The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked

The Maverick, the Method, the Madness. The Rum Diary by Hunter Thompson on Verses Inked. All in – One Love

RUM BOTTLE

Hope has seldom been better explained, as understood in the cracking open of a bottle of rum.

Welcome to the world of verses inked, verses explained through ink. Better never, fashionably late, statutory – tending to ambling, as is the piece in discussion. Delightfully laid down, as often was during counter culture era, as also at Verses Inked, we present to the dear readers, this category they should be interested about. Verses Thread. We dive in first, here and how. Hunter S Thompson-The Rum Diaries.

The absolute artificer of Gonzo Journalism, you may rest your spine assure that if Hunter Thompson explains a situation, he would have had, in most accounts gone through it. There is then this iffy relationship which the writer shares with the keyboard. A chemistry which churns out the content. The perceptions in between the known and the unknown.

The Diary is in vein autobiographical. A dedication , as print suggests to Heidi Opheim, Mary Sue Rued and Dana Kennedy.

The following quote precedes the written text:-

My rider of the bright eyes,

What happened to you yesterday.?

I thought you in my heart,

When I bought your fine clothes,

A man the world could not slay.

 

-Dark Eileen O’Connell 1773.

 

Also Read:Who Killed Hunter S Thompson – An Inquiry into the Life and Death of Master of Gonzo 

 

HUNTERSTHOMPSON-PORTRAIT

Hunter Thompson, was a life long aficionado of alcohol, substance and mistake not, fire arms. The author was once a sports journalist at San Juan in Puerto Rico.

The narration of the plot hashes out a plethora of situation, which with overt gestures reflects the author’s time at the island. It remains a matter of more than mere chance that the characters stringing together the circumstances, in this case often radical, also draw inspiration from real life.

There is the all conquering, scrambling through, somehow protagonist, Paul Kemp, who throughout the narration, like almost everybody, almost always, in a drunken stupor, holds his own, as situations come hurling in, swell out of proportion towards the greater conclusion, leaving the reader in a state of wishful trance.

Paul Kemp’s romantic interest, from the very beginning, in fact, since his fateful flight to Puerto Rico, had been this petite blonde girl,Chenault. The situations in between the two always have a tensed, along the fringes of outrageous, knack about them.

There is then The Daily News, headed by an uncertain Ed Lotterman, and run by an entourage of staff. Sala the freelance photographer and a dear confidant to the protagonist; Yeamon, a close friend, also a reporter at the news, as well Chenault’s romantic interest during the former part of the story,until the carnival. The ever resourceful PR guy, Hal Sanderson, hell-raiser Moberg, the sports editor Bill Donovan, of prim and proper disposition, yet all in comparison and according to the situation. There is also a certain Mr. Zimburger, an acquaintance of Sanderson, a former captain at the Corps, still proud,more obsessed, a mean to an end.

The story is set against the back drop of fleeting communist references, the dwindling fortunes of the Daily News, and the influence of rum, which individually is the all encompassing throttle driving the narration ahead.

Al’s kitchen serving up its indigenous hamburgers and rum, plays host to a number of scenes. There is also the News office, and the sights sounds of Puerto-Rico which puts the novel together. The description of the Carnival at St Thomas, and the immediate events which ensued, is of notable importance to the flow of the time-line. Random watering holes, filled with writers, sailors and compulsive merry makers, that borrowed dilapidated car, that scooter in worse condition, a quiet beach somewhere, angry mobs, police stations, cab drivers, spill overs among innumerable Rum refills and the ever pressing tropical air. That is what makes the book, the odd two hundred pages of substance that it is.

The story concludes in a melting pot of emotions, which is somehow made mellow by the mere mention of Rum, albeit over and over again. The overarching daze seeps into the imagination of the avid reader,with conviction. The newspaper eventually shuts down, the staff are busy, getting the far flung fractals of their lives together. Their belligerence lead to a chaotic, yet successful attempt of assassination at Lotterman. Paul Kemp, has no part to play in the homicide. Yet he could not totally not feel a sense of empathy towards the conspirators. Chenault, armed with a surprise waits for him in New York. More rum and hamburgers, every time served at Al’s by this negro named Sweep.

