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Sunday Night
MaryHelen Swanson, editor

I do not intend to minimize the seriousness of the world situations facing us today. As this week began with visions of soldiers marching en masse in foreign countries and shiploads of Americans heading off into a dark ocean, the fear that war was eminent was all too real. Still, I see nothing wrong with trying to keep our spirits up and I thought you might enjoy a little trip down memory lane. I believe the message at the end might help us all get through these anxious weeks ahead.
Itís interesting to watch the television shows about the real times of our lives, like those 60s and 70s series that are being produced today. When I do take the time to watch them, however, I wonder, ìWhere the heck was I?î
I suppose every time a new generation looks back it picks up on the most dramatic and profound events and, like a caricaturist, exaggerates certain aspects to make them more interesting. Still, watching those shows can be an eye-opening experience.
Every once in a while, even without the aid of a television series, you get a flashback to a time in your life that youíd almost forgotten. Last week I suddenly remembered my ìbeatnikî stage. We hardly ever hear about the beatniks these days so thereís little to remind us of that unique time.
As far as I can tell, that brief juncture came shortly after ìHow Much is that Doggy in the Windowî and just before ìYou Ainít Nothiní But a Hound Dog.î
The beatnik era was Dobie Gillis, Maynard G. Krebs and all that. It was a time for deep thinking. It was cool, real cool. It was a time of coffee houses (which I was not old enough to visit) and weird poetry (which I was old enough to write). Thereís a difference between the drama of beatnik poetry and the peace, love verse of the hippies which came shortly after. Beatnik was the other side of bobby socks and poodle skirts and bubbly girls with their flippant attitudes and giggly flirtations. Beatnik was me.
I spent the time wearing black tights and a black turtleneck with a plaid wool skirt. I completed my outfit with a yellowing fringed silk scarf, that had belonged to my grandfather, wrapped around my neck, sunglasses and a black beret tilted atop my head of long straight hair. I was about 12, I was heavy into writing poetry, everything from haiku to limericks, from sonnets to free verse. Daily I penned poem after poem, pouring out my soul and professing to understand the meaning of life and death and my existence. I put together little books of my writings, shed a few tears on the watercolor illustrations I had added, for dramatic effect, and bound them together with a thin blue ribbon. To shut out the stress of my preteen world, I would sit on the living room floor cross-legged and drink tomato juice out of a wine glass, munching on Ritz crackers while reciting my poetry by the light of a small candle.
In doing so I learned an important thing - itís not easy reading poetry in sunglasses by candlelight.
But I loved the drama - the deep meaning of expressionless prose, the solitude of candlelight and exotic elegance of the wine glass. The tomato juice and crackers werenít so bad either. I was playing it cool.
How could life be improved? I longed for the day when I could go to New York and sit on a high stool in a backstreet coffee house where I would plunk out one note on my old guitar and recite my verse. It had to be the most abstruse versification I could produce. It had to have feeling, even if no one understood what I was saying. That was the best part of beatnik poetry, you could say nothing at all and be appreciated for your efforts. If it moved someone, stirred an emotion, brought a tear, or perhaps a shout of ìright onî from the back of the room, I would be a success.
And then ... I fell in love with Frankie Avalon and Fabian and Ricky Nelson and Capezzio shoes and Bobby Brooks coordinated outfits, blouse and skirt, ìbucketî purses and ìflats.î Gone was the morose, the tone of my verse perked up and I loved everybody and everything about the world.
Someday Iíll bore you with the memories of that interesting era. For now, just remember, play it cool, real cool. Itís not a bad idea, even as we face the frightening unknown in 2003.

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