The first time I feel in love with books was the summer of my
freshman year. I read everything from the typical teen drama and vampires, to
the more complex and obscure historical fictions. After a few months of that, I
became completely perplexed with history. I came out from the library carrying
books in bags and sometimes in boxes, tripping, furious, and a crying in pain
from my arms. I was fascinated with the scandals of Henry VIII and cougars like
Diane de Poitiers. I wondered if the women had “cat fight” and if the men
ever cared to be faithful. I imagined myself in Anne Boleyn’s execution and
before the “Mad king”. I read over 150 books that summer.
My passion for books was eating away whatever life I had and I was
struck with the realization that I had found my calling. I had always believed
that the “greats” only existed because they took risks with their lives and
many have confused risk taking with luck. A dream that is so vivid and one you
would not forget about in the morning. The one that fills your heart with
complete excitement and a dream that drives you insane. The dream you fear the
most and feel guilty when you abandon it. Afraid but slowly I was changing my
views and what I had believed in all my life. This all happened when I became
completely in love with Jack Kerouac and he’s book “On The Road.”
The door to my bedroom flies open and I am confronted with a very
angry mother, eyes red, and vanes popping in every possible place on her face,
shaking and raging with anger. She turns and walks from one end of the room to
the other fuming away whatever self-preservation I had and completely downing
me in fear. While I await my death I pray for the 2nd time that week for my deliverance and
she walks away with death in her eyes. My room was a complete mess and I
had not stepped out of that room for a month. Books by the “beats” covered
every part of my little shelter and it was ready to burst.
Kerouac portrayed America as a place of constant
restlessness and unhappiness because it is a place where one loses their sense
of belonging. How does one belong, when individuals would forget to ask
themselves what they want from this mad world, and go to sleep aching for the
next day to end? Perhaps the feeling of confusion in our conquest
was what life was about, not settling in for the truth we create and believe
for ourselves. He’s work had a certain immediacy and intimacy that captured the
deepest of emotions. And soon after “On The Road” became my bible. It will be
lullaby before I go to sleep and my meditation after a broken heart. It goes
with me everywhere and peaks at me whenever I am afraid. I was starting to view
life as an adventure.
From that realization, I asked everyone if they knew
what they were meant to do, but they would shush me away. They would quote me
“I follow my dreams rah rah…” and burst into laughter. I had felt alone,
perhaps even foolish and was starting to give up. Until I had started to
witness the loss of excitement to live, to really live from the people around
me.
I only saw her by accident. She was falling over and
over but she got up each and every time. She stands on her toes and turns again
and again, her arms raised angelically until she trips. She was celebrated as
the best. She does not cry, she smiles when it is necessary, she is polite and
if she has to unkind, she does it in silence. At last she sits down and
weeps quietly as she unties her shoes and examines her bleeding feet. Even
though the nails are cut very short they are peeling, the skin underneath is
raw and hard but bleeds continuously. It slowly trickles down and stains the
floor as a small puddle of blood gathers under her stare. Her illusion of
happiness masked by her supposed perfection. No matter how she keeps herself
shut out from the rest of the world, everyone knew that she was miserable. I
was confronted with the anguished face of my sister and her broken dreams.
You can taste the bitter sweet taste of sweat and
desperation. The smell of cheap liquor and upside down bottles accompanied by
endless cigarettes, decorate every table. The annoyed side way glances, almost
unwelcoming, are dished out by everyone that is sitting, to late comers. There
is a young man sitting in the middle of the stage roaring poetry, gripping he’s
sides from uncontrolled emotions and worry. He screams “Oh, smell the people! yelled Cassidy with his
face out the window, sniffing. Ah, God! Life!” A line from “On The Road” read
so vividly, as only a “beatnik” would do it. The constant shifts of tattooed
arms and legs easily mixing with the slow background of Jazz. Philosophical
youngsters that think too much, all in one room in too much pain to look at one
another. Sitting at underground café of hipster mania and awful coffee,
with a tight grip on the bible of life, “On The Road” is preached.
I was mad to live and wanted be in the company of
crazy. I wanted to be excited and go on adventures, on the road to my mother’s
disapproval. As Kerouac described it, “the only people for me are the
mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous
of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace
thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like
spiders across the stars.” I wanted to be with people that have so much
passion they cannot control it. I did not want to say “no” to anything and live
for all the people that have not.
Sitting across from one another at dinner, my
friend and I slowly but surely walking on dangerous grounds and contemplate
ideas that would be regretted tomorrow. After dinner we hold hands and run from
tattoo place to another, judging the places not by price but from the looks of it
from the outside. After deciding on the tattoo place reality struck and though
I was second guessing our decisions, I laid on a chair ready to shed my skin
away. Looking sideways by accident, I was reassured with a peak of a book from
my bag. “hold my hands” I yelled at my friend, he awkwardly extended he’s arm
and only held the tip of my fingers. I shut my eyes and hoped the long needle
that was aimed at my eyes would just disappear. After noticing my friends
supposed support did not do much for me, I quickly let go and grasped tight to
the sides of the chair. My skin made a “crunch” sound as the needle worked it’s
way not in one but two layers of skin. Next challenge was with the ring going
in, the cold metal feel to it was so apparent I could feel the chills inside my
skin. After all was over, I was proud to have done something I had always
wanted. My eyebrows were pierced and one more line was crossed from my bucket
list. For the next hours that were to come we were utterly convinced by
happiness and all we could was just grin, for youth has not betrayed us just
yet.
What if there are no more Jack Kerouac’s or Allen
Ginsberg’s to set us free, to show us rebellion and not to be common. Not to go
in circles of life, from sad childhood, to school, good college and settle in
and have a happy family. What ever happened to FREEDOM? Passion has left us; it
has drifted by while we were seeking temporary satisfactions. It is cold and
unbroken demand, it’s uncomfortable and itchy, perhaps even sad. We have
become too afraid, too needy to go after the world. We are unhappy and ask for
more when we are not done with appreciating what we have in our hands. We are
selfish and therefore what we want does not want us back.
“On The Road” would alter the way to a
newfound view of life, that had urgency and had influences from around the
world. It had changed everything in my life, my past my present and the untold
future. It had made me unafraid to be alone and live without questioning my
decisions. It destroyed the barrier of doubt and self-piety. Only as he would
say it best “the only time we waste, is the time we waste thinking we are
alone.”
