 4 police cars parked outside the painted
gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.

December 1965 Allen Ginsberg

Potholing With The Merry Prankster

Dead Beat puts a lot of faith in Kesey (see Advice To A Would-Be Writer). The Merry Prankster speaks the truth.

Examine the hollow.

Too many writers are attracted by the light(s) shining from the dark instead of shining their own light upon the dark and revealing what lies within.

Too much surface layer stuff. Get down on your hands and knees and go potholing.

Never mind the bright lights of 'success': The Awards, the BestSellers' Lists, the TV appearances. ..

It's tinsel, Christmas Tree shananigans.

Look at the root system, get dirt in your nostrils and upon your lips.

And remember you are not alone. Ken is right behind you showing you the way.

The Novel as a Box of Tampons

Kesey just won't let go.

"You write novels Dead Beat."

"Do too."

"An archaic form don't you think? What with the information age - all that the brain can absorb."

"What are you saying Kenneth, give it up?"

"It's a flash in the pan, as far as history goes, I think. Because the storyteller was there to begin with. He used the fire, and he used his voice; he used shadows and monsters, and he used poetry and music. And all those things worked on the audience. When you just get into print, you reduce the input quite a bit. But it makes for a nice thing to package and distribute--like a box of tampons. But I think that for us to really deal with a young audience, we're going to have to pick up the pace."

"What to do?"

"When Shakespeare was writing, he wasn't writing for stuff to lie on the page; it was supposed to get up and move around. And I think that writers are going to have to face this; they were performers originally. That's what storytellers did--they told a story. And the better they were at telling it, the more famous it became. The Chopes were writers that moved from castle to castle. The word `Chope, C-H-O-P-E,' means `see, too see, and be seen.' So you went from castle to castle and you told about the castle you just came from, and how beautiful the maidens were and how powerful and manly the knights were. You helped prop up a young civilization: They couldn't have done it without them.
Now, we've got electronic means to do that, so you wouldn't have to actually travel to castles. Come out of that box, there, and address the audience. The whole MTV audience, that is the new audience. And the people who are being purists and ignoring that, are those who are going to be left behind. As Dylan says, `it's a new road; if you don't like it, get out of the way.'

Dead Beat thinks he has a point. Pick up the pace or get out of the way.

If You Fall In Water, You Drown

So Kesey calls me back.

"Sorry about the bus Dead Beat."

"It's okay Kenny. It was a lousy plan anyway. So what's really on your mind."

"This Dead Beat and only this: Everything's still basically the same as it used to be. Fire hurts you when it burns you. If you fall in water, you drown, rocks bruise you, wolves bite you, you go through a certain bunch of things that are the same. The job of the shaman / mystic I think is to pull things away from the Freudian mind. Let's quit examining ourselves and trying to make ourselves psychologically perfect. We aren't and never will be.

Now I gotta rush. Some things that need pulling away."

Kesey and the Winds Begin to Howl

So Kesey drove Further into the swamp (see previous posts).

"That'll stop you Dead Beat," he howled.

Meanwhile the winds began to howl outside Dead Beat's door. The temperatures dropped. Nostril hairs froze and the folks finally decided it was time to go home.

D.B.'s off to put his feet up and finally read Visions of Sin.

Dead Beat Trips Out with Ken Kesey

So Kesey calls up Dead Beat:

"Keep your hands off Further," he warns.

"Kenny, it's a great plan."

"It's a disaster."

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"Shoot."

"Okay, so I put up the cash necessary to bring Further back to life in exchange for one trip."

"LSD laced juice again?"

"Not that sort of trip K.K. No, Neal Cassady drives the bus to Seven Sisters Falls. I tell the relatives to forget about the snow, think California, Summer of Love, long hair, beads that sort of thing. They won't be able to resist it, I just know it. So off they go. They're off my hands and I can get on with reading Visions of Sin. It's a surefire thing."

"Dead Beat, Cassady's dead."

"You sure K.K.?"

"Sure as the hole in the ozone."

"It's still a good plan, Ken. We just need a new driver."

"It's a lousy plan."

Further, Ken Kesey and Dead Beat Update Their Plan

Update on my plan (see previous post):

Recognise this?

Answer: Further.

Yes, Further, Ken Kesey's old psychedelic bus. The one that crossed the States from California to New York with The Merry Pranksters on board, Neal Cassidy at the wheel, and a jug of LSD laced juice in the refrigerator.

Well it is in the process of being restored...sort of...

So my plan is....