[more from Jimmy's journals]
----------------------------
USA 1979
The London Preamble
June
The boat moves out of Dun Laoghaire Harbour, hugs the land to the south for a tenuous five minutes until Killiney Bay comes into view round the corner. The deck tilts, heaves and veers out to sea. Fog sinks, obscuring the buildings of Dublin, though the silhouettes of the Sugarloaf and Killiney Hill still stand out a strange black. I don’t move to the other rail, don’t see the north side, don’t feel the need.
An inexplicable sense of loneliness wells from my stomach, hurting. As I look at the Irish coast disappearing, I’m not aware of landscape, mountains, buildings, only of peoples’ lives losing significance. I’m intensely aware of this as the source of the pain. My eyes sting. It’s the tearing I encountered before and before, this time deeper, stronger.
… And friends grew small from me …
I know it will go. It has before. Not completely. The pain will be smothered beneath the sediments of the coming weeks. As my boat moves away from the Irish coast, I realize what this place means to me: more than history, culture, landscape -
It’s the people.
2 Days Later
Here I am stranded in London. Barnes Common, to be precise. Nice place, cozily tucked away amongst the trees… but not a patch on British Columbia, I’m sure.
Stranded in London, waiting for Freddie Laker to get his act together. A week in London is the limit, and if Freddie hasn’t shifted his ass by then, I’ll have to shift mine. A tour around Devon, Cornwall and Somerset seems appealing? France doesn’t. I’m into English at the moment. If it’s got to be culture shock, it must be English language culture, not French.
Four pints of Watneys last night in the Travellers’ Rest, of all places, tasted like water from a rusty tin can laced with disinfectant. Admittedly, Youngs Special Bitter tastes like washing up liquid, but it does make you drunk.
Missed Stan Getz at Ronnie Scotts by three days.
I’m not quite sure whether it isn’t an America of the mind I’m looking for. In that case, I won’t need a plane. However, there’s no hurry. Remember, we’re Irish.
Riverside Pub Beer Garden, Hammersmith
Wed ?th
Down the Thames on a sweaty summer night. Clammy laughter, changing river light. Seamus and Gary and Rose, Juvenilia and Greek tales of oozo boozo and round islands on the ends of roads from here.
The Bingo Experience
Half of them enjoy it. Half of them drink it down like 11:25 pints. The couple who played cards during the spaces between bingo games played fast. The gambling (“play”) craving drives that couple to bring a pack of cards for a quick game after each bingo game, to cause 20 grown men and women to queue 2 abreast for a hurried rattle and whirr at the one-armed-bandit machine during the interval. Body language screams “You’re wasting my time!” For these people, life itself is a finger-tapping interlude. For these people, the brief intervals of non-gambling are yawning voids.
Write an essay on “The Two Londons”, a foreigner’s impression, a Londoner’s impression. Is the dichotomy evident? If so, in what ways?
Sat June 24th
That’s a guess. I know the day. Dates don’t really matter at the time. It’s always afterwards that they become important.
I’m sitting on a train in Baker Street, going west, nearly drunk.
I worked today, Saturday morning overtime at Hammersmith Town Hall. Two of us worked in the kitchen, putting pots in acid. How ludicrous? Acid, I’ve discovered, is not as powerful as alkali, sizzling stuff. I did learn something after all from The Gutty in the lab at Presentation College, Bray, learned, despite myself and others, skills I could exploit later in my career in the field of Kitchen Science. Yes Sir. Sodium is a respected element. Question: Turn a black pot silver in 3 minutes flat. Go to the pub. Drink lager. Not bitter. Not Guinness. Call a black man Murphy. Be familiar; make it Spud. After all, it’s overtime. Go to the Gents. Piss. Straighten your face. Eat pork sandwiches and drink dark tea. Sodium acetate corrosion does not benefit from 3-hour time lags. (Point 2). Addendum: 24 hour time lags in boiling water solution – result (++) = (-) burning a hole in a frying pan. Eliminate from experiment list. Weekend results will be assessed on Monday morning. Results available to interested result-minded by approximately 8:30 am, June 26th, Town Hall, Hammersmith.
This train journey does not exist, such are the powers of mind.
Wembley Park
Cultivated, inaccessible, styleful houses. Jews around the corner. Garden paranoeia. Longway from town. Not the place to have the blues. I haven’t. I’m bright brown.
