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Jun 28, 2005 01:30

"...to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head..."
--Howl, by Allen Ginsberg

About my second and a half month in Portland, my writing teacher forced the sideways cap wearing trogolodytes of PCC to study the Beats. There was much bitching and moaning. Collosuses like Kerouac and Burroughs were torn in the tendon, sent toppling down by powerful declartions of, "This is gay."

It was humiliating to be there, locked in the deeps of a depressive episode as it was, and now having my rusty old mettle tested against feckless fucks like these.
Until:
Troy, the optimistic starry eyed new professor, played them a video of Allen Ginsberg's Howl as read by Al Pacino. I was floored, chilled to the bone and so absorbed that I hardly noticed my classmates reactions. When the lights flooded back into the room, it looked like an AA meeting for stupid people. They were downright humbled.
A group moment of clarity, or as Rick says, "I've had a lifetime of clarity, pal..."
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