Last night I dreamt that this blog had become REALLY popular. It was ever so exciting. There were more comments than I could keep up with and I had written a tonne of posts.
Mind you, the night before that I dreamt about a radio station for ducks. I worked there as a producer for two duck presenters, one of whom was named Sweetbill.
I don’t think my dreams are prophetic. Or if they are; the world is about to get a whole lot weirder…
Anyway. Not what I came here to write. I’ve just gotten back from seeing ‘On the Road’ which I thought was surprisingly good – both because I didn’t think the book would translate well into a film and because I hadn’t really heard any good reviews so far. But I liked it. They captured the drifting feel of the book… I feel perhaps it is best as a companion to the book. It illuminates what the reader imagines and brings the music and the look of everything sharply to life.
It’s been a while since I read Jack Kerouac’s chronicle of his travels across America and, although I confess I found it very hard to read, there was something about it that appealed to me a lot. Something that spoke to me and put into words the way I often feel inside. I loved the lust for life that the characters showed; the desire to be something, to explore the world, to really really live. I don’t wish to idealise or fetishise the way they lived or their attitudes to women, to responsibilities to others and so forth. But the heart of it, the vividness and the rush and flow of thoughts and feelings: that all rings true to me.
“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.” – Jack Kerouac, On the Road