Shepherds Bush,(with the cousins)
Watched a TV documentary on The Inner Game. You can’t add it on. If you do, the movement is inhibited. You must let it grow. Relax. Meditate. There’s such a thing as trying too hard. Consciousness inhibits relaxed concentration. Sport moments can produce feelings of total ecstasy and release, a vehicle for consciousness uncluttering, fusion of mind and body, feeling outside of yourself for a second, a religious experience, an alternative to mystic enlightenment peak experiences.
Tuesday hangover
Alack! The stars have turned awry
Black, black the colours in the sky
My brightest browns have – aaaagh!
There is some sphere in yon firmament
Methinks doth sway my influence
O’er the grizzly cliff-edge
Where hugey heights do topple it to doom
Woke up this morning a crapulent mess, cellophane wrapping round my brain. Oxygen deprivation. Plastic doesn’t let the air in.
Let’s face it – I travel through London like I travel through life: on the first bus, and the divil take the hindmost. Problem is, it’s usually going the wrong way. What’s wrong with walking anyway?
Stormy Monday Blues
For the news behind these moving scenes, join us again after this short break…
Hope & Anchor Pub, Islington, A trip into the deep 60s, R&B London style
The Blues Band
Jo Ann Kelly
Dave Kelly
Hughie Flint
Tom Mc Guinness
Paul Jones
Keith Fletcher
Walking the Dog in Ravenscourt Park
The sky was full and moving fast
Something was about to happen
I had to be out there
We started out the gate, me and Toby
He was after smells, me, sights
The sky fulled and lowered
Soon, all was sky
It touched the trees in the park
It settled over the grass
The people in the park were painted, stationary
The sky rolled through, then stopped
Thunder
The people were gone
The park was empty, the trees umbrellas
Me and Toby: he after sights, me thoughts
The park was all
The rain came
We stood, looking: he, restless, straining, me, calm
The rain, the things it touched, was all
The rain stopped
The sky was empty, high
The water on the ground
The drips
We moved off
A Chance Meeting
Met Brian Kenny in busy Westminster. Doing what? Putting 20,000 pounds into a Strand bank. What a job! I feel he’s in Limbo, and it’s my job to stay out. Not that one man’s Limbo mightn’t be another’s paradise. It’s not mine. Home’s closer to that. We drank a pint or two, and parted. I got the number 600 bus.
O’Hare Airport, Boston, USA
July 4th, 1979, 2 am
“Go, seeker, if you will, throughout the land and you will find us burning in the night.”
Thomas Wolfe – You Can’t Go Home Again
Is it Wednesday or Tuesday?
Yesterday’s flight was delayed 6 hours. That delay came even after I had slept outside the Victoria Terminal from 1 o’clock the previous morning. I begin to learn the meaning of travel weariness.
No glorious entry this into America sailing high over the welcoming Statue of Liberty, but a sneaky flight into Logan Airport under the cover of darkness a few hundred miles north.
At the moment I couldn’t give a fuck if it was Christmas day. I got well and truly interrogated by US Immigration officers about my miserable pittance: how much cash am I carrying? $250. How long am I intending to stay? 6 weeks. Do I have a name and address to go to? Yes. Where? Fort Worth, Texas. Raised eyebrows, but they let me through. I won’t leave the USA a fortune – that’s for sure. Well, we’ll see.
I don’t like sleeping in airport lounges, but less do I like the prospect of wandering into darkest Boston at all hours of the morning. It’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Where is this airport anyway? I’ll need a map. Check it out. Where to go?
The airport café reminds me of the motorway limbo of the service station: unreal, but nonetheless real for being so. Is that water he’s drinking? It is! The American word is “break”. Because the American way of life exists at such a tension, an occasional break means merely a lapse into the state of ease or relaxation we consider necessary. What’s our counterpart of a “break”? A joint? A dose of speed? The television is a continuous monotone background sound. And the coloured lights flash mindlessly across your vision. Television Eye. Do people watch TV all night? Or is it like the traffic, necessary?
I haul my rucksack and guitar down to the “T” Boston subway station, buy a ticket, wait for a train downtown. Get on board. Check gear: rucksack, OK. Guitar, where? WHERE? JESUS! I LEFT IT ON THE PLATFORM! I take short breaths as the train leaves my guitar farther and farther behind. The image of my guitar in its brown vinyl cover where I’d left it leant against the platform wall burns on my retina as I whip my rucksack out at the next stop and scramble up the stairs over the bridge down to the opposite platform to wait for the next train back to the airport… please, PLEASE, PLEASE! Door opens – leap out, race for the stairs to cross the bridge, race down the stairs to where I’d left it, multiple scenarios wrestling for control as I clatter desperate down the last steps to the platform where I’d boarded the train…
There she is, in her brown guitar case…
Angelica.
