James Grauerholz met budding filmmaker Howard Brookner at Phebe's Bar & Grill in Manhattan during the Great Blizzard of 1976. Brookner lived around the corner from the Bunker and he and Grauerholz soon became fast friends, working on film-writing projects.
In 1978, Burroughs was preparing a return to New York City from Boulder, Colorado, where Bill Burroughs Jr. had been hospitalized. "I had talked Howard into covering the upcoming Nova Convention in September," Grauerholz remembers. "He and I and Jim Jarmusch, who was doing sound, went to Boulder to film William leaving for New York. During the coverage of the Nova Convention, William and Howard became great personal friends."
Their friendship led to close collaboration on Brookner's insightful 1983 documentary film, Burroughs: the Movie, and to Brookner's 1987 feature film, Bloodhounds of Broadway. Howard Brookner died of AIDS at age 34 in 1989.
In the 1990s, Howard's nephew, Aaron, took up the family filmmaking mantle. That story is told below. "Aaron's resemblance to Howard is truly eerie," says Grauerholz. "They even sound alike."
On February 5, 2014, during a wailing blizzard, Aaron Brookner and his film crew visited the Burroughs house in Lawrence, Kansas.
- B100: A brief history of Aaron Brookner.
- Brookner: I grew up in Greenwich Village. Howard Brookner, my uncle, started my interest in movies from an early age, showing me how to use a video camera and taking me to the set of his last movie, Bloodhounds of Broadway. A year after Howard's death from AIDS in 1989, my father moved us to New Jersey.
I majored in film at Vassar College. For a senior documentary class I made a short doc on the Federation of Black Cowboys - a group of black cowboys in Brooklyn who have a ranch, do rodeos and ride through the city streets promoting the history of America's black cowboys. One in three cowboys in the Old West was black but they were never represented. This group was trying to correct it.
The writer Budd Schulberg (On the Waterfront, What Makes Sammy Run?), had seen The Black Cowboys at a festival and really liked it. He was 91, we got along well and I started making a film on his life inspired, obviously, by Howard's first film on William Burroughs.
Schulberg was covering fights in Las Vegas, co-writing a Joe Louis/Max Schmeling script with Spike Lee and touring France with a newly adapted version of one of his lesser-known novels, Sanctuary V. I started traveling with him, filming him, interviewing him and many of his contemporaries like Patricia Neal, Tony Curtis, Christopher Plummer and Arthur Laurents. I interviewed Eva Marie Saint and met Karl Malden. The film came crashing down when Schulberg died at age 95.
I had been making music videos and experimental work and then a low-budget fiction feature shot in London called The Silver Goat which we put out in 2012 as an app. We wanted to explore alternate modes of distribution. The app has been downloaded in twenty-four different countries and was a top entertainment seller in the UK and the Czech Republic.
Having made my first feature film I started thinking more about Howard, wondering about his films and where they had gone. Especially his Burroughs film, Burroughs: the Movie, which I had only ever seen on VHS and, in recent years, in low-resolution on YouTube. It had been such an influence on me, watching it hundreds of times through high school. I wanted to see it properly and wanted others too as well. Also, I wanted my uncle Howard's name not to be forgotten so I set out to bring back his work.
- B100: A brief history of your project to date.
- Brookner: My film started when Sara Driver and I started talking about Burroughs: the Movie. She was a great friend of Howard's; they were at film school together at NYU. All the elements to Sara's first film, an adaptation of Paul Bowles' You Are Not I, had been destroyed in a flood. Then a pristine print was miraculously discovered in Tangier after Paul Bowles' death. She was able to make a new HD master from it and show it again, release it, and know that it existed properly! I set out to do the same for the Burroughs movie, looking for the negative.
In my search I connected with James Grauerholz; Sara, of course, and also her partner Jim Jarmusch (who did sound on Burroughs: the Movie); the writer Brad Gooch (Howard's longtime partner); and, to an extent, John Giorno.
Everyone wanted to see the movie come back, everyone helped me on my search. It turned up all sorts of things like Howard's home movies, behind-the-scenes footage of his other films, video diaries, short films, writings, audio tapes, tons of photos and the missing film prints from his second feature documentary on Robert Wilson. Along the way, the stories that came from those who knew my uncle were full of life, adventure, and humor. His story began taking shape cinematically in my mind.
I found a really chilling letter he wrote to his parents to be read after his death, telling them he had AIDS, that he was dying and would die, but that he didn't want them to let it ruin their lives because, while it was short, Howard had done exactly what he wanted with his life. He went as far as he could go and in the end felt content. He wrote that if he lived on it was in our hearts and memories and the films he made. I was very pleased when this actually started happening.
The biggest discovery occurred when I was able to retrieve Howard's archive which had been stored in the Bunker for 30 years. These were some 200 cans and boxes of outtakes that didn't make his 90-minute cut---but they were beyond outtakes. They were an incredible documentation of a place and time, downtown NYC from 1978-1983, as seen through the world of William Burroughs.
In the raw material you get the source of the tone of the movie, intimate and playful and comfortable to watch. The source is Howard directing the movie. You can see him slating, or Jarmusch, hear his questions, his dialogues with William when the camera is still rolling though they aren't "on." James Grauerholz is always there. It feels like a real family.
In a storage container belonging to Brad Gooch, I found an audiocassette interview of Howard by Ted Morgan. Morgan asks Howard about the last shot of his film, where William and James Grauerholz are sitting on the back porch in Lawrence, and William in the back yard, and why he ended the film there. Howard said it was his intention to go back and continue the film in two more chapters: William's life in Lawrence; and William's funeral. Howard didn't get a chance to do this, of course.
For the Burroughs centenary I was shooting in St. Louis and Lawrence, picking up the story for 2014. Some very interesting things happened. There's a lot of magic going on right now, fittingly, in this centenary year, which is also the year Howard would have turned 60. I still have plenty to go through but I've begun assembling some of the material, hoping to translate some of this magic into the cut.
- B100: Describe a magic moment.
- Brookner: Last week I got into a cab in NYC with my film crew. The driver asked us what we were shooting. I said a documentary about Howard Brookner and William Burroughs. He knew Burroughs and we started talking about him.
He called Burroughs an activist through his art. Turned out the driver was a native New Yorker who had been into the downtown poetry scene in the late 1970s. In 1978 he attended the Nova Convention. At this point he started to look familiar to me. I photographed him, then compared the image later to that of a teenager in the audience of the Nova Convention from Howard's movie. Just a cutaway, but one Howard used obviously because the guy looks super-engaged. Sure enough--same nose, same eyes, same expression---it was the driver! This cutaway is even in the trailer we just made for the film.
Had I gotten to the corner of Center Street and Kenmare one minute later or one minute sooner I'd never know this guy existed. Instead, an overlap in time and a conversation about Burroughs and the Nova Convention started my day. Everything is pre-recorded except the pre-recordings indeed.
Part Two, coming soon.
Interview by Tom King
Like a lot of this prior to email and texting business…this one starts with a phone call from Woody Creek, Colorado into Burroughs Communications office in Lawrence, KS.
NOTES FROM WBC - Watching a Grown Man Cry… HST visits WSB. Gonzo Goat Fuck.
