I’ve been pretty thoroughly engrossed in Kerouac for the past week. Sure, I was reading some of his journals for a few months (I am, sadly, a very slow reader) but lately there has been a surge, and with that surge has come an obsession with words and with phrasing, timing, accuracy, tenacity, stream-of-consciousness schizophrenic ponderings. Daydreams and thoughts and ideas and processing. I’m ashamed to admit that I am no scholar of Kerouac, that I only just started one of his books (Big Sur) (and by only just, I mean fifteen minutes ago), and inside, I burst wildly into panicked tears. I wanted in the pages, among the words. He was talking about my home, my North Beach and I was there, we were there together without punctuation or care.
I have so much more to say on this but it will have to wait until I can get comfortable (no chair, not yet) but I wanted to leave myself a reminder of this moment, of this time when I discovered after all these years that it is Kerouac who is the other half of my writing conscience.