Where I’d left her…
Leaning against the wall.
I claim my guitar I’d despaired was gone.
A good omen on my first day in America.
Downtown Boston, Quincy Market
You look up in surprise at 30-storey blocks, magnificently interbuilt amongst the colonial houses, congruent. Many nationalities in the streets…
The aggression and confidence around me is at first unnerving, then begins to infect me.
In The Great Gatsby Bar, beer’s 95c a half pint glass.
A customer makes a rash comment about a baseball team.
Barman: I’ll bet you 20 to 1 they finish woist.
Taken.
This barman likes to promote argument for fun. It fills his day. He reels off his list of beers like a bus timetable.
Someone’s just asked for a screwdriver!
YMCA Washroom:
- What part are you from? You’re not from around here.
- Ahm frem up Pennsylvania. Boeen roun’ here coupla years.
- Hard to get to?
- Don’ reale know; s’go’n back home laest year but maw money din look goowad.
The YMCA certainly is a good deal. Plain accommodation, room, bed, bathroom, colour TV thrown in. at $10 a night it’s worth it. I’ll stay two nights. Maw money don’ look goowad.
And they do a reasonably cheap meal: hash browns, eggs over easy, flapjacks, maple syrup, coffee - though the breakfast bartender hasn’t much patience for a procrastinating Irish customer.
In my room, I sit on the bed and watch TV, fascinated. American TV strikes me as unsophisticated. No apparent indirect appeal, little disguise, imagination, new approach. Old formulas repeated. Ads every five minutes.
State Lottery Advertisement:
“I can take anything they dish out to me; I’ve got my number going for me.”
Independence Day is something big. They’re singing in the square, chanting Spirituals, solos and chorus, switching, merging jazz style, tambourine, violin, crazy soaring dipping rolling trumpet.
When they busk here, it’s not your Dandelion Market tinny guitar and tiny wail. They do it in the streets, and they can play!
From a distance the music sounds recorded and amplified. But as you approach the source of the music, you’re amazed to discover live, acoustic performers:
· “Take 5” on alto sax and guitar, in the Quincy Market
· Tenor sax and upright bass, echoing from the natural acoustics at the base of a building
· Oboe, violin and piccolo on the T platform
Firecrackers tear across the sky above the Charles River, skyscrapers are mirrored on the Bay, crowds surge around the great ear of the auditorium on the promenade, where the Boston Pops Orchestra play the Stars & Stripes. I tear open my free pack of Marlboro and watch the sky exploding way up and down the line, burning in the night.
And it’s Independence Day.
Sunday
I mooch round the leafy, cobbled streets and leaning facades of Beacon Hill. Imagine Washington Irving popping out for the morning papers.
Monday
I take the T out to Harvard, the end of the line, walk awestruck past the University Campus with its 21 libraries, keep walking to the edge of town…
My first lift! Rolly, University lecturer from Arlington, brings me home for a beer, shows me his farm in the cellar, plucks some buds, rolls a couple of joints. We sit with his two teenage sons and listen to Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush. I’m out of it. Neil Young never sounded so fine.
I break up the party – resisting an invitation to stay, restless for the road… Rolly insists on revisiting the cellar to harvest more buds for a parting gift to sustain me on my journey. Embarrassed at his generosity, I nevertheless pocket my expertly rolled Rolly rolls and off I go to look for America…
I walk through sun-dashed White Birch and Maple forest, a Don Quixote guided by the magic hand of the wayfarer’s muse…
After four or five miles, of course, I discover that in my confusion I’ve gone the wrong road.
I get a lift with anti-nuke people, engage effortlessly in incoherent back seat discussion on nuclear power.
I’m in the Berkshires. Never seen so many trees!
Under a tree on the Mohawk Trail. Stoned. What’s this? Mosquitoes? No. Flying ants! Landing on my HAND!
I imagine myself in an Easy Rider café scene, before settling to sleep under a tree.
It’s a warm night. The fireflies at first baffle, then delight me.
In the morning, I get a lift through low, rolling tree-covered mountains. Well preserved wooden houses each with its patio. Lots of churches. I get dropped outside Albany, where I get a lift in a jeep to a toll gate, halfway.