By Jim McCrary
Coulda been mid 1990’s. And it was either Hunter or his ‘assistant’ whose name might have been Laura. The question was, “Would it be a good time to visit Bill Burroughs?” That was not an unusual request at the office. Lots of folks wanted to visit WSB and some of them actually took time to call and ask questions. Most all of them were deflected with the reply that Mr. Burroughs was too busy at the moment to have visitors. Truth be told he had enough visitors whom he wanted to see to keep him occupied.
So………..HST…..wanted to come visit. He would have to drive over since he wanted to bring lots of guns and ammo to share. How long would the drive be? 10 hours maybe….all on I70 interstate. Get on….get off. Get a room at the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence. I think he and William talked it over on the phone. William was fine with all that…..and since Dr. Thompson was asking only for some time together….it seemed to William that it would be a good thing. And, in the end it was. Indeed.
So the date was set and off they went. Down the hill from Owl Farm and into the flatland of western Kansas. We expected them to call in a couple of days when they got to town. Nothing happening for a while. Then finally a call: "We haven’t left yet. Had to clear some things up, maybe leave Friday." The call came on Friday. "We're gonna leave Monday." And they did.
And I think four days later…”We're here at the Eldridge. Car broke down somewhere west of Salina. Dry county. Garage didn’t have the part. Paid a fortune for grease monkey to go get the part. Luckily had enough booze and coke to survive. Awful place. Stopped in Salina to watch Final Four playoffs. More later.”
(The story later told and I cannot do justice…believe me…Hunter stops in Junction City to watch a ball game at sports bar after getting car repaired and replacing booze stash. He watches the game in usual style and interacts with off-duty army personnel from nearby base. Ready to head out, he reaches for the keys on the bar….not there. “Where the motherfuck are my keys, you redneck assholes???” says Dr. Thompson. Says the barkeep…”I have them, sir, and you are in no condition to drive. Sir.” Imagine that…..dear reader…..just for a moment imagine that. As is often said in such stories…cooler heads prevailed…things were ‘settled’ and off they went. Who drove? Don’t know.)
That evening I went to Eldridge Hotel to pick them up. As I approached the desk to ask the room number, the concierge looked up and pointed at the elevator and mumbled 402. He looked exhausted.
When the door opened to the room a blast of hot steam escaped into the hallway. The assistant had the shower running full blast with hot water to steam out the wrinkles of a dress. His Gonzoness had the basketball game on full blast and all surfaces in the room were covered with dishes of food, drink and papers scattered around. He had obviously wound up the staff of the hotel and spent the morning moving from one room to another and had finally settled down. For the moment.
We spoke about the schedule for next couple days. Tonight, dinner at a local restaurant and then a short visit with Bill. Tomorrow a full day at the range, shooting. Dinner at Williams house. Drive back to Colorado. What could go wrong with that?
It took a while to get them out of the hotel room. We walked a bit around downtown Lawrence. It was pretty quiet. Thompson asked me where his old buddy and fellow sportswriter George Kimball hung out when he lived in Lawrence. I pointed out some of the spots where he used to hang, including the bridge where Kimball threw bricks of marijuana into the river during a press conference when he (and HST in Colorado), was running for office.
We finally settled at a patio table at an Italian place near William's home. It didn’t take long for the servers to figure out who they were serving and a never-ending group of them grazed around the table asking if we needed anything. Thompson was most happy to suggest something new that was needed. In the midst of all that he somehow managed to let slip off his lap a Skoll tin half-full of exceptional cocaine onto the concrete floor. I immediately joined him under the table in a valiant attempt to help clean up the mess best we could using the doubled v credit card method. Quickly done and actually applauded by one of the co-ed servers. Food flying around and across the table, pitchers of margaritas floating past…the evening continued.
We left soon enough and managed the final few blocks to Williams’s house. And then something amazing happened. Dr. Thompson switched gears. The minute he walked into the house his demeanor, his energy, his self became as quiet and attentive as a student before the master. Hmmm.
Well, there was the smoke and drink of course. The ur and not ur. The this and that. The how are you and all that. Yes. All that. And there they were. Across the table from one another. Mumble this and mumble that. Quiet. Then done. William had announced that it was his bedtime…and that was accepted by the company. As was his habit, William stepped out onto his front porch and waved a goodbye.
I went home and I do believe that Dr. Thompson continued his evening over a fresh batch of coke at the offices of the local alt newspaper after leaving the Burroughs residence. Later reports from friends indicated that the Doctor held forth for quite a while in the office above the Bottleneck club. As he was.
The big day arrived. And it would be fuck all. Another goat fuck for sure. The entourage grew and grew. Usually it was William and his old buddy George Kaull, a fellow geezer libertarian and crack shot. The two of them…some pot, some vodka and coke, some ‘snacks’ and a sack full of guns and ammo. Go out shoot, have a drink and smoke to steady the hand, shoot some more. Eat some cheese and crackers or whatnot. Have a drink and smoke. Shoot some more.
However, this time with HST it was lots more action. A video camera was unloaded and Miss Thing was told by Hunter to set up halfway between the targets and the shooters. William stopped that at once. No way would the young lady film beyond the firing line…which, by the way, moved around as the day progressed.
And there were others with aims to make or shots to take…some friends and handlers and who knows by now. Hunter was wound up and after the first round of shots from William and George with their favorite pistols and someone shooting a shotgun…Hunter announced the big surprise he had talked about since his arrival…the gift he had brought for William.
He pulled out a large wooden box that had an American flag embossed on the walnut. Opened it up and there in purple velvet lay a Freedom Arms, one-of-a-kind, 454-caliber pistol with all the goodies. A marker on the box proclaimed this was one of a hundred, if memory serves. And by the way, a 454-caliber gun has a hole in the end of the barrel the size of your big toe. The gun was admired and passed around. Hunter dug into the back of his transport for the ammo and then dug some more and then some more and then starting howling and throwing shit on the ground.
“Motherfucker….mothergoddamfucker shit my ass!!!!!!!!! WHERE THE FUCK IS THE AMMO!!!” Well, it wasn’t there. Gonzo was fucked and sat slumped on the tailgate looking a lot like he was ready to break into tears.
And then a friend of Bill's who was a shooter and a hunter and a photographer and a local says: “Well shit, I'll just run over to Topeka and get some 454.”
“They won’t have any, you stupid fuck,” Hunter said.
“Oh,” the guy said, ” I do believe they will.” And off he went and in the time it takes to empty a handy 44 Colt or a 38 S&W snubbie or a vodka and coke….he was back and the fun began.
Hunter was happy and pleased with himself and loaded up the 454 and handed it to WSB who looked it over, walked a bit closer to the target, hoisted it up and pulled the trigger. Motherfuck indeed. It did back him up at least five feet and when the smoke cleared there was a rivulet of blood tricking down Williams thumb and wrist. “Son of a bitch bit me,” said William giggling. He loved it. And shot it again and passed it around. Hunter was happy. Again. He had brought the old man a gift and the old man thanked him. The afternoon wore on in the noise and smoke and crash of lead into wooden targets and Kansas dirt clods turned to atoms.
(Aside to Johnny Depp or anyone who might know or has Thompson’s archives and/or belongings. Somewhere there should be a video tape of this trip. I once asked HST biographer Doug Brinkley to poke around for it but he never had any luck. Too bad.)
