It is said that we are the first wave of the so-called beat generation in China. At that time, many of our peers felt ridiculed, and a small group of us were very happy because we knew that the beat generation meant being advertised by the young us who were originally a minority. The freedom, decadence, sinking and indefinite malaise are recognized.
The older generation disliked us, people who were just a little older than us but fortunate enough to be born in the last decade, just for the first time in their lives, could be leaders, and they began to discredit us. So when I saw someone criticizing "The Back Wave" a few days ago, I understood the mentality of these gangsters. Whether your perspective is the front wave or the back wave determines your mood.
One day we have the right to speak, some of us complain, some retaliate, and later we also have younger generations and we become that kind of people.
We ended up being the people we hated before, and it seemed like it was inevitable for all of us, and it was a circle, over and over, and eventually back there, it started with gray hair.
Very few people get out of this circle, they become another kind of outlier, such as the 27-year-old club, such as poets, such as the real crossover generation.
The real Beats died in their circles, and in the end it wasn't what Lucien Carr imagined it to be, at least a little different. He was a goblin who used witchcraft to circle these people together, he didn't write poetry, but he hooked up with a group of great poets and writers, he read Henry Miller's poems, and then lit a little lamp on them. Eventually he went back to his own circle, became an editor, married twice, had three children, and he told Allen not to put my name after your poems, when he actually said, "Paralyze Lao Tzu is straight."
The back story comes from a book written in 2008 by Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs in one chapter each, while the hippo was boiled to death in the sink, which was written 60 years ago of. At that time they were still unknown juniors, and no one knew that they later wrote "On the Road" and the other "Naked Lunch", and they influenced generations. In 2013, based on this book, director John Krokidas directed the movie "Kill Your Love", but it is recommended to read the book first, just read the preface, because it is too gossip, no wonder it has to wait 60 years, and the parties are all alive When I published this, I went to court in minutes.
"Kill Your Love" tells the story of several writers who have passed through the nobody era from the perspective of Allen Ginsberg. Lucien Carr connects Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Burroughs to become their muse, and finally ends with a murder case , ended their time at Columbia University, changed the trajectory of everyone's life, and opened the door to a lost generation and the great hippie era.
More than half a century later, every little thing between them still flows between the lips and teeth of generations of Wenqing, and they are chewed again and again by them. Their romance, talent and depravity have never been outdated. In real life, generations of people go around in their circles, from teenagers to middle-aged, and then white hair strikes, from debauchery, decadence, resistance to hard work, hard study, marriage and children, one generation is one. circle. We watch them break down to commemorate ourselves, then we break down, in a cycle, and finally we critique the break down, as our next generation grows up. This is how we walked through the empty world.
Allen Ginsberg's crazy mom said to him, "Get married, take the key and stop taking drugs. The key is on the window sill, the key is in the sun on the window sill."
I looked at the windowsill of my house. There was a photo frame in the sunlight. In front of the glass of the photo frame was my own reflection. Behind the glass of the photo frame was my self 20 years ago. They smiled at each other and acquiesced to each other's existence. He stopped there and didn't go forward with me. I know he has found his own sunshine, and he is in that light. So I went by myself and left him behind the glass. I also had to find a sunny, warm place where I could be in a quiet daze. Although it was raining today.
As if we were always comparing the generation that was more degenerate, as if it was always the youngest who suffered, the long poem by Allen Ginsberg put it this way:
"I saw the most brilliant minds of this generation destroyed by madness, starving and hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the black streets at dawn in search of a fatal dose,
The angelic holiness of Sibster longed to communicate with the quaint and wonderful relationship with the starry dynamo in the night machinery,
They were poor and tattered, their eyes dazed and dazed in the unnatural darkness of the cold water apartment, smoking and floating over the city, meditating on jazz music all night long,
They confessed their love to God under the elevated railroad tracks and found Mohammed's angels teetering on the roofs of their brightly lit dwellings,
They went in and out of the university with shining cold eyes, fantasized about the tragedies of Arkansas and Blake's revelation among scholars of war,
They were kicked out of school for madness for publishing obscene odes on skeleton-like windowpanes,
They huddled in unshaved rooms in shorts, burned banknotes in wastebaskets and listened to the sound of terror,
They went back to New York with bundles of marijuana across Laredo and got caught naked with pubic hair,
They devoured the fire in the powdered hotels or went to the "Passage of Paradise" and drank pine oil, or died, or degraded their bodies night after night,
With dreams, with drugs, with lucid nightmares, with alcohol and penis and countless testicles,
The trembling cloud builds an unparalleled dead end and the lightning in the mind rushes to Canada and Paterson, illuminating the dead world of time between these two poles,
A hall as believable as a Morgan, dawn on a tree-lined graveyard in the backyard, drunkenness on the roof, the neon headlights as you drive past the tea-loving little shop in town, the sun and the moon and the roaring Brooklyn twilight The shaking of the trees, the roar of the litter box and the gentlest light of thought,
They tethered themselves to the subway on amphetamines from Battery to Bronx Base until the sound of wheels and children woke them up, trembling with cracked lips, brains shrivelled and worn away in the miserably lit zoo desolate,
They spent the night immersed in the underwater lights of the Bickford cafeteria, drifted out and sat down in the deserted Forgaki pub for an afternoon of horse pee beers, listening to fate squeak on the hydrogen jukebox,
They talked for seventy hours straight from the park to the bed to the bar to the Bellevue hospital to the museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
A bunch of bewildered platonic chatters jumped off fire escapes by moonlight, off windowsills, off the Empire State Building,
Rumble, scream, vomit, whisper facts and reminiscences and anecdotes and glaring confrontations and shocks in hospitals and cells and wars,
The eyes of a generation of wise men shone into the deep memories of seven days and seven nights, and the lamb in the sacrificial hall was thrown on the masonry road. "
At the end we remember us, we curled up on mattresses on the floor, we lost together, watched Coen Brothers movies together, watched old documentaries together, snorted, farted, cursed the powerful, watched Kill Your Love together and then Fall asleep together and never wake up. Life is round and it is our destruction of it.
grateful:
Allen Ginsberg
Jack Kerouac
William S. Burroughs
The old us and the beat us
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