Gary Ell, recording company man, has spotted my guitar, stops to pick me up. He’s on his way to a Polka festival in Amsterdam, invites me to tag along. I’m chuffed. That afternoon, I enjoy a fine display of dancing, a whirl of red & white. Then, back to Fonda where we have dinner with Gary’s brother, wife, and mom. Then, on to the VillageTavern where Big Jim Healy is playing country music. Then, a late invitation to Jim’s home, where I meet wife, Gerty, Milt and Betty, drink more beer and listen to talk about Nashville neurosis and the music business. Couch bed.
Next day, I play with Jim’s kids – and the mosquitoes. We play American games. We drive up to the Adirondack Mountains where Jim is booked to play again.
The following day, to the softball game. Tribes Hill Junior Girls are playing. My first softball game; the kids are shocked at my ignorance! And I’ve got an accent!!
Next morning, I try to escape, but Betty comes to pick me up and I’m whisked off to Pallatine Bridge for the day for dinner, and an interview and photos with Alan, cub reporter forThe Editor. In between duties, I enjoy a game of chess, a smoke and a talk at the pub. They’re playing Rockabilly, smooth and diddley. Late to bed.
I’m away early in the morning; they take me to Otega, Unidilla, Brooks, where we have a good meal and blueberry pie before saying goodbye.
Master of Reading, Watkins,
Bighampton, Big Bend. I meet Bill Brown, hobo, watching a softball game through the fence. The Salvation Army are playing as a big rain comes on. We make uncomfortable beds, under a tree. Bill Brown, the old gentleman of the road, preaches two hours solid through the rain, on “common sense”, self-assessment and direction.
Next morning, he’s gone. I get my first lift on the back of a Ford Pick-up heading for Scranton. “Don’t sit on the oil.” I get a crick from contorting my legs to avoid the oil. Three miles on, I pass Bill on the side of the road. I wave as he gets smaller. Then we round a bend through the trees. It’s one of those moments.
Into Pennsylvania State now. The hills are higher, trees and more trees.
Friday
Get a lift with a predatory gay, who drops me in a bad place on Interstate 81. I switch onto the State highway, and get stuck in hick country in very hot, humid weather. Tortoises pant across the road, a dead woodchuck lies, roadkill. Eventually, I get down to R.11. Now I know what American back roads can be – Phew!
Lightning. Thunder. Sudden downpour. Electricity poles down across the road.
Talk to several people who don’t give a shit about the possible consequences of nuclear power. Nuclear power can’t be argued for in terms of what has developed in the past. It threatens longer lasting and greater scale of danger. The Three Mile Island reactor meltdown happened less than three months ago. People are worried about their jobs.
Lift with Franklin Cromis, super-efficient ex-military policeman, who served in Korea. He gives me a bite to eat at his home, then we go up to the gun range. Franklin’s intolerably hyper. He shows me how to hold my shoulder for the recoil. I fire his Colt 45, and Magnum 44 at the target. The Kraak-kraak-kraak in the still mountain air brings a deer out to the edge of the forest to look. It’s not the hunting season. He knows.
Today I make slow progress. A rake’s. Feeling low. Maybe it’s the state I’m in?
We’re in Mennonite country. The Mennonite, or Amish communities have isolated themselves away from modern America. Their clothing and crafts and tools are 18th Century, by choice. They’re non-technological, self-supporting and very religious. It’s a big moral question: the old or the new? Or both? I think some of each, but not all of either.
Is the development of, and participation in a highly efficient and ultra-modern affluent society desirable? What are the priorities?
I’m sitting on the bank of the Susquehanna River, having cut off the legs of my jeans. Flies, mosquitoes and ants are attacking on three fronts. It’s bloody hot! In the 80s Fahrenheit, but it’s shady here. I had to get off that highway. I’d like to camp tonight.
Time for a smoke.
A rapid chain reaction of sense explosions: smell triggers visual image triggers sound, reverb, triggers touch, texture triggers taste. Waves of colour shift and dissolve like Sesame Street cartoons, to form new shapes, colours, rhythms as sense in turn triggers sense…
I’m woken from my euphoria by visions of people descending from another world…three kids who’ve come to swim. SPLASH!!! The bodies hit the water, while way across the river, a heron skims in to land bright white against the far shore’s green…
Seeing me probably startled them too!
That was good. Better still was the next lift in a pick-up truck to the Shippensburg Exit “camping spot” behind the Rockwells’s Camping.
Camping my arse – a nightlongthunderstorm. I get taken in by a landscape gardener. He gets up at 5:30 AM, then makes me feel slothful by asking “You getting’ up? It’s after eight!” They’re goers. Nice, but goers.
Lift.They say temperatures will be in the 90s today. The next lift gets me over the state line into Maryland. We’re southbound on Highway 81.
