Final reaction to On The Road

While reading this book, I was most struck by the youthfulness portrayed in the writing. Everything is fast, entire stretches of road can be described in a paragraph. The characters are bold, sharp, and move as fast as the road does. There is rarely a moments rest in the book, and I think that the "beat" generation, (as Kerouac coined it) was like this. No one was sure what it meant, or why it was important, but everyone understood that IT was important. In one conversation in the book, Dean and Sal discuss it in a car full of strangers. They share innate, seemingly unimportant conversation about cut mountains with their minds as children in cars. About running along side the metallic machines, chasing the wilderness outside. Yet somehow they both arrive at the same need of IT. I think that the memoir is really a pursuit for that imaginary feeling, that is impossible to describe, yet impossible to live without. In On the Road nothing is more important. That is why Kerouac can spend a page and a half describing how a saxophone player plays. How he swings with the flow of IT. They way he vigorously attacks progressions, confirming and denying his possession of IT. With such incredible invigorating writing Kerouac sparks a fire in the reader, making them want to search for IT. Such writing is rare, and powerful. Overall the book is an explanation really, of what a generation was, and what it means now.

On the Road, Journal Three

There are few instances, in On The Road, when the wild crazy events seem "out of the norm". Indeed most cases of all night parties, continuous 48 hour drives, and drug binges seem almost mundane. But, in the third segment of the book, it seems as though the partying life is finally catching up to the main characters. In fact one of the main participants, Carlo Marx, has opted out of the lifestyle, moving into upscale New York, settling down with a wife and kids. When Sal and Dean go there to meet him, they find a different man, who suddenly questions why they do things rather than, when, and what they do. Dean, sees life as one crazy trip, never ending, never standing still, for Dean if life is moving a hundred miles an hour, it's not moving at all. Sal on the other hand, runs through periods of deflation. Where he settles down for a while, only to be whisked away again by Dean, and whatever girl he happens to be in love with at the time. This time, Dean scoops up Sal, and they drive down to New Orleans to hang out with an friend, old Bull. Thing start to get crazy, through an unspecified amount of time, Sal and the gang work their way through several kinds of drugs. Including Benzedrine ( a type of stimulant) and heroine. It feels as though the mood of the memoir has started to shift. No longer is everything happy. Each trip isn't all glory and sunshine. The characters are growing odder, and more desperate at every turn, Bull takes three shots of heroine, administered throughout the day just to stay functional. The effects of such a crazy life style have started to show.

Stormy Class Room

Ms. Anastis had a spacious room. Wide, and gray, it was broken into three sections. One section was a gathering place. An amphitheater, were the children would sit, and Ms. Anastis would read. I always loved reading time. Soothing words, make for good nap times. The second section was the math section. Despite the section's colorful beads, and proportioned blocks, I hated it. The last section was defined by one feature, a gigantic glass window. The window pane was broken into distinct parts by iron supporting bands, criss-crossing the sleek surface, breaking the outside world into its own pieces. The window was a source of sunlight, happiness, and on one particular day, terror mixed with embarrassment. One day, the sky turned sour. Then the wind kicked up, and started flailing the trees. My fear of Tornadoes crept into my mind. The oppressive humidity made my skin sweat. The walls of the classroom started sneaking up on me, closing in slowly, delaying the breakdown. Storms, clouds, lightning, rain, I feared it all. A warm sensation spread down my legs, I knew I was in trouble. I stood there by the window, pants dripping, head hung, trying not to turn and look at the rest of the class. Suddenly, the storm wasn't important anymore, just changing my underwear.

Jack Kerouac On the Road Journal #2

While reading On The Road, there are a few thoughts that keep circling through my head. Mainly, I have a vision of Sal, walking down dusty roads, hoping for rides from strangers in the west. I think about the freedom he owns, the absolute ideal that he has imposed upon himself. In the writing, Sal does what he feels, and every option is a good one, every experience is important, and all of the trip is an adventure. Somehow, the pessimist in me is destroyed. For example, when Sal is stuck just outside of LA and is out of money, my only thought was wondering how he was going to get out of this one. The sense adventure is so present that the book reads more like a fantasy novel than a memoir. There is never a sense of pause, never a moment where the characters motives are questioned. There is only the road, and Sal. There is only a sense of anticipation as to what he will do next. Kerouac's real skill as a writer is shown in what Sal does. Kerouac is able to make the mundane an adventure. For instance, for a brief period of time, Sal is a security guard in a barracks complex for men about to be shipped off to WWII. As a whole the job sounds like a bore. Everyday Sal takes his rounds, checking in on the men and trying to stay awake. It would be easy for Kerouac to simply gloss over this passage in Sal's life, to state the obvious then move on, but he doesn't. Kerouac creates a story from the chapter. He enriches character, both Sal's and the people around him. It allows the reader to really understand why Sal absorbs things the way that he does. The reader is allowed to grasp not only the situation, not only the setting, but the character themselves.

