Kerouac is like the Bodhidharma of America from
French-Canadian Catholicism bringing mystic Jesus Buddha love to desolation
landscapes.
Stories speak of good and bad and what each wants but what
about this need for story?
I went to Big Sur to see where Jack was crucified upon those
cold indifferent and uncaring rocks of Robinson Jeffers.
Don't forget the world is hard and full of want, and stories
are soft like blood and guts, but only dreaming is what I need to be.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
scientific materialism until dementia settled in, or was it worst minds?
Quote unquote, it's not easy seeing through oneself when one has faith in
nothing and forgets I am.
I'm not much but I pass through the eye of a needle. To say
there are no words is just a waste of words. I am the word.
God, the world itself desires cancer, all about continued growth. The
spiritless are like demented zombies, William Blake.
Death is as experientially unproven as any unidentified
flying object so why do you believe in it?
Whatever way I take—direct, circuitous, or some other middle
path—there is only self-awareness. Dream on, pure awareness, dream on.
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