May 28.99
Study Butte, Texas, USA

3:12pm. I woke up at 11am, made an omelette, then read more about Jack’s life On the Road-- which I still find non-eventful and boring. I am especially disappointed because I am assume I am reading the best excerpts from his most popular book.

Looking at the black and white photo of Jack on the book cover, I notice a clear resemblance shared between us: the high forehead, v-shape hair line, small mouth, and thin, angular face. Jack had nearly the same build as myself when he was my age.

Listening to Buckets of Rain, a Dylan song that Randie sang to me on a rainy bus ride from Los Moches to Mazatlan and in bed at the palapa, I looked for the lyrics on the CD jacket, but was disappointed-- at first, to only find a lengthy album review by Pete Hawaii, written in 1974. Then I read what Peter had to say about Buckets of Rain:

"A simple song. Not Dante’s inferno, and not intended to be. But a song that conjures up the American road, all the busted dreams of open places, boxer cars, the Big Dipper pricking the velvet night. And it made me think of Ginsberg and Carso and Ferlinghetti, and most of all, Kerouac, racing Dean Moriarty across the country in the fifties, embracing wind and night, passing Huck Fin on the river banks, bouncing against the coast, and heading back again, with Kerouac dreaming his songs of the railroad earth. Music drove them; they always knew they were in New York when they picked up symphony Sid on the radio. In San Francisco they declared a renaissance and read poetry to jazz, trying to make Mallarme’s dream flourish in the soil of America. They failed, as artists generally do, but in some way Dylan has kept his promise. "

12:20am. Tonight, sitting at the bar in the Starlight, flipping through the latest issue of GQ magazine(which had article about the Starlight-- it being one of America’s funkiest saloons), and a photo of Jack caught my eye. Jack was the definition of cool according to the author of the accompanying article.

A few minutes ago, listening to Van Morrison’s Greatest Hits, I discovered On The Road and Darma Bums mentioned in the song Cleaning Windows.

I’m thinking to myself... " am I missing something?" There must be a reason Jack keeps entering my path.

I first recall hearing mention of Jack Kerouac on TV in my early teens. Between then and two weeks ago, his name rarely entered my path. Yet, though I knew virtually nothing about him or his adventures in spontaneous prose, I felt he was a kindred spirit. It’s obvious that his work has infected many with the travel bug and inspired others to do... other things.

At this moment, I am still unimpressed by him, so I’m left asking: what is it that I need to learn from him? Are these warnings, omens? Should I be using aliases for the names of friends as he did?

It’s 1:15am, but I’m not tired. I just put on a pot of water for cocco. Expand my brain I must. Back to the book.