tribute to "on the road"

i didn't consciously know it then, but i first met neal cassady, in the guise of dean moriarty, many years back.  our initial affair was speedy, ending prematurely, like so many love's of younger gents.  i may have gotten through 5 pages that time.  or maybe it was the next time or the time after that.  i did return to him, mainly because i'd heard from a great many esteem worthy people (and maybe especially unworthy, also), that on the road was a book that needed to be read.  i knew that i could like it, maybe that i should and even would like it, and that i also found it unbecoming of me then.  i think my last attempt at reading it was in new york, sometime in the 2002-2004 range, because my then love whom i'd picked up and moved from chicago to dreary dull long island to be with, had lauded it.  5 pages or so later, probably with the same words and paragraphs reread a couple few times as my brain attempted to adjust to kerouac's pseudo stream of consciousness thought, and i'd decided that this was a book that people merely pretended to like, that they spoke of because it was en vogue to do so, but which most people probably didn't really care for.  anyway, i didn't really care for it, i seem to recall being angered at it and/or maybe my expectations of it, so i put down whatever copy i was reading, which likely was the same copy i've just finished, and moved on with my life.

i follow a lot of stuff, sites, movements, trends, ideas, people, stuff.  with cassady, i hardly knew i was following him, or he i, considering i didn't pick up another kerouac book until 2010, but there he was, riding along with me on a course i would have been mad to chart whence we first came to know one another.  sure, there are references to neal cassady in the 2 or 3 or 6 line quotations on or inside on the road, praising  and attempting to persuade a potential reader into becoming a certified reader, but there's no mention of neal cassady within those first few pages.  and sure, there's the Dead song "cassidy," apparantly a partial ode to neal, but more so to a tot born way back then with the cassidy spelling in their name; and this i only learned today through a wikipedia read.  and of course there's howl, which i've read parts and seen the recent movie of through red wine eyes, but if i heard that howl was based on ginsberg's love for cassady, which i think i did, i think i smiled, imagined yrs of obsessive love objectification, knowing firsthand how that goes, and put little to no further thought to it.

cassady's specter followed me through the months i spent reading the subterraneans in a different guise, that of leroy, but i knew not to look out for the cassady/leroy connection then.  only now, now that i've done some post-reading research.  i grabbed the subterraneans off a bookshelf of my former workplace Summit Achievement (SA), read bits of it while on the clock, took it on numerous backcountry expeditions, kept it mostly dry through a rainy fall, reading it by headlamp in my tent at night.  i'd often reread the same passages, and the book would help bring about needed sleep after long days hiking, but i had also found a kinship with kerouac through this semi-novel.  and not just any kinship, but a true writer's kinship, a respect, but also a deep relating.  it stemmed, much, from my reading of and subsequent meditations on this particular line, “The pain which impels me to write this even while I don’t want to, the pain which won’t be eased by the writing of this but heightened.”

I was struggling to write then, struggling to put more than a few words down, knowing there were thousands of words dying to burst forth from me.  while painfully obsessed with the compulsion to write, i was also moving forward with plans to exit new england.  my time there was coming to a close; that chapter, at least.  soon i'd be off, on the road, with a 2,500 mile soloish journey ahead (whitman came with me as well as cassady).   to force myself into an ideal setting to write a book, my destination would be - san juan mountains, new mexico, carson national forest, and potential madness.  my book and that kerouac book were more thought on than written or read by me then, so the subterraneans came with me to new mexico.  ditto one other immensely worthy book from the shelves of SA, A People's History of the United States.  i called my then-boss while in transit to inform him i left with said books and to dock me out of my last paycheck.  he did.  i checked.

