a letter from San francisco....K

Kerouac, the writer, has an alley way named after him in San Francisco.

I am not sure that if you had asked him how he would like to be remembered after his death he would have answered, “name an alley way after me please”, but he would have been pleased how the alley way was used last Friday.

At about 6.3o after the free pizza had been finished and the final microphone set up a part Brazilian, part Italian, part American and part hippy lit some sage leaves, handed them to the up-wind side of the expectant audience and then blew ceremoniously on his Conch shell to the four cardinal points. The fifth international poetry festival was under way, a mere 27 years after the fourth.

Kerouac’s alley is sandwiched between City Lights Book Shop and Vesuvios the Bar and was previously mentioned as home to the Chinese Tin can smasher (see C). Although it is small and narrow the organizers had managed to squeeze in a stage, drum kit and three microphones, chairs for the press and chairs for the 15 visiting poets.

The alley is brightened on one side by a mural celebratinging peace and the Chiapas peasant revolt in Mexico, on the other by the stained glass windows of Vesuvio. At the other end the concrete sides of a Chinese supermarket and tourist gift shop have been painted a very uninteresting shade of sand orange and off salmon pink, the only decoration being a tangle of electrical wires and two zinc heating ducts. Overhead voluminous white underpants were drying on the fire escape.

In the centre of the alleyway a paving stone of sufficient size has some of Kerouac’s words carved in a spiral pattern and to each side, alternating with the more standard grey concrete ones there are other quotes from writers and sages, some translated into Chinese and set in gold.

One end of the alley is in China Town the other in North Beach, the former home of the Beat Poets and today a strongly Italian neighbourhood.

My favourite quote, from the Chinese end of the alley is,” In the company of best friends, there is never enough wine.”

The jazz band started up after the conch player, which must have been difficult as the bass player hadn’t turned up, and when he did he had to squeeze his way through an already squashed audience. There were speeches from politician and sponsor but the main event was the appearance of Lawrence Ferlengetti (see c) himself and it was for him that the audience had reserved and then delivered their love.

The warmth of feeling for the man, who is now 88, was evident.

Yes there were poems to be read and heard, yes there was a mysterious yet strikingly beautiful woman in red and there was an interesting conversation with Michael who may or may not have been drunk, and finally we were all blown away by the energy of a hip hop rap slam poet.

But that’s another letter or three.