And that is that. The day ended with drinks and food at William's but I don’t remember. Hunter did hire a couple guys to drive his car back to Woody Creek. He and the friend flew from Kansas City back home.
I don’t know if that was the only or the last time those two were together. It was good time spent. Both would agree. Well spent. Indeed.
That was then.
[Jim McCrary lives in Lawrence, KS and worked at William Burroughs Communications for a decade beginning early 1990s. Misses the old man to this day. Every day.]
John Waters is an American film director, screenwriter, author, visual artist, musicologist and comedian. His many credits include 19 films, nine books and a retrospective of his artwork at the New Museum in 2004. Once reviled for his transgressive and hilarious 1970s cult films--Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble and Desperate Living (the Trash Trilogy)--several of Waters' later films achieved significant mainstream success, with Hairspray (1988) and Cry Baby (1990) adapted to hit Broadway musicals.
Waters frequently socialized with William S. Burroughs during the Bunker years in the Seventies. Burroughs, "The Pope of Dope," dubbed Waters "The Pope of Trash," a moniker he wears with pride to this day. Waters is featured in the 2010 documentary, William S. Burroughs: A Man Within.
On February 20, 2014, Waters brought his one-man stage show, This Filthy World, to the Lawrence Arts Center (LAC), part of a series of events related to the exhibition William S. Burroughs.Creative Observer, opening January 17, 2014.
The interview was conducted on October 23, 2013 by Ben Ahlvers, LAC Exhibitions Director, and Tom King. Recorded by Marlo Angel.
John Waters: I'm no authority on William Burroughs but I can tell you what I know.
I grew up loving William Burroughs. The first thing I wanted to be was a beatnik so what's the first book you have to read? Junky, basically. I can't remember if I read Junky or Naked Lunch first. I was real young, in junior high. I liked William way more than Allen Ginsberg--I wasn't much of a hippie, I was more of a yippie.
I met Burroughs at his place in New York, in the Bunker. I loved going there, he had these great social events. William Burroughs always looked like he was 100 years old. He would serve warm vodka in washed-out peanut butter jars. No ice. I always snuck a look at his bedroom. I saw him also at the 930 Club where I played a lot. He took me to crazy parties in New York sometimes, parties with really strange people. He was always very nice to me and I think James Grauerholz had a lot to do with that.
He branded himself; he always had that look. He kept one look his whole life, which is very important to do. He was gay and a junkie and didn't look the parts. I never thought he was politically incorrect: he wasn't racist, he wasn't homophobic. He had that signature voice--he should have done animation voice in Hollywood. I also love the fact that he obsessively went for Scientology at first. And then turned against it.
LAC: Did Burroughs inform your work?
Waters: Wouldn't you say the singing asshole in Pink Flamingos has something to do with Naked Lunch? When I first read him I knew that he was in a secret world, a pervert that wasn't upset about it. He was a proud pervert. Very old school, way before gay liberation, even though he ways always out. He scared gay people because they were so square then and he was so cool. But everyone liked him in a weird way. I mean, did anyone ever give William Burroughs shit for being gay? I can hardly imagine him getting gay-bashed.
LAC: What are your thoughts on his artwork?
Waters: Well, its tough. As you know, the art world hates celebrities that do art. They are incredibly suspicious of it. I saw his artwork way later. I love the idea of drawing with guns, thats so William Burroughs. I'm surprised he didn't use needles. He was doing all the things that were in his novels but on canvases in an art gallery. It seemed like a logical extension of what he always did.
LAC: Where do you think Burroughs' work fits into the art world today?
Waters: I'm not sure. He certainly has a stronger place in literature than he does in the art world. I think a lot of people in the art world don't even know about Burroughs' art, to be honest. So I think its great you're doing this show. Maybe a lot of people that only know his books will discover his art. The centenary is the perfect time to bring out work that people don't know. The only time I ever saw his artwork was at the show in Los Angeles [Ports of Entry, 1996, LACMA] . It was a huge show. I don't remember the critical reaction but I always thought Burroughs was beyond criticism. Does he care? Actually, you care more as you get older but you get better at pretending you care less.
LAC: Why does Burroughs matter culturally, in the big picture?
Waters: He matters culturally because he lasted six or seven decades. He stayed true to himself--he started as a beatnik and he ended as a beatnik. An incredible, eccentric character who looked normal. He never changed for anybody, never answered his critics, and continued to be avant-garde--a word that most people feel is a dirty word today.
LAC: One of the things I learned from this project is that Burroughs was making visual art all along the way and not really talking about it or showing it.
Waters: So he always was and we just didn't know it? I'm trying to remember seeing his art when I was in the Bunker but I was usually just looking at him. I was just so excited to be there.
LAC: How old were you then?
Waters: In the 70s, and I was born in 1946. I wasn't a kid. But he was such a part of my life when I was a kid, when I was forming who I was going to be, that he was definitely a hero.
LAC: Did you find him prescient or prophetic about modern society?
Waters: I don't know if he'd like those descriptions. I think he was a salesman. He was the Exterminator. He was the one that came at you with a formed literary vision that no-one had ever seen before. And he did not suffer fools. He didn't answer his critics and he didn't give in to trying to be commercial. Naked Lunch is commercial in spite of itself.
LAC: Why do you think he became a counter-culture hero in the Seventies?
Waters: Because he was so original. Everybody read his books, especially when you're a young kid trying to rebel. I wasn't reading Salinger, I was reading Jean Genet and William Burroughs. As a young gay man, I thought, "Finally, a gay man who isn't square." That was very influential, to realize that there really was a Bohemia. Didn't matter if it was gay or straight, I just wanted to be in Bohemia because I lived in Lutherville, Maryland then. Burroughs was my imaginary friend.
LAC: You wrote a book about contemporary art...
Waters: I wrote one a while ago called Art: A Sex Book. And I just finished my new book, Carsick, because I hitch-hiked by myself across America last year. I got stuck in Bonner Springs [Kansas]. It was the very worst place of my entire trip, a nightmare. I waited 10 hours there without getting a ride. Finally, a nice guy who worked at the Lawrence Wal-Mart picked me up.
LAC: The talk we've got you scheduled for at LAC is on February 20th, 2014. It's being billed as This Filthy World but any Burroughs insights like these would be well-received.
Waters: I'll work it in. I look forward to coming to William Burroughs' place. Its like a pilgrimage.
100 years ago today, William S. Burroughs was born in St. Louis, Missouri. Times have changed but his ideas and influence continue to shape our world. In a talk last weekend, James Grauerholz described William's message as "having a verrry long fuse". As we experience government espionage, environmental destruction, the fight for media control, a very real Nova Mob and those who OCCUPY the streets in protest, Burroughs' work gives myriad insight. So let's celebrate the man and his legacy by reading/viewing/listening to his works. Here's a few to get started. Happy birthday, William!
What do I have to say?
You have been lied to, exploited, cut off from your birthright.
"Sons of shame and sorrow,
will you cheer tomorrow?
Sons of toil and danger,
--and bow down to the Alien Grays?
(who don't know emotion, we'll help them to know it.)
Can we ever look each other in the face?
I am willing. Are you?
Give me the answer to a question, I tell what the question was.
Nobody but a fool wants to know what the secret of the universe is.
Or thinks that he could understand it
One thing: It is not out there, dead, to be discovered--but out there alive, to be created.