possibly and probably before i finished with leroy and the other sub characters and their chasing after women and sex and booze and jazz and marijuana and other assorted desires, i came into my own w/out most every modern and historical luxory, high up at 8,700 feet, in part during one long, in-line-with-the-writer, spontaneous reading session that kerouac would have loved, considering his "spontaneous prose" writing style, i had my first real introduction to cassady.  you see, as i'm doing now - ie, not book writing, but reading and hiking and walking and letting a new land and time and way become part of me, i did so then in new mexico.  i read approximately 40 books in my first mountain month, and some were long doozies, like the aforementioned howard zinn historical masterpiece.  one was another true-to-life story that included cassady as, surprise, cassady!  of course, i mean, the electric kool-aid acid test.  pretty awesome read.  and i knew from that book that cassady had left a lasting impression within the pages of on the road, and more likely, within each individual's interpretation of those words and what lie between them.  i think i figured then i.would eventually find cassady, again, in that book.  but when, i knew not.  besides, he was merely one historical figure.  i would soon be writing about many that were likely much more significant than he.  doubly besides - kerouac was supposed to be the main figure in that 1st person, barely-not-autobiographical novel.  uh huh.  and triply, i didn't know then that when i fell asleep at the wheel during long road stretches past and future - i'd cover 1000's upon 1000's upon 1,000's in the summer alone after descending from my 6 month new mexican hermitage - that cassady was there all along to gleefully take the wheel from me, hoping to point it in on a road he hadn't seen prior.

it's fitting that i'd latch onto the book that showcased cassady's mania (amongst other attributes) while in a manic state of my own.  this was in the week prior to me leaving chicago for costa rica.  i was at my friend's pad, but this gal was no mere friend, as indeed no mere friend is really a mere friend - there's something uniquely special about each relationship.  this friend to me was a friend, then lover, then best friend, then hope for the holy grail of love, then the living embodiment of the worst that humans can and will do, and eventually a close friend again.  i was at her home, reeling, a mile a minute in my head, so many things i wanted to get done, do, say, write, experience, before departing, and that day i may not have said or done any of these things.  where to start, what to start, why to start?  whatever.

she was on one of her computers and i was walking, thinking, on the move for something, but i knew not what.  i decided to look at the books on a bookshelf that i hadn't bothered to examine in the previous year plus we'd reestablished our friendship.  i'm not altogether sure whether i saw the beat generation classic first or a toni morrison novel i'd bought for an honor's level sociology class in college.  i flashed to the excel spreadsheet she made and we used to distribute in a financially fair, as close to 50-50 way, all our joint new york holdings.  the bluest eye was not a joint holding, it was an i holding; an i holding that led to one of my last A++ papers, an i holding that she'd held for years without me ever missing it, an i holding i didn't need to hold again except to confirm my mark-up's on its pages, and an i holding that i used to establish a barter that barely needed her approval - she keeps the morrison novel, i get the kerouac one.  she muttered yes and something about taking other books if i wanted, but i didn;t want them, didn't want any freebies - just the 50-50, damned near close to fairness deal that i'd proposed. soon to be leaving on a course that i was frantically understanding more than ever may not have an end or return date,  i was comforted to add to my weight this paperback edition that i'd probably held last back in my huntington station master bedroom.  mind you, if this paperback edition were a baseball card, it may be worth something because of a printing error stating the following, "This beautiful hardcover edition has been published to celebrate..."  i'm glad they wanna celebrate, but maybe they should have put their glasses down before scripting that last bit.

i read kerouac slower than maybe any other author i've yet come across.   i re-began this book in chicago.  i read many a line while flying over various land and waterscapes below en route to costa rica.  and i read on a number of occasions here.  today i finished it.  today i will keep writing this entry to enshrine a forgiveness and love for the book and its author.

sometimes i'm quick.  sometimes slow.  often in between.  i was quick enough to gather at some point that dean moriarty was likely neal cassady, and slow enough to forget that i was reading a "novel," and thus i kept waiting for dean to announce he was changing his name to cassady, perhaps while on a manic spiritual loving life 1,500 words coming your way before you have even a moment to interject drunken rampage.  it'd make sense, be in character.  that moment didn't come, because dean was a character in a "book," while neal had character in "real life."  whatever.  i'd put of the big spoil of that moment purposely, then after closing out the novel, i scoured the web for info.  got it.  and returned to reread the final 2 paragraphs, now having confirmation that dean and neal were one in the same.  ahh.

while i waited for that the big reveal within the story that never happened (except in a 2007 edition of the book, subtitled "the original scroll," where pseudonyms are replaced with real names - kerouac, cassady, allen ginsberg, et al - even though the original scroll apparantly has a few edits still.  does george lucas own this publisher and is he planning on a few more "original scroll"s before settling on a final edition scroll, after which there'll be one last scroll, and then...), i recognized at varying times: peacefully, happily, manically, and with nervy butterflies in my belly, how similar mr. cassady, errr, moriarty, and i were.