Protocol, or perhaps belief, that it takes a hundred strikes and more to fashion gold, whereas in case of iron, it takes only a numbered few. So is Thompson’s narration. Perhaps his body of work, to some sentimental, judgmental mind is like the strike of a hammer on iron,one blow at a time. The narration lacks the close knit, yet it all holds together, perhaps as always.

It is not for nothing that the cinematic rendition of the novel has a number of alterations in the screenplay, when compared to the original text. The freakish flamboyance of Yeamon and the drive of Hal Sanderson is moulded into one character, as Sanderson. Besides the whole business deal with Mr Zimburger acts as a prequel to the carnival, and is of little importance after, in the novel. Whereas in the movie, the whole affair draws considerable breadth, and leads to the helter skelter at the conclusion

The film was a brainchild of Bruce Robinson, brought to life by the only Jhonny Depp. It was in fact, Depp’s industry and prolonged acquaintance with the author, that the original text, written in the sixties, was brought to print fourty years later. What more, Thompson calls his house, Owl Farm.

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Declaring by Federico Garcia Lorca

A Cautious Power Dwells, Accidental and Passing

The turn of the 19th century, in the province of Granada, in Andalusia, Spain, washed more by the Mediterranean Sea than the Atlantic Ocean, more west than north of the strait of Gibraltar, is a small town by the name of Fuente Vaquros, which saw the germinating years of the poet and playwright of the future, Federico Garcia Lorca. While around the world the British fought the second Boer war, the Americans commissioned the construction of the Central American Shipping Canal in Nicargua, beside sanctioning the Gold Standard Act, which placed the American dollar under the Gold Standard, securing its position in the times to come. Elsewhere Russia invaded Munchuria while the city of Munich saw the inception of Fußball-Club Bayern München, and the Parisians geared up for the Paris World Exhibition, which also saw the city play host to the second Modern Olympics. While the world was still discovering its first Hamburger sandwich, and perhaps slam dunk, yet as was it then, so is it now, the world could not shed much care to the cause of a Hispanic historian. Like the awkward moment you realise that god might as well made a lot many grub, yet man made hummus. That makes man as much of a maker, as is God. Not exaggerating.

‘bout the Bard:

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Staying true to the script, for each actor got to write their own lines, the authorship moves on ahead about Federcio Garcia Lorca. Federico del Sagrado Corazon de Jesus Garcia Lorca, too much of a quintessential specimen for a student of Spanish nomenclature, a symbol of a cultural association, which in the 1920’s was known as the Generación del 27, a revival of an earlier movement from the 1880’s called Ateneo de Sevilla or the Excursions Ateneo and Society . The brainchild of a certain D. Manuel Sales i Ferre. The spirit of a group of outlandish Spanish bohemians, which a certain Herbert Huncke and friends a few decades later would radicalise as Beat, adding another passage to the labyrinths of endless Americano. Garcia Lorca as a personage is someone whom universal Americano would endorse with wide open arms, holding roses in bloom and blazing guns for a background score. The body of work becomes essentially ephemeral, as it sits pretty on the crust of the gazeless persona, that which Americano could not get enough of.

Gracia Lorca brought enough to the table, to have humble Americano drooling for a lifetime. To begin with his Gypsy image from the early days, his aspirations of been a musician since even before, whence he once looked up to classic sound scrapes of Debussy, Chopin, Beethoven, before the flames of flamenco fed upon the fuel that we know as the mind. A communist, a keeper of liberal opinions, queer, a suitor to Salvador Dali, a traveler to the Americas of opportunities. Among all a writer of sonnets, dedicated to the theater, assassinated. Verses inked ever since. Take over philosophy.

 poetry grows:

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Pastel and Graphite on Paper. by Nikola Jankovic

For the title of the script demands for the Declaring, we must provide the appropriate space. Nothing more radical than what already has the internet abuzz. Nothing meat shearing, or ground breaking in the literal sense. Only poetry, for which there is this Spaniard to be blamed. The poem which goes by the name of, Declaring. One among a handful of poems of Garcia Lorca which a reader in the language, English could come across.

As a piece of construction barely expanses over 10 lines, and uses precise and pragmatic vocabulary. The precision, on fact par excellent.