So many minds I can look into. Sample, feel, experience.
I want to know the all, from conception to death. The final Comedie Humaine.
"Counsellors and all that shit."
"You crazy or something, walk around alone?"
"It ain't bothering you is it?"
William S. Burroughs
Journal Entry, May 26, 1997
Last Words, Grove Press 2000
"I am attempting to create a new mythology for the space age. I feel that old mythologies are definitely broken down and not adequate at the present time. In this mythology, I have Nova conspiracies, Nova police, Nova criminals. I do definitely have heroes and villains with respect to overall intentions with regard to this planet."
-WSB in a 1964 interview
"I tell you nothing could get through that blockade. . . nothing
. . . but here it is . . . the White Cat."
A radiant cat glowing with a pitiless white light,
light on secret files and ops,
light on directives and memos, light everywhere.
No corner of darkness left.
Power shrivels and turns to dust in the light.
excerpt from The Western Lands, Viking Penguin 1987
Willam S. Burroughs, Ghost Escape, Paint and Shotgun Blasts on Plywood, 1982
Image Copyright Estate of William S. Burroughs
He was drifting throughs space, wafted by currents of glowing gases -- Myriads of floating forms passed in front of him some familiar and others alien -- For a moment he was back in the brown canals of Mars in the grip of a giant clam, which takes a week to satisfy its consuming sex habit and spits out its unfortunate victim covered with its discharge like a gelatinous pearl on the dry red sands --
Thousands of voices muttered out of the darkness, twittering creatures pulling and tugging at him and dancing their way leaping from soaring black heights into deep blue chasms trailing the neon ghost writing of Saturn through vast wells of empty space -- From an enormous distance he heard the golden hunting horns of the Aeons and he was free of a body traveling in the echoing shell of sound as herds of mystic animals galloped through dripping primeval forests, pursued by the silver hunters in chariots of bone and vine --
from The Ticket That Exploded, new edition coming in March from Grove Press
William S. Burroughs in Lawrence, Kansas, 1981-1997
William S Burroughs, McCrary and S Clay Wilson on front porch 1927 Learnard Ave, Lawrence, Ks. This was taking when WSB was recovering from heart surgery...I cant remember the year. He was always glad to see Wilson who visited Lawrence when he came back to visit his parents in Nebraska. Photo McCrary
In mid-August 1997, on a hot summer night, William Burroughs lay dead in a open casket on the stage of Liberty Hall. The place was packed. The hipsters were out in full force for what would be a memorial service/wake. There were a few notables from NYC but most of the crowd was local. They knew William, or knew of William, or had seen William while he lived in Lawrence. They came to say goodbye.
The memorial was pretty awful. The after-party was a couple blocks south at a local college punk music bar and had more energy than the memorial. So it was that Lawrence said goodbye to Burroughs after his 15 years as resident famous old guy. And by the way, 15 years in one place was a very long time for Burroughs, longer than he lived in London, or Tangier, or Paris, or NYC or Mexico. His choice, believe me.
The next day William was loaded in a hearse and driven to St. Louis, Missouri where he is now buried in the family death plot. RIP. Truth be told, he was buried like all good Egyptian Kings with certain goodies necessary to make it in the afterlife…loaded ’38 revolver, couple joints, a silver dollar, a bindle of heroin and wearing a Moroccan vest given to him by his buddy Brion Gysin. Patti Smith leaned over the open grave and sang the ditty, if memory serves, ”Oh Dear, What Can the Matter Be?"
There were tears….some real, some crocodile. And then the gravediggers kind of shuffled forward, hoping the bunch of hippies would get the fuck out of the way. No-one moved. Apparently, few survivors in St. Louis stick around to see the newly-departed covered up in Mississippi riverbank funk. We did.
So that is what happened after William died. I cannot tell you what happened when he died, because I wasn’t there. Someone will tell you what happened because, based on what I have read and heard, there were as many as two dozen people in and out of the [hospital] room.
William came to Lawrence because he didn’t want to live in New York anymore. Too loud, too expensive, too much hassle. My opinion. James Grauerholz , William’s longtime friend, short-time lover, adopted son and caregiver--an all-around loving guy--also ‘influenced’ William's move to Kansas. That took a lot of moxie and Grauerholz deserves credit.
Lot of folks, especially in NYC, seemed peeved that William was ‘forced’ out of Manhattan. Their loss I guess. No one to hang on to anymore. Boo fucking hoo. But William might have gone to Santa Fe or Boulder. He didn’t. Didn’t go to San Francisco either, or Portland. Or St. Louis. Who knows why. Maybe because he knew fewer people in Lawrence. Fact is, I don’t think William knew more than two or three people in Lawrence when he moved here.
Of course, moving to Kansas didn’t stop people from searching William out. They did from day one until today, 16 years after his death…some still come. To look at whatever might be left.
Dead William is not (as is usually the case), as big a draw as William alive. After all, you can get a lot more from a living guy than from a dead one. Not many artists ‘collaborate’ with dead people, or not many musicians get dead guys to “perform” on their new CDs with dead guys pictured on the cover. It seemed to this observer that very few people--Allen Ginsberg, George Condo, Udo Breger and a couple others--came with the intent to be with William and spend time with William and not feel the need to leave with something from William, in one way or another. All the bad music and bad art created with William’s name attached didn’t make it any better, that’s for sure.
The women who came to Lawrence to see William did it because they wanted to. Several very well-respected scholars and biographers came. Writers like Kathy Acker and Patti Smith came. Lauren Hutton came. Anne Waldman came. And, of course, the uninvited and unwanted and unwashed came and knocked on the door and came in.
William was always gracious with the visitors. He listened to their tales of woe or whatever, and listened to the bad music or poetry. He took the time to look at the ugly, violent, half-assed art, and sent the visitors on their way. What I recall is that after visits by famous singers or sculptors or record producers or such…he never talked about it much.
He would tell me if he had a call from Tim Leary or Whitley Strieber. He would tell me if he had a card from Paul Bowles. The others…who knew? I mean, he went to KC one day to be in a film with U2. He had the limo and the entourage and all the rest. I didn’t go. He didn’t talk about it. Later, in a journal, he made a one-sentence comment about “the group called Me Two." He preferred to be left alone, and he was.
So, alone, and what to do? Well, cats do fill the time if you have six or eight (there never were “dozens of wild cats running in and out of house” as I read somewhere on line). I am the guy who held a sobbing William S. Burroughs in his arms as we left sweet, sweet Spooner at the vet’s office to be put to sleep. William loved his cats…all of 'em. From Calico Jane to Ginger to Fletch and all the rest.
He also loved the raccoons that came in through the cat door to look for food in the kitchen cabinets. He gave them his leftovers and took the time to borrow a Have A Heart trap from the Humane Society. I answered the phone one morning at the office--it was William:
“Jim, we got a huge raccoon in the trap. This thing is very, very dangerous. Come over now and we will take it to Mary’s Lake for release.”
And we did.
If you read the opening paragraph of Burroughs’ The Western Lands, there it is: the old writer living in a boxcar on the river bank. And then you see it in the empty field, out by the Wakarusa River, on the road to Lone Star Lake. The boxcar is there, sitting empty, sinking slowly into the river bank. Nothing is real. Everything is permitted.
