Free Visions of Gerard by Jack Kerouac

with quick and open robbery, and vanishes with your peace—“I’ll have to die, I’ll have to die!” steals the dark cant-help-it thought—“If it doesnt stop”—And “ It wont stop ” sneaks the other thought, coming with the pain as voucher—
    â€œThroughout all that, throughout that snowy window and the cold night and the big wind, and my leg and everything else in the house, throughout all that there isnt something else?”
    And ecstasy unfolds inside his mind like a flower and says Yes, and he sees millions of white dots, like, and in another instant his legs are stabbing again and he’s opened his eyes to concentrate on the concentrating—Like a Roman Soldier left to die on a deserted battlefield and howling for mercy for three days running, without food or water, and finally dying, which is a remembrance of the great American Saint Edgar Cayce (according to him in an earlier transmigration) Gerard a petallish thing of 9 is left to face cold unhopeful bone antagonized deep by elements within itself that will to war and wreck it, he himself, his personal-soul, is but victimized, tyrannized, wracked, flung aside, suffered to be a loser in the dubious game of mortal well-being—Words cant do it—“I’ve been thrown to that!”—A thousand realizations come to him—“It’s got to stop!” the constant human thought as pain continues to hurt—
    Words cant do it, readers will get sick of it—
    Because it’s not happening to themselves—
    Â 
    â€œO Lord, Ethereal Flower,
    Messenger from Perfectness,
    Hearer and Answerer of Prayer,
    Raise thy diamond hand,
    Bring to naught,
    Destroy,
    Exterminate—
    Â 
    O thou Sustainer,
    Sustain all who are in extremity—
    Â 
    Bless all living and dying things in
    the endless past of the ethereal flower,
    Bless all living and dying things in
    the endless present of the ethereal flower,
    Bless all living and dying things
    in the endless future of the ethereal flower,
    amen.”
    Â 
    Unceasing compassion flows from Gerard to the world even while he groans in the very middle of his extremity.
    But comes morning and a temporary cessation of his pain and Ma’s up making oatmeal in the kitchen, the steam from the stove is fragrant and comes and steams Gerard’s bedroom window and gives everything a wonderful new quality of gladness, of simple attempt—The earth and the flesh be harsh, but there’s comradeship below—“I’m making you some nice oatmeal, Gerard, and some nice toasts—wait another five minutes, I’ll put you that on a tray and we’ll have a nice breakfast together.”
    â€œIt was a long night, Mama.”
    â€œWell now it’s finished, my golden angel—It was hurting?”
    â€œ Oui ”—sadly.
    â€œYou shoulda called me if it was hurting—Always call me when you need something, Mama is there—There! Ti Pousse is awake—your chum’s gonna get up and you can spend the morning having fun together.”
    â€œO Mama, I’m so happy it’s morning—the oatmeal smells so good—You’re so nice, Mama.”
    Such tributes few mothers hear, or at least over so little, and over the oatmeal she blurs and rubs her eyes—“Dear angel, are you comfortable?—here, I’ll fix your pillow—there”—slapping the pillow expertly, then kissing him—“There—Mama’s golden angel—Dont worry, you’ll be all better in two months—the Doctor Simpkins told me—You’ll be able to go out and play in the nice warm weather!—It’ll be March in two weeks and bing , April!—May!—See how fast it goes?”
    â€œ Oui , Ma.”
    â€œDont you worry, with your Mama to take care of you you’ll be well in two shakes of a lamb’s tail—”
    Great joy, because of the vacuum created by great