Herbert Huncke Journal

From “Beware of Fallen Angels”, in Huncke’s Journal (The Poets Press, 1965), starting page 45 of The Herbert Huncke Reader (William Morrow & Co., 1997):

I remember the scene fully, am able this instant to see both Elise and Bill vividly – their clothing, their faces, their posture, the particular area wherein the whole distance between them was almost split dead center – the essence of their individual selves meeting at that point and neither would give way. I remember the way of Elise’s sitting and the way of Bill’s half-crouch, his left buttock resting on the heel of his left foot, the right leg bent downward at the knee, the foot flat on the floor, acting balance to myself to one side in a straight-back chair – watching and listening.

The setting was strangely beautiful. There was a quality of the unreal about it as if perhaps of a new dimension. Color alive and glowing everywhere – reds deep-hued and warm, to faintest pink and flame – blues almost black and shaded thru pale to peacock – yellow – orange – green – violet – umber – mud tones – and clear pure light. Huge squares of heavy drawing paper worked on with blue and red ink – applied by brush in a seemingly casual manner rapidly by Bill – who held chunks of a red and blue jungle from another world which filled the recesses of the front windows. Streamers a foot wide, and of varying lengths from two feet to six feet of a parchment-like material – containing one area after another of every conceivable color, shade, and tone within which faces took shape before the eye – hung like Chinese banners here and there through the two rooms. A huge square of cloth stained in shades of violet and red, spots of palest green, and larger sections of black – the center a large mandala – the rest moving out from it – animal shapes or Tibetan monks standing alone and in groups at prayer or worship – was stretched taut over one wall filling it nearly to capacity. Beneath it on the floor were two mattresses, one on top of the other – spread with an Indian-patterned blanket of light and dark green, and an Afghan shawl of all colors. A set of shelves holding books sat between the two windows at the foot of the bed, while along the wall opposite the hanging, all remained bare but for a small handcarved wooden chest – probably Italian workmanship – holding two or three brass bowls and trays and a photograph of Marcel Marceau in greasepaint and dressed as a sort of harlequin. At the head of the bed beneath one end of the hanging, a large square-shaped portable phonograph (capable of deep tonal and volume control) sat – a record of Middle Eastern teahouse songs on the turntable – the strange notes and increasing tempo electrifying the air with rhythmic vibrations. A brass Buddha sat on a black wood block at one side of the opening between the two rooms. A thin veil of lavender-gray smoke from a clay pot holding incense eddying upward wreathed the head. Next to the pot of incense were two bowls (one wooden, the other copper) holding rocks and colored stones, beads in all colors, several odd-shaped gold-plated figurines, chunks of wood, two or three strips of fur and several phial-shaped bottles with frosted glass stoppers. A book on witchcraft and the Tibetan Book of the Dead had been placed alongside the bowls, and the whole group of objects appeared like offerings upon an altar to a pagan god. It was here that Bill had stationed himself and, half crouching – his hands moving about constantly – reaching toward a bottle of ink the color he wanted at the moment – holding it for a moment before unstoppering it and setting it back on the floor – picking up his flute and placing it to his lips – blowing several sharp notes that cut into the sounds coming from the phonograph – lowering it from his mouth and twisting it in his fingers – touching lightly with his hand the bands of silver wire bound round the body of the flute just above the mouthpiece of a silver ring screwed or forced into the end – replacing it finally where it became another item among his work materials scattered in front of him. Brushes – pens – knives – scraps of wire – bottles bound in colored cloth with seals of sealing wax holding it in place, or silk thread wound around the necks – needles – scraps of paper and cloth – several squares of pastel-hued suede, folded and stacked – a few pieces of rice paper in the process of receiving visual creation – all spread out so he could touch first one, then the other – or splash color on them – or carefully execute a magic symbol in silver or gold paint or heavy black ink on the surface. He was never still – always changing things. He lit a black wax candle and – selecting a fair-sized gray rock – dropped hot wax on the top, and then set the candle in it until it cooled – then moved it next to the Buddha almost behind him. The light from behind gave an effect of seemingly almost emanating from him, creating an aura of shimmering light around his head. Directly opposite him on the other side stood a huge refrigerator with a large bowl of fruit on top. Periodically some one of the three of us would open the door of this monster in search of food or more often to open the freezer section to take out one of the three bottles of amphetamine solution Bill had placed there after mixing and dissolving it carefully in accordance with his almost ritualistic formula. He had always believed in order for amphetamine to be at its best there was a prescribed way of preparing it – it should be allowed to freeze before it is used. I am inclined to accept his theory as I have never used amphetamine that gave me as much of a lift or was as much pleasure to take. Next to the refrigerator was a straight-back chair with a profusion of clothing draped over the back and piled on the seat – coats, sweaters, scarves, shirts, gloves, and a hat. A table – square in shape – with an India print of a red background which was spread across the top and hanging down on all four sides almost to the floor – occupied the space next to the chair – the surface a conglomerate collection of cups, spoons, ashtrays, saucers, salt and pepper shakers, matches, cigarettes, burning candles – one was in a tall thin brass holder, and another was stuck in the top of a wine bottle, the sides thick with melted wax drippings. A book of poetry was opened and placed face down, here and there were spools of brightly colored silk thread, a small pair of scissors, innumerable small containers of pins, needles, and small objects of all kinds. At an angle facing the table yet able to observe the entire scene without changing position sat Elise – her long black hair loose and falling down her back to her waist – a faded blue shirt, open at the throat, pulled tight over her full breasts and blue jeans – without shoes – one leg stretched straight in front of her, the foot just reaching the edge of the table cover, which she was playing with by idly moving her toes – the other leg was raised and the foot rested on the edge of the round basket-like chair. Occasionally she would bend her body forward and rest her chin on her knee. She was smoking chain fashion, lighting each new cigarette in the corner of her mouth and letting it stay while she stroked her leg with her hand or perhaps searched through the stuff on the table for something she wanted at the moment. She was in a highly tense state and was angry with Bill. Now and then she would feel around beneath an orange-colored cushion covering the seat of the chair in which we sat until she located a small envelope containing pot which she would bring out and pass it to me in order to roll a stick or joint. Immediately above her head on the wall hung a large Japanese print of some god of children – the composition done in delicate strokes of the artist’s brush. On the same wall were two very delightful drawings done in watercolor by Lafcadio Orlovsky – one depicting a carnival scene and the other a sort of cubistic pattern of triangular color forms. Across from her I sat with my back to the door – separated from Bill by a desk stacked with books, papers, portfolios, pencils, pens, a letter opener, paper clips, Scotch tape, paste and glue, notebooks, letters opened and unopened, and a red clay flower pot in which grew a tall avocado plant rather gracefully – the stem bare of leaves except near the top where there existed only a few but in sufficient number to cause a bending of the stem in such a way it appeared to resemble the pose of a dancer.