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USA 1979
The London Preamble
June
The boat moves out of Dun Laoghaire Harbour, hugs the land to the south for a tenuous five minutes until Killiney Bay comes into view round the corner. The deck tilts, heaves and veers out to sea. Fog sinks, obscuring the buildings of Dublin, though the silhouettes of the Sugarloaf and Killiney Hill still stand out a strange black. I don’t move to the other rail, don’t see the north side, don’t feel the need.
An inexplicable sense of loneliness wells from my stomach, hurting. As I look at the Irish coast disappearing, I’m not aware of landscape, mountains, buildings, only of peoples’ lives losing significance. I’m intensely aware of this as the source of the pain. My eyes sting. It’s the tearing I encountered before and before, this time deeper, stronger.
… And friends grew small from me …
I know it will go. It has before. Not completely. The pain will be smothered beneath the sediments of the coming weeks. As my boat moves away from the Irish coast, I realize what this place means to me: more than history, culture, landscape -
It’s the people.
2 Days Later
Here I am stranded in London. Barnes Common, to be precise. Nice place, cozily tucked away amongst the trees… but not a patch on British Columbia, I’m sure.
Stranded in London, waiting for Freddie Laker to get his act together. A week in London is the limit, and if Freddie hasn’t shifted his ass by then, I’ll have to shift mine. A tour around Devon, Cornwall and Somerset seems appealing? France doesn’t. I’m into English at the moment. If it’s got to be culture shock, it must be English language culture, not French.
Four pints of Watneys last night in the Travellers’ Rest, of all places, tasted like water from a rusty tin can laced with disinfectant. Admittedly, Youngs Special Bitter tastes like washing up liquid, but it does make you drunk.
Missed Stan Getz at Ronnie Scotts by three days.
I’m not quite sure whether it isn’t an America of the mind I’m looking for. In that case, I won’t need a plane. However, there’s no hurry. Remember, we’re Irish.
Riverside Pub Beer Garden, Hammersmith
Wed ?th
Down the Thames on a sweaty summer night. Clammy laughter, changing river light. Seamus and Gary and Rose, Juvenilia and Greek tales of oozo boozo and round islands on the ends of roads from here.
The Bingo Experience
Half of them enjoy it. Half of them drink it down like 11:25 pints. The couple who played cards during the spaces between bingo games played fast. The gambling (“play”) craving drives that couple to bring a pack of cards for a quick game after each bingo game, to cause 20 grown men and women to queue 2 abreast for a hurried rattle and whirr at the one-armed-bandit machine during the interval. Body language screams “You’re wasting my time!” For these people, life itself is a finger-tapping interlude. For these people, the brief intervals of non-gambling are yawning voids.
Write an essay on “The Two Londons”, a foreigner’s impression, a Londoner’s impression. Is the dichotomy evident? If so, in what ways?
Sat June 24th
That’s a guess. I know the day. Dates don’t really matter at the time. It’s always afterwards that they become important.
I’m sitting on a train in Baker Street, going west, nearly drunk.
I worked today, Saturday morning overtime at Hammersmith Town Hall. Two of us worked in the kitchen, putting pots in acid. How ludicrous? Acid, I’ve discovered, is not as powerful as alkali, sizzling stuff. I did learn something after all from The Gutty in the lab at Presentation College, Bray, learned, despite myself and others, skills I could exploit later in my career in the field of Kitchen Science. Yes Sir. Sodium is a respected element. Question: Turn a black pot silver in 3 minutes flat. Go to the pub. Drink lager. Not bitter. Not Guinness. Call a black man Murphy. Be familiar; make it Spud. After all, it’s overtime. Go to the Gents. Piss. Straighten your face. Eat pork sandwiches and drink dark tea. Sodium acetate corrosion does not benefit from 3-hour time lags. (Point 2). Addendum: 24 hour time lags in boiling water solution – result (++) = (-) burning a hole in a frying pan. Eliminate from experiment list. Weekend results will be assessed on Monday morning. Results available to interested result-minded by approximately 8:30 am, June 26th, Town Hall, Hammersmith.
This train journey does not exist, such are the powers of mind.
Wembley Park
Cultivated, inaccessible, styleful houses. Jews around the corner. Garden paranoeia. Longway from town. Not the place to have the blues. I haven’t. I’m bright brown.
