The memory of Allen Ginsberg’s poetry reading at CMU on April 8th, 1994 will forever exist in my mind in full technicolor detail and with immediate recall. In the sense of personal and spiritual gravity, i count the experience of attending this reading as one of my life’s highest times. Oddly enough, contrary to my life lived of the continual observer…compiling unimportant details, facts and stats into a mental database for instant reference in service to absolutely no one but myself…I’ve never been able to remember how I heard about or even knew the reading was happening. Maybe a mention on the local college radio station? A City Paper shout-out perhaps, under the extensive weekly “literary events” listings? From overheard rumblings mumbled a few aisles away while digging at Jerry’s? It’s all a black screen and a white page until that night.
My first memory is scoring an on-campus parking spot close to the venue and immediately liberating a flyer for the event off of a nearby telephone pole after exiting the car.
Another personally uncharacteristic aspect to this night was that although my introduction to the Grateful Dead universe…and parallel to that, its obsessive world of live music taping & recording…was still a year away…I have no idea what prompted me to grab the micro-cassette recorder, that i infrequently used to document spontaneous poetic brainstorms, to then use it to record what turned out to be such a personally historic experience. Thankfully, the reward of that oddly-timed instinct has been my ability to revisit that amazing night with my recording ever since.
I knew having an expectation for AG to include any of the handful of poems I was already familiar with from his historical cannon of classics - Howl, Kaddish, America, A Supermarket in California, etc. into the evenings “setlist” would be foolish. And while my suspicions were correct, the pieces presented from his latest collection “Cosmopolitan Greetings”, were still instantly illuminating and delivered warmly, with monkish languidly and wisdom dripping from every stanza. We were also treated to his harmonium-assisted interpretations of material taken from William Blake’s “Songs of Innocence” & “Inexperience”, which would often involve audience participation that allowed us all to convene with his creative genius.
As the reading drew to a close, I sat stunned and silent in my chair, unable to comprehend what I had just witnessed and took part in. It had instantly blew open mental walls and widened creative parameters for me and still continues to echo boldly in the catacombs of my mind & soul to this day. Everything I experienced that night was like finally getting to attend the type of church service or prayer meeting that, up until that point, had only existed in my mind. I felt that the entire reading was unmistakably holy and spiritual…but academic and philosophical too…mystical & mythical…intoxicating & empathetic…soulfully healing & fulfilling…and a truly lucid literary day-dream turned evening of undeniable reality with a heaping side-order of inspiration to last a lifetime.
Most of the crowd shuffled outside, choosing self-reflective cigarettes and scholarly discussion in the courtyard over remaining frozen in their folding-chairs in hopes that their reality would eventually reform. So, its wasn’t until after those few additional moments of extended catatonia that i snapped “awake” in my chair to discover my copy of AG’s “Collected Poems - 1947-1980” anthology sitting in my lap. Apparently, along with the micro-cassette recorder, I had also grabbed the massive book on my way out that night with equally unknown intentions in mind that I’ll never remember or understand. But of course, in hindsight, i’m eternally grateful for the unconscious instinct behind it to this day.
I grabbed the red-covered book and sprung from my chair, walking straight towards the abandoned lectern and folding table adjacent to it, now loosely populated with professors, grad students and other "brotherhood-of-the-elbow-patch" members crowded around AG. None of my actions that followed were premeditated. I was simply executing a plan that I wasn’t even aware i was an accomplice to. I sheepishly moved closer to the action of the buzzing hive of folks trying desperately to engage in self-serving conversation for personal validation. AG noticed me almost immediately standing loose-kneed in the back of the crowd, actively avoiding any eye contact and motioned for the adoring half-circle to take a break from their own brilliance to let this visibly shaking youth step forward to meet him.
I swear…when those dozen or so people stepped back to reveal the balding, bearded bard of the Beats standing directly in front of me…well, I swear a few things really…
…he was absolutely glowing…ok, maybe not “glowing”, per se…but I saw an unmistakable “aura” or “light” surrounding him that i will argue the existence of till my dying day. I think he was even f’n floating a few inches above the ground too. In fact, i’m pretty certain that’s when i started to “float” or was “without any ground below me” too. I also don’t remember saying anything…at all…not a single word. It was LC Greenwood and full-size candy bars at Halloween all over again! All I could do was present him with my copy of his book in one hand and hand him a black Sharpie with the other. He took both, locking eyes with mine and smiling, as if to say with silent reverence - “I understand…everything is alright…you are safe…you are loved…and you are the universe.”
After happily signing and dating the 1st page of my book, he returned it back to me, still silently standing there like a glacier. I was fully unprepared for what came next as AG offered his open, extended arms to me. Without blinking, I found myself embracing my poetic hero in an unexpected but unbelievable hug of love & humanity. I think i managed to mutter a “thank you so much…i love you” style babble-blurb as i turned to leave, still floating inches off the ground as i exited the side door of the building. I felt like I just hugged an angel. And looking back now some 28 years later, I’m absolutely certain that i did.
2 side notes:
- AG signed my book, adding the date of the reading…but also included a circled “AH” as part of his signature. Which I’ve since learned is part of the “Om, Ah, Hum” Buddhist mantra used to purify the mind, speech and heart. But of course to the outsider, would be seen as an acronym for “AssHole”, which was my mom’s best guess the first time I showed the book to her. Funny, not funny, mum.
- That 2nd semester, I took all of the influence previously passed down from Professor Bernard…mixed it with my recent diet of post-WWII American Beat-related and inspired literature…and infused it with the excitement from meeting AG…and decided that my next chapter of my educational and actual life involved attending the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at the buddhist-based Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado. I independently researched the school, requesting brochures from the college and seeking-out testimonials from former students to help guide my decision. In my typical habit of quitting the game on 4th and inches with the ball just outside the end-zone, I requested and filled-out my application, even securing a check from my dad to cover the costs of applying…only to eventually loose ALL confidence and momentum…and NEVER…MAILING…THE…FUCKING…THING…IN. I was so sure that I would be turned down by Naropa that I figured I’d save them the time to do so themselves and deny myself the chance before they could. This has stuck in my side ever since. There’s a lesson to be learned here with the help of some banal wording and overly used, statements of cliche…so pick yr’ poison and chase yr’ dreams, folks…it's as simple as that.
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