The poet through this poem, asks the reader to search for, above all a conscience. A piece of mind that is confident and comforting like the autumn sun. The poets asks the reader to rest their feet. The poet like the snail on the sand looks for happiness in absolute casual things, like windows once walked, in the shell of their absolute little lives, next to some stone desk life, the snail cautiously climbed the wall. Self-assured of its strength, to the appearance accidental, and to the timeline, only passing.

The poet describes the world through the absolute windows, in their little lives, talking to overlooking walls, of letters  perched august like a throne on stones. The desk-life unfolds bringing into creation chances and the permeating felling of passage of time. Ain’t it worth the time you invest. Only ten lines.

sunflower

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The harsh Harmonica

 

Crossroads and Friends:

There are those crossroads that we end up at, where there are no two ways of going about things. You know you cannot lose your way around for you have known each stone. You probably were better off someplace else, yet here you are at the moment, right where you should not have been, pondering if that what does not kill you, does it really makes you stronger? A question perhaps best left to the better judgement of the conscience of the self. By the way it was Nietzsche who said these lines before the joker made it his own.

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Is that not what harshness is. An all too familiar crossroad from your hometown, where you once got beat, and you keep visiting it like you got an alkaline score to make man.  If you could only side step the longitudes of time, there would be someone waiting for you there. Yet for the sake of the beloved planet we move on ahead, with only hope to meet again. Uncalled for yet, necessary, offending and hilarious at the same time, avertible yet forever cherished. That would perhaps be all the authorship could make of harshness before we move onto the harmonica.

Groove in to the Harmonica:

 

 

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“Gonna change my way of thinking, make my self a different set of rules. Gonna put my good foot forward and stop being influenced by fools.”-Bob Dylan

 

Onto the harmonica, the French harp, the mouth organ, on to the free reed,  aerophone that it is. Perhaps what distinguishes the great romancers from the lugubrious lovers, that which draws from the hollows, and soars above the skyline of sound arrangements. This which sings when the flimsy reeds, its heart and lungs like the sails of a vessel dance to their own tacking, in this case tone, at the breath and blow of the performer. That which rubs not just the lip of ja performer, but even the deepest recesses of the soul of those who care to listen. The faithful companion to the one man band. The prodigal folly of the venturer, what but the vocation of the virtuoso. The gasp of air which holds the melody through, when there is no verse to be sung, or a chorus to be emphasised upon, or hook to be dearly hung onto, or any other form of lead to be strung out.  Be it service to the Jazz, or personification of the blues, reviving the flamboyance of the swing of the 30’s, or the drone of the bebop of the 40’s, or the soul and gospel of the 50’s. there always was to be found the compositional vibratos, and the harmonies of the harmonica, with their bends, beginnings and endings, which kept on breathing in the spirit of the decades gone on by, as rolled over the pages of Beethoven digging on those rhythm and blues. That would be the harmonica my friend, what virtuoso John Popper would say as, ‘delicious but not digestible.’

The Great Harmonica Romancers:
magic-dick
Something surely goes amiss without at least a modest mention of some of the humble mongers, who got the trade to the stature it is at, as of the day. The masters at their war. The missionaries of their order, the soldiers incognita with their hollow, innocent shoulders, all of them, of the precepts of the pride beholders. Simply speaking the great harmonica romancers.  Without been specially, or temporally too data basic about it, we shall infer upon the ramblings by touching on the names and the notions of a few of those harmonica romancers, about whom an average reader may already know.

Now obviously there is the Bob Dylan. The prominent personage with his rhythms and harmonica stand, sticking out close to the microphone, like a swarm of bees working on a hive. There is the Neil Young of old, overtly confused as to which of his pockets holds which piece of what tuning. There is Mick Jagger, as there is Brexit, there is as well at the harmonica, Eddie Vader at his contemplative best, as there is Steven Tyler, feeling the tone of the instrument, through the chords of his voice. Then there are the purists as well, at least a couple among whom, who simply could not do without a mention. John Popper, with his line of Fender Harmonica, whom the reader may remember from earlier in the publication.  There is also the much lauded lord of the licking stick, to his listener, known as Magic Dick.

For a calling somewhat commonplace, and an expression stirringly rustic, to the extent of been inclement. Many maestros and mediocre alike would have had their time with the instrument, and would have their body of work and extent of imitation to speak of. So has the universe many mysteries untold.

 

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