Shepherds Bush,(with the cousins)
Watched a TV documentary on The Inner Game. You can’t add it on. If you do, the movement is inhibited. You must let it grow. Relax. Meditate. There’s such a thing as trying too hard. Consciousness inhibits relaxed concentration. Sport moments can produce feelings of total ecstasy and release, a vehicle for consciousness uncluttering, fusion of mind and body, feeling outside of yourself for a second, a religious experience, an alternative to mystic enlightenment peak experiences.
Tuesday hangover
Alack! The stars have turned awry
Black, black the colours in the sky
My brightest browns have – aaaagh!
There is some sphere in yon firmament
Methinks doth sway my influence
O’er the grizzly cliff-edge
Where hugey heights do topple it to doom
Woke up this morning a crapulent mess, cellophane wrapping round my brain. Oxygen deprivation. Plastic doesn’t let the air in.
Let’s face it – I travel through London like I travel through life: on the first bus, and the divil take the hindmost. Problem is, it’s usually going the wrong way. What’s wrong with walking anyway?
Stormy Monday Blues
For the news behind these moving scenes, join us again after this short break…
Hope & Anchor Pub, Islington, A trip into the deep 60s, R&B London style
The Blues Band
Jo Ann Kelly
Dave Kelly
Hughie Flint
Tom Mc Guinness
Paul Jones
Keith Fletcher
Walking the Dog in Ravenscourt Park
The sky was full and moving fast
Something was about to happen
I had to be out there
We started out the gate, me and Toby
He was after smells, me, sights
The sky fulled and lowered
Soon, all was sky
It touched the trees in the park
It settled over the grass
The people in the park were painted, stationary
The sky rolled through, then stopped
Thunder
The people were gone
The park was empty, the trees umbrellas
Me and Toby: he after sights, me thoughts
The park was all
The rain came
We stood, looking: he, restless, straining, me, calm
The rain, the things it touched, was all
The rain stopped
The sky was empty, high
The water on the ground
The drips
We moved off
A Chance Meeting
Met Brian Kenny in busy Westminster. Doing what? Putting 20,000 pounds into a Strand bank. What a job! I feel he’s in Limbo, and it’s my job to stay out. Not that one man’s Limbo mightn’t be another’s paradise. It’s not mine. Home’s closer to that. We drank a pint or two, and parted. I got the number 600 bus.
O’Hare Airport, Boston, USA
July 4th, 1979, 2 am
“Go, seeker, if you will, throughout the land and you will find us burning in the night.”
Thomas Wolfe – You Can’t Go Home Again
Is it Wednesday or Tuesday?
Yesterday’s flight was delayed 6 hours. That delay came even after I had slept outside the Victoria Terminal from 1 o’clock the previous morning. I begin to learn the meaning of travel weariness.
No glorious entry this into America sailing high over the welcoming Statue of Liberty, but a sneaky flight into Logan Airport under the cover of darkness a few hundred miles north.
At the moment I couldn’t give a fuck if it was Christmas day. I got well and truly interrogated by US Immigration officers about my miserable pittance: how much cash am I carrying? $250. How long am I intending to stay? 6 weeks. Do I have a name and address to go to? Yes. Where? Fort Worth, Texas. Raised eyebrows, but they let me through. I won’t leave the USA a fortune – that’s for sure. Well, we’ll see.
I don’t like sleeping in airport lounges, but less do I like the prospect of wandering into darkest Boston at all hours of the morning. It’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit. Where is this airport anyway? I’ll need a map. Check it out. Where to go?
The airport café reminds me of the motorway limbo of the service station: unreal, but nonetheless real for being so. Is that water he’s drinking? It is! The American word is “break”. Because the American way of life exists at such a tension, an occasional break means merely a lapse into the state of ease or relaxation we consider necessary. What’s our counterpart of a “break”? A joint? A dose of speed? The television is a continuous monotone background sound. And the coloured lights flash mindlessly across your vision. Television Eye. Do people watch TV all night? Or is it like the traffic, necessary?
I haul my rucksack and guitar down to the “T” Boston subway station, buy a ticket, wait for a train downtown. Get on board. Check gear: rucksack, OK. Guitar, where? WHERE? JESUS! I LEFT IT ON THE PLATFORM! I take short breaths as the train leaves my guitar farther and farther behind. The image of my guitar in its brown vinyl cover where I’d left it leant against the platform wall burns on my retina as I whip my rucksack out at the next stop and scramble up the stairs over the bridge down to the opposite platform to wait for the next train back to the airport… please, PLEASE, PLEASE! Door opens – leap out, race for the stairs to cross the bridge, race down the stairs to where I’d left it, multiple scenarios wrestling for control as I clatter desperate down the last steps to the platform where I’d boarded the train…
There she is, in her brown guitar case…
Angelica.
