Visions of Gerard by Jack Kerouac Page B

church steeples and of rooftops and of the whole Lowell general, and always yon poor smoke putting from the human chimneys like prayer—The whole town aglow with the final russet adventures of the day staining windowpanes and sending pirates to the east and bringing other sabers of purple and of saffron scarlot harlot rage across the gashes and might ironworks of incomprehensible moveless cloud wars frowned and befronting one another on horizon Shrewsburies—Up there where instead of thickening, plots thinned and leaked and warrior groups pulled wan expiring acts on the monstrous rugs of sky areas with names in purple, and dull boom cannons, and maw-mouth awwp up-clouds far far away where the children say “There’s an old man sleeping in the north with a big white mouth that’s open and a round nose”—These mighty skies bending over Lowell and over Gerard as he lay knowing in his deathbed, rosaries in his hands, pans on papers by the bed, pillows under his feet—The sides and portion wedges of which sky he can barely see thru the window shade and frame, outside is December’s big parley with night and it’s Christmas Eve and his heart breaks to realize that it will be his last Christmas on our innocent mistaken earth—“Ah yes—if I could tell them what I knew—but when I start it stops coming, it’s gone, it’s not to talk about—but now I know it—just like my dream—poor people with their houses and their chimnies and their Christmases and their children—listen to them yelling in the street, listen to their sleds—they run, they throw themselves on the snow, the little sled takes them a little ways and then that’s all—that’s all—And me, big nut, I cant explain them what they’re dying to know—It’s because God doesnt wanta—”
    God made us for His glory, not our own.
    Nin and I have our sleds and mufflers and we have wrangled dramas with the other kids over the little dispositions of activity among snowbanks and slide-lanes, it all goes on endlessly this world in its big and little facets with no change in it.
    In the kitchen, before Pa gets home and in a quiet interim when Gerard’s asleep and we’re still sliding, Ma takes out her missal and unfolds a paper from it on which are written the words of the prayer to St. Martha:—
    â€œSt. Martha, I resort to thy protection and aid and as proof of my affection and faith I offer this light which I shall burn every Tuesday.”
    She lights her devotional candle.
    â€œComfort me in difficulties and thru the great favor which you enjoyed thru lodging in the house of Our Saviour, intercede for my family that we may always hold God in our hearts and be provided for in our necessities. I beseech thee to have infinite pity in regard to the favor I ask thee.” (State favor).
    â€œIf you please, my Lord, bless my poor little Gerard and make him well again, so he can live his little life in peace—and without pain—he has suffered so much—he’s suffered enough for twenty four old sick men and he hasnt said a word—My Lord, have pity on this little courageous child, amen.”
    â€œI ask thee, St. Martha,” she finishes reading the prayer, “to overcome all difficulties as thou didst overcome the dragon which thou hadst at your feet. Our Father—Hail Mary—Glory Be”—
    And at that very moment ladies in black garments, scores of them, are scattered throughout St. Louis de France church, kneeling or sitting or some standing at the various special shrines, their lips muttering prayers for similar requests for similar troubles in their own poor lives and if indeed the Lord seeth all and saw all that is going on and all the beseechment in His name in dark earth-churches throughout the kingdom of consciousness, it would be with pain He’d attend and bend His thoughts to it—Some of the