We all three had been together without interruption for at least five hours and it was now well into the early hours of morning. A strange sense of the mystical lay like a patina over our efforts to communicate. We were aware of each other separately yet always collectively in a manner of telepathic consciousness. The very air seemed vibrant with electrical particles. Two related and at the same time divergent viewpoints had become focal centers for energetic discharges of thought. In some instances, they were assembled with minute attention to detail and balance of rationalization and frequency unleashed at the instant of conception. Bill believed in the power of magic and of the Phoenix Bird always arising from the holocaust of flaming destruction – thusly did God accept all things, including the dark forces, and saint or sinner, devil or angel were the same. Buddha could lead one closer to the God force than anything known by Western concept. Sweetness, delicacy, innocence, girl and boy, poetry, home, and personal possessions were abhorrent and had to be sacrificed to action and creativeness, and if all crumbled around one – leaving one exposed, torn, hungry, homeless – then this was a cleansing and a setting-free and it meant nothing. One imagined personal suffering and should be glad of the opportunity to aid creativity. Magic was his tool, and he would use it to help him create no matter who or what was destroyed in the process. Elise held other beliefs to be true and strongly resented the evil she felt was the very life blood of Bill. She refused to see him – to look at his work – to accept the magic to be trusted and did not believe it to be true. At best he was a charlatan and unworthy of respect. Hers was a God of wrath and there were saints and sinners, devils and angels, and they were all around us. She was a Jew and no one other than a Jew could understand her. There was no meeting of the mind, spiritually or physically, being possible between them. His words meant nothing – he used them only to try and cast a spell – he wished only to bring harm and pain – his desires were base, and smacked of the bestial.

[. . .]

His was a force both powerful and consuming, and when it surged through his being, his face, his body, and all physical aspects of himself became twisted and tortured, visible to the observer and yet denied vehemently and in foulest language. His true beauty lay within – perhaps only his eyes betraying what that might be – until he began creating, when his movements became fascinating to watch – his verbal outbursts, partially incantations that were melodious to the ear with an air of the mystic and magical – and one could easily be caught in the spell until at the last either one of his exquisite hangings lay open before you – rich in color and design – or his paintings – or carvings – or whatever – and you knew – because you had seen with your own eyes – these were not the results of contrived effort but instead had sprung from the inner being leaping out through his finger tips.

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