Where I’d left her…
Leaning against the wall.
I claim my guitar I’d despaired was gone.
A good omen on my first day in America.
Downtown Boston, Quincy Market
You look up in surprise at 30-storey blocks, magnificently interbuilt amongst the colonial houses, congruent. Many nationalities in the streets…
The aggression and confidence around me is at first unnerving, then begins to infect me.
In The Great Gatsby Bar, beer’s 95c a half pint glass.
A customer makes a rash comment about a baseball team.
Barman: I’ll bet you 20 to 1 they finish woist.
Taken.
This barman likes to promote argument for fun. It fills his day. He reels off his list of beers like a bus timetable.
Someone’s just asked for a screwdriver!
YMCA Washroom:
- What part are you from? You’re not from around here.
- Ahm frem up Pennsylvania. Boeen roun’ here coupla years.
- Hard to get to?
- Don’ reale know; s’go’n back home laest year but maw money din look goowad.
The YMCA certainly is a good deal. Plain accommodation, room, bed, bathroom, colour TV thrown in. at $10 a night it’s worth it. I’ll stay two nights. Maw money don’ look goowad.
And they do a reasonably cheap meal: hash browns, eggs over easy, flapjacks, maple syrup, coffee - though the breakfast bartender hasn’t much patience for a procrastinating Irish customer.
In my room, I sit on the bed and watch TV, fascinated. American TV strikes me as unsophisticated. No apparent indirect appeal, little disguise, imagination, new approach. Old formulas repeated. Ads every five minutes.
State Lottery Advertisement:
“I can take anything they dish out to me; I’ve got my number going for me.”
Independence Day is something big. They’re singing in the square, chanting Spirituals, solos and chorus, switching, merging jazz style, tambourine, violin, crazy soaring dipping rolling trumpet.
When they busk here, it’s not your Dandelion Market tinny guitar and tiny wail. They do it in the streets, and they can play!
From a distance the music sounds recorded and amplified. But as you approach the source of the music, you’re amazed to discover live, acoustic performers:
· “Take 5” on alto sax and guitar, in the Quincy Market
· Tenor sax and upright bass, echoing from the natural acoustics at the base of a building
· Oboe, violin and piccolo on the T platform
Firecrackers tear across the sky above the Charles River, skyscrapers are mirrored on the Bay, crowds surge around the great ear of the auditorium on the promenade, where the Boston Pops Orchestra play the Stars & Stripes. I tear open my free pack of Marlboro and watch the sky exploding way up and down the line, burning in the night.
And it’s Independence Day.
Sunday
I mooch round the leafy, cobbled streets and leaning facades of Beacon Hill. Imagine Washington Irving popping out for the morning papers.
Monday
I take the T out to Harvard, the end of the line, walk awestruck past the University Campus with its 21 libraries, keep walking to the edge of town…
My first lift! Rolly, University lecturer from Arlington, brings me home for a beer, shows me his farm in the cellar, plucks some buds, rolls a couple of joints. We sit with his two teenage sons and listen to Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush. I’m out of it. Neil Young never sounded so fine.
I break up the party – resisting an invitation to stay, restless for the road… Rolly insists on revisiting the cellar to harvest more buds for a parting gift to sustain me on my journey. Embarrassed at his generosity, I nevertheless pocket my expertly rolled Rolly rolls and off I go to look for America…
I walk through sun-dashed White Birch and Maple forest, a Don Quixote guided by the magic hand of the wayfarer’s muse…
After four or five miles, of course, I discover that in my confusion I’ve gone the wrong road.
I get a lift with anti-nuke people, engage effortlessly in incoherent back seat discussion on nuclear power.
I’m in the Berkshires. Never seen so many trees!
Under a tree on the Mohawk Trail. Stoned. What’s this? Mosquitoes? No. Flying ants! Landing on my HAND!
I imagine myself in an Easy Rider café scene, before settling to sleep under a tree.
It’s a warm night. The fireflies at first baffle, then delight me.
In the morning, I get a lift through low, rolling tree-covered mountains. Well preserved wooden houses each with its patio. Lots of churches. I get dropped outside Albany, where I get a lift in a jeep to a toll gate, halfway.