Photographic Memory

Cool green grass pokes through white wet toes. My ears feel cold. A plastic circular pool rises out of the grass, and invites me to bask in its tepid waters. The garden hose lies at the bottom, a coiled snake; done injecting its frigid venom, it waits for fresh victims. An hour before, at my house, Mom made hot dogs, ketchup optional, with Mac & Cheese on the side. Crisp apple slices for dessert. Shady back yards are the best, the heat feels less oppressive there, and Popsicles always seem to stick a little less. My yard is full of sun. Libby's isn't. I'm glad we're at her house. Somehow, the puzzle piece jungle gym feels smaller today, but the green side is still my favorite. Spiders construct intricate webs in the corners; snagging flies, and scaring children. Dirt filters into the colored plastic slabs of the jungle gym. Stuck eternally, until someone disassembles the plastic castle .
The only thing better than the wading pool is sliding into it, and Libby has already accomplished that goal. I decide to make my entrance an event, and tip-toe-timidly to the edge of the slide.
"Don't splash me!" I warn.
Libby only responds with a giggle and a smile.
And, in mock indignation, tells me to "Huuurrrry uuupppp"
I begin my descent, and, with arms wide open, childhood greets me in green.

Glasses

Dad never quite fit on my bed. One of us always ended up laying down a little lopsided; but it never mattered much to me, because his chest made for an excellent pillow. I remember feeling the vibrations from his vocal chords as his spread out, and down into my ears. Sometimes, I didn't even pay attention to what he was reading, I just let the deep, low, reverberations work their way through my body, and out my feet. If I ever chanced a look up, I would see my Dad's reading glasses. Half cut, little crescent moons, that let him read to me. Once he put those "specs" on, I was transported to other worlds. Namely, the wonderful universe of Redwall, with mouse warriors, and villainous weasels. When Dad yawned he still read, elongating the words, letting them slowly push their way out of his mouth. Dad still wears those glasses, just a little bit more often each year, and their not just for reading any more. Gone are the tales of rodent adventure, replaced by "Literary Classics". But, Dad's deep voice, and spacious yawns still remain. And maybe someday I'll have my own reading glasses, to slowly put on, and see the world through.

Jack Kerouac, On the Road, Journal #1

I am so happy that I am reading this book right now. Kerouac writes with the sprawling energy of a restless youth, and most days that's exactly how I feel. The story focuses around a character named Sal, who (so far) has decided to hitch-hike his way to Denver. The best part about all this, is that every experience builds the character, and every change in character is accompanied by a change in writing. For instance on page 5 Sal meets an eccentric character named Dean, who quickly befriends another one of Sal's friends, Carlo Marx. The passage describe how Sal chases them down the street. "I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interested me, because the only people for me are 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..." (Kerouac 5) What really gets me about this passage is the way we see so many aspects of his life. He shambles, shambles, after them, he needs them, he has to surround himself with these people, as he has done all his life. The next part is even more descriptive,
these people are mad, mad to live, talk, and be saved. He describes both himself and the people of his generation. This is not just a memoir about a road trip, it's a memoir about a generation of people, about the group of people that Sal has encompassed himself in. The writing begins to reflect these people when Sal gets to Denver. Here, Kerouac describes a night of revelry and drunken happenings: " Three o'clock came. Dean rushed off for his hour of reverie with Camille. He was back on time. The other sister showed up. We all needed a car now, and we were making too much noise. Ray Rawlins called up a buddy with a car. He came. We all piled in; Carlo was trying to conduct his scheduled talk with Dean in the back seat, but there was too much confusion. "Let's all go to my apartment!" I shouted. We did; the moment the car stopped there I jumped out and stood on my head in the grass. All my keys fell out; I never found them." (Kerouac 44) The writing is frantic, the sentences are short. Chopped ideas, that in themselves reflect the night. For instance when the need a car, they call Ray's buddy, the next sentence: "He came." Instantaneously? Obviously that's impossible, but the characters don't feel that way. To them, Ray's buddy coming over was a tiny section of a crazy night. Then when they get to Sal's apartment the writing picks up again, he does a headstand in the grass, and his keys fall out and he never finds them again. But, in the course of the novel it comes off as a minor detail, a minute moment in Sal's life. The structure, and rhythm of the writing so perfectly exemplifies the characters, the story, and the mindset of a generation. I can't wait to read more.

Andrew's Cabin

I remember, yes, I remember, the wasp nest in the lawn. I remember, oh-yes, I remember, the smell of hot tar. I remember, uh-huh, I remember, the way your eyelids swelled shut, from the stingers, burning in a forest fire heat. I remember the red rubber boots you wore. I remember falling off the side of your roof, landing on a pad of honeycomb, and unleashing the hordes of little stingers. The way you waddle-ran, in boots too big, to try and escape the tiny furies. I remember the sound of the vacuum cleaner, sucking in, with a woosh, the little bastards that clung to my polar fleece. I remember playing star-fox, munching on chips, then going in the yard with new plastic army gear. You threw your knife on the roof, and I mine. We both knew we wanted them back, but only I braved the roof. Too small to climb right, and you yelling warnings, we never had a chance. I remember the way they swarmed, wasn't it scary? I remember exacting our revenge hours later, trapping a wasp in the freezer, waiting until it died. I remember the first time I went to your cabin, Andrew Kline.

The Nose Goes

It starts from the middle of my face, right between my eyes. It follows a straight path of freckles, like a car following the median on the road. Then, it swerves, slightly to the left, drifting gently into my upper lip. From the side it protrudes out gracefully, bending to the curves of space and time. But from underneath, it is a monster, staring with two hideous holes for eyes. My nose is covered in small sun spots; little gifts the sun gave me on a summer day when my mother forgot the sunscreen. Some days are more crooked then others. When I wake up early my nose always looks like it shifted. As though it tried to stay in bed while the rest of my face got up. I like my nose. It's never runny, and has a habit of rejecting bad odors. Often times I wonder about a world without noses. A "nose-free" world. Would we still smell? Or would we just have a giant space of flesh, a canvass, waiting to be painted upon.