Digging into the mind, listening to Pattie Smith “Dancing Barefoot”,…she is sublimation…she is concentrating on he…here I go again, and I don’t know why …..”
Been reading Kerouac. I thought the guy was a lot cooler when I was a kid. Now, reading him as an older man, I realise he was a sad man. He was brilliant in speaking the heart flow sonic strange music prose. Yes, some of the places he takes me in the mind, literally blows the mind…and it’s all in the way he writes, his style…his own dreaming eye, elastic light form and satori grains. Yes, moments embedded on his road with subterranean angel thoughts and for just these moments, I love Jack Kerouac. Everything else is forgiven.
What is there to forgive? Who am I to forgive? Does it really matter?
His tramping way….he was a tramp, a bum, all be it a Dharma Bum. He couldn’t commit to a relationship except for the one with his mother and in many ways coopted his friends and events to his art and pursuit of fame.
I feel strange writing these words because I love the guy even though all of the above is true. I love his innocent take on the world, even when he’s down and beat, really beat, he comes up with some beatitude sun grains in his prose.
Jack Kerouac died of cirrhosis at 47 – so young.