Gary Ell, recording company man, has spotted my guitar, stops to pick me up. He’s on his way to a Polka festival in Amsterdam, invites me to tag along. I’m chuffed. That afternoon, I enjoy a fine display of dancing, a whirl of red & white. Then, back to Fonda where we have dinner with Gary’s brother, wife, and mom. Then, on to the VillageTavern where Big Jim Healy is playing country music. Then, a late invitation to Jim’s home, where I meet wife, Gerty, Milt and Betty, drink more beer and listen to talk about Nashville neurosis and the music business. Couch bed.
Next day, I play with Jim’s kids – and the mosquitoes. We play American games. We drive up to the Adirondack Mountains where Jim is booked to play again.
The following day, to the softball game. Tribes Hill Junior Girls are playing. My first softball game; the kids are shocked at my ignorance! And I’ve got an accent!!
Next morning, I try to escape, but Betty comes to pick me up and I’m whisked off to Pallatine Bridge for the day for dinner, and an interview and photos with Alan, cub reporter forThe Editor. In between duties, I enjoy a game of chess, a smoke and a talk at the pub. They’re playing Rockabilly, smooth and diddley. Late to bed.
I’m away early in the morning; they take me to Otega, Unidilla, Brooks, where we have a good meal and blueberry pie before saying goodbye.
Master of Reading, Watkins,
Bighampton, Big Bend. I meet Bill Brown, hobo, watching a softball game through the fence. The Salvation Army are playing as a big rain comes on. We make uncomfortable beds, under a tree. Bill Brown, the old gentleman of the road, preaches two hours solid through the rain, on “common sense”, self-assessment and direction.
Next morning, he’s gone. I get my first lift on the back of a Ford Pick-up heading for Scranton. “Don’t sit on the oil.” I get a crick from contorting my legs to avoid the oil. Three miles on, I pass Bill on the side of the road. I wave as he gets smaller. Then we round a bend through the trees. It’s one of those moments.
Into Pennsylvania State now. The hills are higher, trees and more trees.
Friday
Get a lift with a predatory gay, who drops me in a bad place on Interstate 81. I switch onto the State highway, and get stuck in hick country in very hot, humid weather. Tortoises pant across the road, a dead woodchuck lies, roadkill. Eventually, I get down to R.11. Now I know what American back roads can be – Phew!
Lightning. Thunder. Sudden downpour. Electricity poles down across the road.
Talk to several people who don’t give a shit about the possible consequences of nuclear power. Nuclear power can’t be argued for in terms of what has developed in the past. It threatens longer lasting and greater scale of danger. The Three Mile Island reactor meltdown happened less than three months ago. People are worried about their jobs.
Lift with Franklin Cromis, super-efficient ex-military policeman, who served in Korea. He gives me a bite to eat at his home, then we go up to the gun range. Franklin’s intolerably hyper. He shows me how to hold my shoulder for the recoil. I fire his Colt 45, and Magnum 44 at the target. The Kraak-kraak-kraak in the still mountain air brings a deer out to the edge of the forest to look. It’s not the hunting season. He knows.
Today I make slow progress. A rake’s. Feeling low. Maybe it’s the state I’m in?
We’re in Mennonite country. The Mennonite, or Amish communities have isolated themselves away from modern America. Their clothing and crafts and tools are 18th Century, by choice. They’re non-technological, self-supporting and very religious. It’s a big moral question: the old or the new? Or both? I think some of each, but not all of either.
Is the development of, and participation in a highly efficient and ultra-modern affluent society desirable? What are the priorities?
I’m sitting on the bank of the Susquehanna River, having cut off the legs of my jeans. Flies, mosquitoes and ants are attacking on three fronts. It’s bloody hot! In the 80s Fahrenheit, but it’s shady here. I had to get off that highway. I’d like to camp tonight.
Time for a smoke.
A rapid chain reaction of sense explosions: smell triggers visual image triggers sound, reverb, triggers touch, texture triggers taste. Waves of colour shift and dissolve like Sesame Street cartoons, to form new shapes, colours, rhythms as sense in turn triggers sense…
I’m woken from my euphoria by visions of people descending from another world…three kids who’ve come to swim. SPLASH!!! The bodies hit the water, while way across the river, a heron skims in to land bright white against the far shore’s green…
Seeing me probably startled them too!
That was good. Better still was the next lift in a pick-up truck to the Shippensburg Exit “camping spot” behind the Rockwells’s Camping.
Camping my arse – a nightlongthunderstorm. I get taken in by a landscape gardener. He gets up at 5:30 AM, then makes me feel slothful by asking “You getting’ up? It’s after eight!” They’re goers. Nice, but goers.
Lift.They say temperatures will be in the 90s today. The next lift gets me over the state line into Maryland. We’re southbound on Highway 81.