William didn’t live in that box car but he did live in a Sears & Roebuck pre-fab bungalow that came on a train from Chicago. And he did have a cabin at Lone Star Lake, couple rooms with an outhouse. Full of mouse shit and pot smoke. A crumbly dock and a very small rowboat. A place to spend some time. Take a friend out in the rowboat.
“This is how you do it, Allen. Stand up like they do in Venice, look where you’re going.”
From the dock someone mentioned…”We could any moment see the last two members of the Beat Generation go overboard into the lake.“ And, of course, neither William nor Ginsberg were wearing life jackets….each with a huge smile though. I guess that counts.
William did three things to excess while he lived in Lawrence: drank a lot of vodka and Coke, smoked a lot of pot, and created a fuck-all amount of art.
William loved to paint and, for a while, he painted everything he could get his hands on. Most on paper, many on canvas, on plywood scraps from construction sites, and on doors (including a beautiful graffiti triptych from a mid-century, accordion-type garage door), and windows and cedar shingles and tin and metal and old signs and chairs and asphalt roofing shingles. He bought scrapbooks and blank books and 3x5 inch cards and painted them all, and he painted the boxes they came in (yes he did, and they are in the archives).
He painted all the file folders he could get from the office plus just plain paper. He made targets, drew or painted them…cops or sheriffs or men from outer space. My favorites were a Bounty Hunter that S. Clay Wilson drew as a target and a Buddha drawn by Ginsberg…both then filled with bullet holes, signed and dated by the ‘artists’ and filed away in the archives.
It is not my opinion that William painted so much because he was bored…he wasn’t. Was he obsessed? I think not. He was, as he wrote somewhere, “curious to see what emerged from the painting”. For instance, I arrive at his house once at 4pm with dinner groceries. Knock and go in.
He is in the spare bedroom/studio…the bed covered with paintings, one on an easel.
“Look, Jim, look at this!”
He is jabbing the picture, his nose an inch from the paper, a joint burning in the ashtray.
“Jim, do you see it? That is a dead-on image of Billy the Kid.”
And maybe it was indeed. Did he take it all that seriously? I don’t think so. How can you, when you paint on paper and file folders and windows (glass and frame), cutting up male porn mags and making collages with flying monkeys? No, not that seriously, I think. He said he could not draw: ”I cannot draw a table.” Sometimes folks showed up with their art and wanted William to “add something." Like I said, it didn’t make it any better whatever William did.
There were the trips to the methadone clinic with TP , going to Marty the barber , and to Sue and David’s for Thanksgiving Day potluck , or to Wayne and Carol’s  for the bardo burnings for Tim Leary and Allen Ginsberg. Or just to the store for cat food, the pawn shop for ammo and a chat, the surplus store for a new fatigue jacket or cap (dress like the locals and become “the invisible man”). The vet and the doctor too. Life is like that.
WSB (far left seated with cap on), unknown persons, WSB's good friend George Kaull (they were same age, Kaull was a Libertarian and local bad ass sculptor), McCrary far right. Others are member of a local band.....this was hottest summer day of year 106 degrees. We were out shooting in rural Leavenworth County. We were not well hydrated but somewhat baked. The shooting was good. We all survived. All rights reserved McCrary
And then the shooting trips. Usually the trips would begin with a phone call: “Let’s go shooting.” So it was arranged. William would call his close friend and peer, George Kaull. George was about William’s age, lived alone over across the Kansas River and always carried a loaded pistol in his pocket. George was a Libertarian and sculptor, a retired iron worker who helped build many of the bridges in Northeast Kansas, a retired honcho of the local ACLU and a beloved, elder trouble-maker in and around Lawrence.
George and William liked one another, and they loved to shoot. Targets. Not hunt; no, not hunt. So it was: William, George and a few others in a van with a sack of vodka and coke, bag of grass, backpack full of guns and ammo. Had we ever been stopped, who knows what? We all, I think, believed that a good cop would take a long look in the van and not want to get involved. Never did get stopped.
Maybe we went to Fred’s house or somewhere else. Shoot a while. Targets. Not from very far away.
“Most always it is very close….very close. Not like the western movies….one end of the block to the other,” William used to say. And didn’t he know from experience? He missed once in his life, missed badly down in old Mexico. I think he spent the rest of his life trying to improve his aim. And it don’t matter what others think about that whole deal. Period.
So we’re all out in some country place, shooting and then marking the targets…the date, the gun, the ammo. Go inside for a drink. Steady the hand. Little pot. Cheese and crackers, maybe a little caviar. Then back out to shoot some more, wearing ear protection and keeping an eye on each other. One day, someone scared up a snake and yelled out, “Here comes a snake!”
William put down the gun and tottered towards the kid shouting, “For Christ’s sake, don’t hurt it! Don’t hurt it!”
So it was. Good times spent.
But most of the time William was home. He did travel but not often. He went to Wichita and Kansas City. He went to NYC when Paul Bowles came to have an operation late in each of their lives. I was a fly on that wall; honored for that to have happened. William made it clear he wanted to see Paul when he heard he was coming to the States. We went.
William stayed at the Bunker on Bowery, Giorno the host. Went uptown to the hotel Bowles was in. When the two of them sat down and talked, everyone leaning forward to listen, well…..fuck sake, it was two old, old men who had been friends forever talking like……not two famous writers….but two old, old men who had been friends for a long time. Illness, death, memories, places and those they knew in common. What the fuck else is there? I think they both knew what the future held. They asked each other how they were and what they felt. One asked the other about some long lost Arab friend. Some hotel in Spain. It was a beautiful thing to see.
Photo of me (sitting on arm of chair) and William S Burroughs and Paul Bowles in NYC hotel room I think 1990. WSB and I travelled from Kansas and Bowles was in NY to hear some of his music performed at Lincoln Center and also to have a hip operation. It was one of the high points in my life to be with those two guys. Photo probably by fellow named Brad Kahler who also came from Kansas. He worked helping out with William for a while.
So…..home alone to paint and feed the cats and clean the guns and look out the window. To write a journal. A letter or two. Read the paper, the magazines--Scientific American, Cat Journal, Crop Circles of South America Illustrated--and read the pulp novels. He liked “bad nurse novels,” he called them…the RN that killed all his patients etc. Conrad, too, and the Weekly World News and anything about weird, deadly sea creatures (the blue octopus), and anything about lemurs. Maybe the history of Lawrence and William Quantrill . Picture books of tornados.
There were always books, magazines, articles cut out and filed away…underlined and commented on. Who knew why or what for? He did maybe but he wasn’t talking. People took a lot of pictures and movies and videos of all this and there are hours and hours and hours of William doing, well, nothing. Funny how that looks. He could be writing the best novel ever in his head and look like he was doing nothing more than picking hairs off his bedspread. It is all recorded: an old man, alone with a favorite cat and a friend to keep him company, another friend to fix his supper, talk about the latest nonsense. The occasional interview from some East Coast journalist:
“What do you think about cloning, Mr. Burroughs?”
“Anything that pisses off the Christians is okay with me," William responded. "Why not cloning? Can’t make homosap any worse than he already is!”
He left his last thoughts in his journals and we can read that in his last published book . He left his paintings and we can see them occasionally. He left his books and objects collected by him and others from around the globe. He left films and videos and photographs…some he made, and some by others. He left quite a few friends in Lawrence, Kansas. What he found in Lawrence was a comfortable place where he was allowed to be himself, to live quietly and gracefully.
And he did.
Jim McCrary first came to Lawrence in 1965 to attend the University of Kansas. He left Kansas and lived New York City, San Francisco and northern California, returning to Lawrence in 1990. He worked as the office manager for William Burroughs Communications from 1990 to 2001. During that time he saw Burroughs just about every day for one reason or another. McCrary has published a dozen books of poetry and his poems have been featured in print magazines, online publications, 'zines and broadsides. You could look him up.
-  Liberty Hall, 642 Massachusetts Street, was built as an opera house in 1907 and is now used as a movie and music venue in downtown Lawrence.
-  Tom Peschio, notable Lawrence musician and longtime William Burroughs Communications staffer, was Burroughs' caretaker, collaborator and close friend.
-  Marty Olson is a well-known Lawrence artist and proprietor of Do's Deluxe salon. "I met William just before he moved here. James brought him in. I cut his hair every couple of months and we always had great chats. I cooked dinners for him too."
-  Burroughs often joined Sue Brousseau and David Ohle for holiday celebrations.
-  Wayne Propst and Carol Schmitt live on a small farm north of Lawrence where they host bardo burns for departed friends.
-  "William Clarke Quantrill (July 31, 1837 – June 6, 1865) was a Confederate guerrilla leader during the American Civil War. After leading a Confederate bushwhacker unit along the Missouri-Kansas border in the early 1860s, which included the infamous raid and sacking of Lawrence, Kansas in 1863." - Wikipedia
-  Last Words: The Final Journals of William S. Burroughs, 2000.
Annotated by Tom King.
B100: When did you meet Burroughs?
Propst: I had been introduced to him in social situations a few times but the first time we were alone together was in early 1981. William hadn't moved here yet, he was still scouting houses. James [Grauerholz] brought him to visit my farmhouse north of town one afternoon.
William and I went walking in a field behind the house and he was showing me a pistol he was carrying. It was a LINK Harrison & Richardson 22-caliber revolver, what they call an H&R Flip-Top. He gave me that gun later on.
There was a clump of weeds about 20 feet from where we were standing. William said, "I'll bet you five dollars I can hit those weeds." It wasn't a particularly tough shot but I said OK. William took aim and sheared the weed off at the base, a clean shot. He was a skilled shooter. He turned and looked at me. "Good shot," I said. No response, he just looked at me. Then I realized he was waiting for his five dollars, so I forked it over. "Thank you, Wayne," he said. Not long after that he moved to town.
Eventually I learned that he was my teacher and I was his student. It wasn't just a one-way street, but I was often a facilitator.
Propst: We did this at Fred Aldrich's place. I had a piece of 3/8th-inch plexiglass over the front of the box, to slow down the bullet and to keep the paint spatter somewhat contained. There was a can of spray paint in the box with a shooting target fixed dead center on the can. William got close, about 10 feet. We found out later he hit the can exactly on the seam, so the whole box exploded and the plexiglass became shrapnel. William shouts, "I'm hit!" Some plexiglass had grazed his hand, a minor injury. We took him in the house and while he was being bandaged he said, "If there is no blood, there is no art." In a way, he loved that he got hit. It was exciting, we pushed the edge.
Propst: He picked up his magazines at a local newsstand, long gone now, called The Town Crier. Knife stuff, Guns & Ammo, Cat Fancy… He had subscriptions to some of the scarier magazines not always available at the newsstands, like American Handgunner.
He really liked carefully made knives--he must have had 50 folding knives. I don't know how many times he cut himself demonstrating the sharpness of his knives. It happened all the time. He used to cut pieces of paper and the pieces would get smaller and smaller. That's when he cut himself, usually the index finger. He took pain well.
I went over one day to show him my latest treasure: an expensive, Italian-made stiletto. He loved it. He flicked it open a few times, brandished it, then put it in his pocket. "Thank you, Wayne," he said. I had no intention of giving him that knife. That's when I knew he was the master and I was the student.
"To make the round shapes, he would take a suction cup, dip it in ink, then smear it across the paper."
© Wayne Propst
Propst: William liked to discuss his art in process. He would point to an area in a painting: "See the boy being chased by the demon? There's the boy, there's the demon."
The front bedroom was his art room. There was a bed in there too, for guests, mostly Ginsberg. He had a set of old metal bed springs propped on the south wall. He would clip his paintings on them to dry or display. Every painting had a story. I would knock, open the front door: "I'm here to fix the sink, Bill." He would call from the art room, "In here. Come see."
Propst: It says April 1986 but thats when I finally got the film developed. I'm positive this picture is from Christmas Day, 1985.
B100: How do you know?
Propst: William's gold tie. He wore it every Christmas. This was Christmas dinner at LINK David Ohle and Sue Brousseau's house. Jennifer, David's step-daughter at the time, got the doll for Christmas. She asked William if he would like to feed her doll. "Yes, I would," said William. He was a polite man. Note the cigarette and vodka Coke in front of him. So William is feeding the doll for a while and he says to Jennifer, "You know, I think there's something wrong with your baby. It doesn't look quite right. This arm is misshapen…" Jennifer knew William pretty well. She said, "That's enough," and took the baby away.
Propst: The viewing was at a funeral home on Massachusetts Street. It was closed to some degree, not a free-for-all. Laid-back, not too solemn. Lots of people were kissing William in his coffin. Giorno was doing deep meditation, very reverent. William had a snubbie in his jacket.
This was when it really sunk in that he was dead. I saw him dead at the hospital but this was different. I knew he wasn't going to snap out of it.
This interview for Burroughs 100 was by Tom King, who resides in and takes care of, with extreme prejudice, William S. Burroughs's house in Lawrence, Kansas. Previously on Burroughs 100 Tom interviewed James Grauerholz see
and Philip Heying
-  "If you had to, you could eat a bowling ball."
- Wayne Propst at Review KC http://ereview.org/2010/09/22/reality-my-way/
In the first of a series Burroughs 100 talks to a phoptographer who photographed William S. Burroughs. The kicking off this new series is Philip Heying
Born 1959 in Kansas City, Philip Heying (pronounced "High-ing"), moved to Lawrence in 1977 to study painting at the University of Kansas. Through his friends John Lee and Karl Gridley, he met Burroughs' manager, James Grauerholz. In 1980, Heying was introduced to Burroughs.
MYSTICAL CANDY SKULL
Interview with photographer Philip Heying
Heying: In 1980, Grauerholz organized a talk at KU with John Cage, Ginsberg and Burroughs. Afterwards, we all went to Hawk's Crossing. Ginsberg hit on me, Grauerholz hit on me, everybody was drinking, happy, fucked up. A group of us students used to have a regular supper club back then and we went all out on those things, blew the budget. When William first moved to town he was always looking for a free meal so he would join us sometimes. After a while, James OK'd me and I got to go visit WIlliam at home.
B100: Did that elevate your cool on campus?
Heying: Those KU girls didn't care. The William ticket did not get you a date.
B100: How was the first meeting?
Heying: I was intimidated, anxious. I've been completely intimidated by three people in my life: William Burroughs, Brion Gysin and Irving Penn. And they were all perfect gentleman; gracious, friendly, supportive. William was a very polite man, a good listener and got a kick out of showing off his new guns, knives and eccentric weapons.
An amateur photographer for most of his life, Heying forsook painting for photography in 1983. He graduated with a BFA in Painting from KU the following year.
B100: Was there one picture that convinced you to become a professional photographer?
Heying: The revelation came in Lawrence, 1983. That's when I started to think of myself as a photographer, taking it seriously as an art form and committing to it. I was waiting at a railroad crossing and there were these mythological-looking black dogs sniffing around. Then the train rushed by. I took two pictures that became a diptych, those dogs and the train. The verbal description doesn't do the picture justice. It got lost when I moved back from Paris. It had a surprising, haunted quality...
B100: What was your first photo hit?
Heying: I had moved to Paris and married a French woman. After a little over a year of struggling in Paris, she decided to get her PhD in Biochemistry at KU. We moved back to Lawrence in 1986. I got a job at the Hollis Officer Studio in KC, and a little after that started shooting for Borderline magazine. When Leary was in town James agreed to help me try to get some pictures of William and Tim together, over breakfast, Friday, March 13, 1987. I got there at 7.45am. William had shared his methadone with Leary and they had already smoked some weed, so they were very high, very talkative, very funny and obviously very fond of each other. They had eggs and toast, I think. I hung out for about two hours.
Leary was leaving for the airport, his ride was waiting. I had the wrong camera, the wrong film… a skin-of-the-teeth shot. But it turned out fine. It seemed to work that way with William. On the way out, Leary said "I like your style" and gave me his address.
B100: Did you become an official WSB photographer?
Heying: Sort of. In a very respectful sense, always on William's terms. He usually asked me, or we both sensed it was the right time, to take a picture. Didn't happen often; I wasn't snapping pictures left and right. I knew him for 17 years and I have five portraits of him. Only one is a candid shot.
Heying: It was about 4:30pm. We had been fooling around with art and pictures* for most of the afternoon and it was time for happy hour. William was very high. He got extra-high to come up with titles for his paintings.
I had just finished one of his brutal vodka Cokes so I was pretty loaded myself.** I was putting my gear away and I turned around and saw this scene. I immediately unpacked my gear, praying he would stay there long enough for me to frame the picture and shoot. I got just enough time for one single exposure. As I said, it seemed to work out with him.
B100: What about Fletch the cat?
Heying: Fletch knew he had it good. He had William wrapped around his black little paw. He wasn't very affectionate toward strangers; he and William had a private bond. Fletch was a one-person cat and William was his person. He never let William get too far away. Prince of the house. He got fat when he was older. There was a three-year stretch when I had not seen Fletch and then next time I visited he was three times the size he was before. I said: "Fletch! Good lord, what happened! You've turned into Elvis!" William, a bit huffy, replied: "I think he's more like Orson Welles."
Heying: I came for an early dinner on Halloween with Bernard and Francoise Heidsieck. There was a traditional spooky face carved on the pumpkin on the other side of the porch, but William's hatchet job was really horrifying. It was the most intense jack-o-lantern I had ever seen so I asked William to pose beside it. You can tell by how the pockets of his jacket are sagging that he was carrying several weapons. He really was a dangerous guy.
Allen was visiting. He and William had decked out the front room for the trick-or-treaters. Jose Ferez-Kuri [Burroughs' art dealer] had brought a dozen huge candy skulls from Mexico and William and Allen had set up a display of the skulls, just inside the front door, and all kinds of candy on the table. We had a nice dinner but no trick-or-treaters. At 7pm, past prime kid time, William was pacing. He was depressed that no-one showed up.
Around 7:15, they started coming. About 10 kids rang the bell, greeted by William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. You can see part of Allen in the picture, in the doorway. A couple of kids were dressed like Bob Dole. William spoiled all those kids rotten: showered them with candy, doted on them, posed for pictures… He was the model--if heavily armed--neighbor. Those kids went away with life-sized, mystical candy skulls in their bags, given to them by William S. Burroughs.
Philip Heying is currently an Adjunct Professor of Photography at Johnson County Community College in Kansas City. He was the featured artist at the Land Institute's annual PrairieFest this year and his photographs are in the collection of the Nelson-Atkins Museum. His photographs have been published in the New York Times, International Herald-Tribune, Liberation, Le Monde, Velo News, Art in America, Conde Nast Traveler, Penthouse and Rolling Stone.
* Burroughs asked Heying to collaborate on visual projects. Here is an excerpt from Heying's essay for the catalog of "Creative Observer," the multi-media Burroughs show opening January 18, 2014 at the Lawrence Art Center:
"After his dear friend Brion Gysin died in the early summer of 1986, William began making paintings in earnest. Not long after that he asked me to help him use photographic techniques in creating visual analogies to cut-up recordings. …I would come over to his house in late mornings. He always had his materials ready. He always offered to get me high and I always deferred until we were finishing up. The first time I came by he asked me to shoot macro detail slides of some of his favorite parts of pieces he was working on. “Do you see that fox, right there, coming out of those bushes?” he would ask, pointing at a swirl of color on wood. Even though I wasn’t the slightest bit high yet, I could nearly always see exactly what he described."
**Four fingers vodka, one finger Coke.
By Tom King 10/10/13
The Great Globe Is Paint In Air
by James W. Grauerholz
WILLIAM WAS a Foreseer. He foresaw our new century. He saw in to the shadows of his times, and he discerned the roots, deep in those darknesses, of what and who—today—we all know are the real Nova Mob. The Nova Criminals of our time, the 21st century A.C.E., have revealed themselves; they are right out in the open:
• The 147 transnational corporations who own (on paper, anyway) the vast majority of all planetary “wealth”—resources, assets, and financialized lies—on our Third Planet From the Sun ... but what they own has an aggregate “notional value” of many multiples of the planet’s actual total wealth, by any humane measure;
• The top 200 publicly-listed oil, coal and gas companies whose fossil-fuel “proven reserves” account for 1/4 of the planet’s unextracted hydrocarbons and amount to 745 gigatons of carbon dioxide—far exceeding the planet’s “remaining carbon budget,” i.e., 500 GtCO2: the absolute maximum carbon that can be further burned by Humankind without provoking global warming in excess of 2 degrees Celsius, hastening and worsening the already-begun worldwide climatic disaster;
• The Mega-Wealthy of Earth in 2012, their extravagant riches far surpassing anything ever known in all of human history ... William imagined them more than fifty years ago.
These très riches heures of Earth’s final human generations, before the Deluge, and the Ovens: in Naked Lunch,in the Cut-Up Trilogy, in The Wild Boys ... there were “A.J.” in “Le Gran Luxe,”and “Hassan,” he of the orgiastic “Rumpus Room,” and let us not overlook “Mr. Hart,” the embodiment of William Randolph Hearst as William imagined him in Ah Pook Is Here, nor his Mayan demonization of Henry Luce (“It is a control system. TIME LIFE FORTUNE is some sort of a police organization.”—WSB, January 1, 1965) ... and “Mr. Rich Parts,” the scar-carapaced, transplanted-organ king, cowering far below the surface in a refrigerated Bunker ... so many more, all right there.
We need not fine-tooth-comb the Burroughs-Scripture for Nostradamic arcana or magikal incunabula, because William laid it out bare, in plain English:
ALL OUT OF TIME AND INTO SPACE.
“Citizens of Gravity: We are converting all-out to Heavy Metal. Carbonic Plague of the Vegetable People threatens our Heavy Metal State. Report to your nearest Plating Station. It’s fun to be plated,” says this well-known radio and TV personality who is now engraved forever in gags of metal.
Sudden young energy--
Or, as William voiced a Nova Mobster saying, in one of the many tape-recorder audio works he made in the 1960s:
“Who ... let ... Burroughs ... get to that phone?!? and drop a dime on Us...?!?!”
Go to Nova Express, for Burroughs’ vision of Nature’s Revenge:
“Pay Color! Pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back!”
Or hear William’s mind inside the Controllers’ minds:
“Don’t let them see us! Don’t tell them what We are doing! Premature! Premature! Disaster to my blood whom I created!”
And here is what Burroughs said in “The Future of the Novel,” a text that he delivered in Edinburgh, Scotland, at the epochal 1962 Writers Conference:
A Russian scientist has said: “We will travel not only in Space, but in Time as well.”
That is, to travel in Space is to travel in Time. [...]
The conferring writers [here] have been accused by the press of not paying sufficient attention to the question of human survival—†
In Nova Express (reference is to an exploding planet), and my latest novel, The Ticket That Exploded,
I am primarily concerned with the question of survival--
But William Burroughs also said, quoting his closest friend and greatest collaborator, Brion Gysin:
“Man is a bad animal.”
William and Brion referred to the dogs-like aspect of Humanity:
“They will breed their ignorant peasant asses into the ocean.”
In his seventies, William allowed his Inner Misanthrope to flare-up when he read how the Third World‘s ballooning human population was deforesting Madagascar (to choose just one, very WSB-specific, example) ... their unsustainable slash-and-burn agriculture irreparably destroying Lemur habitat, and that was already 30 years ago.
William snarled to contemplate the gentle Indri lemurs hunted by starving Malagasy human beings and eaten by them, as “bushmeat” ... he sneered and cursed those humans, so deeply was his heart hurt to think of it, he growled to swallow a sob, in his latter years when he contemplated the Future that is now our Present.
In this Present of ours, most of the Lemuridae are threatened with extinction, and many species are already forever lost. In 2012, it was reported that 91% of the 103 still-extant Lemur species and subspecies are at maximum risk of extinction.
It’s the end of the line for the Lemurs this time, people.
Go on, read William’s late-life “Jesus Lemur” novella, Ghost of Chance, then try to visualize how he would have despaired at what is happening right now. It brings tears to my own eyes, just imagining it. But the memory of William’s sterner stuff dries me up quickly, as it also rescued him in the mid-1990s, his final Earth years.
That was in the aftermath of his wrenching, heart-quickening “contact” with the Cats, his beloved cats, so tearfully recounted in The Cat Inside, published 20 years ago ... the eternal Cat, the White Cat, Margaras ...the White Light of Truth, still moistening William’s pages in 1995, in his book, My Education: A Book of Dreams.
For examples of his latter-day Redemption Songs, see William’s Last Words journals—where he wrestled the dark angel of hatred to the ground, but won the match, in the end, by surrendering.
William was explicitly, mystically Manichaean—not so much with the Zoroastrians’ chiaroscuro battlescape of Light vs. Darkness, but with their idea that the outcome of this struggle between Good and Evil is not pre-ordained, not “pre-recorded.”
And in that sense, all this foreseeable eventual planetary loss and desolation is no proof that the Nova criminals shall have won the day. Because that day is not today. One day it will be today.
As William wrote in his 1975 Foreword to Ah Pook Is Here, in words that can as easily refer to the planet’s fate as to one human’s life:
Your death is an organism which you yourself create. If you fear it or prostrate yourself before it, the organism becomes your master.
Then he breaks it down for us:
Time is that which ends.
The only way out of Time is into Space.
What did William mean by Space?
He spoke cryptically and contradictorily about Space, but in January 1965, he offered this clue:
The hope lies in the development of non-body experience and eventually getting away from the body itself, away from three-dimensional coordinates and the concomitant animal reactions of fear and flight, which lead inevitably to tribal feuds and dissension.
The interviewer then asked Burroughs if he was, as Mary McCarthy had suggested, a “soured Utopian.”
William’s reply can stand for his entire life project as a morally-committed American writer and artist of the late 20th century:
I do definitely mean what I say to be taken literally, yes: to make people aware of the true criminality of our times ... to wise-up the Marks.
All of my work is directed against those who are bent, through stupidity or design, on blowing up the planet or rendering it uninhabitable.
Now I have told you who are the enemies of humanity, and have shown you that humanity is its own worst enemy. In the furnace heat of that unbearable truth, William created his writings, and his paintings, and all his art. And as for me, I think that is about all we can do—but we can do that, and it is what we do.
To the Transatlantic Review’s collection of his 1962 prophecy at Edinburgh, Burroughs added a cut-up text he made for the Conference. The last paragraph of that text calls out to me to be given a place on these pages—at the top of the bill, as it were; the show-closer.
I dedicate William’s words to the memory of his dear friend, who is with him now in “The Western Lands”—my beloved brother in soul, who was obliged to leave our Earth Party already two years ago, and far too soon--José Férez Kuri.
Twenty-five years ago this month, José joined forces with William as his personal art curator and artistic consultant; their collaboration lasted 23 years.
José was a gift to William from our lifelong friends here in The October Gallery, and now, with this exhibition, the circle is unbroken. We all miss José, and we salute eternally his central role in William’s life as an artist.
I thank you all, for reading these words, and for seeing William’s Art.
Nova Police besieged McEwan Hall 
Foot Notes :
 Vitali, Glattfelder, Battiston 2011. The network of global corporate control. Zurich: Systems Design.
 Carbon Tracker Initiative 2012. Unburnable carbon: Are the world’s financial markets carrying a carbon bubble? London: Investor Watch.
Conrad Knickerbocker w/ WSB, 1965. “The Art of Fiction, No. 36: William S. Burroughs.” New York: Paris Review.
 William S. Burroughs, 1965. Nova Express. New York: Grove Press.
† Two months before the Edinburgh conference, the “Missiles of October” had held the world in delicate balance between nuclear suicide and global survival (at least).
 William S. Burroughs, 1962. “Censorship;” “Future of the Novel;” et al. London: Transatlantic Review No. 11 (Winter 1962).
 Mittermeier et al., 2012. Primates in Peril: the world’s 25 most-endangered primates, 2012–2014. Bristol: IUCN/SSC Primate Specialist Group. (International Union for the Conservation of Nature)
 William S. Burroughs, 1979. Ah Pook Is Here. London: John Calder.
 Knickerbocker 1965.
 Burroughs 1962, Transatlantic Review.
By James W. Grauerholz (Nov. 21, 2012)
This text was originally published in the catalouge for the William S Burroughs show "All out of time and into space" at The October Gallery , London, December 2012.
To purchase a copy of William S. Burroughs: All Out Of Time And Into Space (October Publications) visit The October Gallery bookstore http://www.octobergallery.co.uk/bookstore/
You can view William S. Buroughs art which has been exhibited at The October Gallery on their website http://www.octobergallery.co.uk/artists/burroughs/index.shtml
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