he'd talk your ear off, getting into details frustrating to ears not accustomed to listen to frequent minute sermons on any topic, be it the meaning of everything or a brief encounter with a postal worker who's watch face was pointing downward and thus "shouldn't" have been able to reflect the sun from above, but for one second it caught that sun and the ray pointed towards...you get the picture.  if you know me, you know that's me.  if you know cassady, you know that's cassady.  until this week, and especially the last 3 days, i did not know that that was cassady, or that cassady and me were this much of the same cloth.

exceedingly handsome and beautiful, often, inside and out.  sometime lover of men.  regular lover of women.  maniacal and romantic and wickedly capable of destroying profound love relationships, only to return to them, and likely destroy them again.  he and me.  we both knew and know our loves never really leave, no matter how dire.  we also know the road resonated with us.  following our whims.  love shared sexually and romantically, too, sure, but his last days were spent on the road, dying in latin america, the meaningful women gone from his present.  i picked up and left recently, somewhat saddened about not having a current actualized women friend to gypsy with, knowing i may never again really attach myself to another for a sustained period, as i know the road is in my blood, my veins, my dna that i do not plan to pass along at any rate that approaches how cassady did.  i travel alone in body, together in spirit, with he and all my mates.  and i say this with a satisfied smile covering my face.

i'm settled in unsettled lands.  at home where moments before i'd never set foot.  pleased and satisfied with habit and regularity really only if they fall into on the path of newness, of actualizing higher-minded and more purposeful goals, which i've rationalized a 1,000 different ways.  undaunted.  taking life in and breathing it back out with an infectious smile.

so come visit.  or not.  and please, do send a word, on the sly, off the cuff, on a social network or email or in lovely letter form, to this whitman bred rough, for i get lonely at times, and i am known to make highly questionable decisions while emotional (as well as far from emotional.  hehehe) and i no longer have a car, having sold it to make my meandering way out here in an actualized unknown that i needed to live in and eventually continue writing my book in as i made book writing correspond with many of the other goals i have for myself in this world.  writing a book is one thing, and 140,000 words into this book and no end in sight, it was time to pony up and hidy ho into a merging of many of my goals for myself.  here's a list, for those that care, that i've been navigating for more than a couple years now:

1 - step foot on all 7 continents
2 - scuba dive
3 - swim w/sharks
4 - swim w/dolphins
5 - overcome fear of snakes
6 - write a book
7 - stop the habit of biting my nails
8 - hike a 10,000 foot mountain
9 - camp in alaska
10 - surf until i do it well
(addendum recently made - surf on at least 2 different continents)
11 - run w/the bulls
12 - drink wine in paris
13 - drink wine in italy
14 - smoke in a cafe in amsterdam
15 - go to an opium den in bankok  (wording people - it says go to one, not smoke in one, though i'd probably do both :)
16 - write daily on a specific adventure
17 - scuba the great barrier reef
18 - take a gondola ride in venice
19 - leave it all behind and walk the earth
20 - attend a swinger's party/orgy
21 - hike up mt. washington, have a beer and lunch

some i've completed.  most i haven't yet.  other's are not yet placed on the pages in my journal i've kept open for further goal/dream actualization, thus they are not on this list.  the list might now be closer to 30 or 40..  y'all are welcome with me on any portion, as i harbor no current grudges against anybody and a whole lot of love for everybody i've crossed paths with.  ideally, different folks from different groups in my life would merge and we'd all be one big group lovefest - northeasterner's meet the midwestener's meet the westener's meet the latin american's meet the off-shoots like marti meet the randoms we'd find while bar hopping or doing beach yoga or online or in a psychedelic attempt at oneness. 

i love me some emotional 'n physical connections with certain ladies and emotional connections with dudes.  where better to make them than on the road...just be forewarned - i am now unedited, i am now an invocation of cassady, i am now happy to speak openly about such things as smoking a joint within an hour of arriving in costa rica, i am now copying a recent fb status update for the official record, "if'n there is such a thing as madness, rejoice people, for you may never meet anyone whom fits that bill more so than i"  


dig it.  cassady would, and few use that phrase more than i do, but he seemed to.  maybe you need to in your being, if not your speaking.  can ya dig it?