We grow accustomed to the Dark - When Light is put away -
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Good bye - A Moment - We uncertain step
For newness of the night -
Then - fit our Vision to the Dark - And meet the Road - erect - And so of larger - Darknesses -
Those Evenings of the Brain -
When not a Moon disclose a sign -
Or Star - come out - within - The Bravest - grope a little -
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead -
But as they learn to see - Either the Darkness alters -
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight -
And Life steps almost straight.
Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
A woman from the audience asks: ‘Why were there so few women among the Beat writers?’ and [Gregory] Corso, suddenly utterly serious, leans forward and says: “There were women, they were there, I knew them, their families put them in institutions, they were given electric shock. In the ’50s if you were male you could be a rebel, but if you were female your families had you locked up.
We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories.