Visions of Denver (an attempt at spontaneous prose)

I tried to read but all I can do as I read On the Road is think about Denver, my friend, because he is my Dean Moriarty, and what better name for him than “Denver”, named after the great symbol of Sal’s Paradise and home of our hero.

I keep thinking of Denver, the beautiful boy who understands life better than any of us, or at least most. He lacks my bashfulness. A real go-get-her, he is. He doesn’t want romance (at least not in the traditional sense at all). His romance is calling me at 5 am to tell me of getting laid by a stripper-- (he was beaming with delight and I feel blessed that he called). No woman is going to tack down this boy, no way.

He is Dean, plain and simple. I do not picture Neal Cassidy as I read his book, but Denver, because Denver is a better representation of Sal’s dream, Sal’s hero, because afterall, I, the reader, am Sal. Change my name!

No! I am Forrest, of course. I realize now that Denver was never Dean and I was never Sal. We are merely analogies of one another in my own mind. I am but a lonesum observer, giving praise to my hero Denver as many-a narrator before me, from Gatsby’s Nick to Sal Paradise and Kerouac himself in every one of his novels.

Regardless, I still see him as a Dean. I long to travel the countryside with my friend, he leading the way in an old 1950’s Hudson, top down, next to whomever, but they don’t matter-- just Denver, and I, his narrator, studying him and learning life’s lessons in every second with him, sitting to his shotgun as he says, “You know, Forrest, you truly are beautiful. You have much more wealth than anyone, because you don’t want any,” but really hat he doesn’t know is that I am wealthy because he is next to me, and he will always be next to me. I will carry him with me in my heart until I die, and I will always think of him, Denver, and know that he is right by my side.

I think Kerouac didn’t want to call Neal “Denver” because it would be too poetic, too much of an allegory of the Truth when he could just write the Truth plain and simple. But life is perfect. It portrays itself in such a way that it doesn’t seem real.

I love you, my friend, and let that be recorded in time’s infinite log for all to see.

Future Shoes

Shoes from the future
made of time
in its purest form

these are the colors
of time refined

bright colors
so bright
they dont exist yet

only call them
hues

purple yellow neon-green
-- one color!

that's not purple!
that's ultra-violet!

sick kicks!
sick kicks!
(can they do tricks?)

...only kick dicks

Praised Be Nothing

O, Holy is our magic mind
that creates innumerable miracles in a single karma-instant,
turning the "no-thing" into "sum-thing"
churning out myriads of forms from out the
great vast empty void of our conciousness

And with a great
BANG!
the universe is created
and all the stars take shape and die
in monumentous burts of super novas
scattering so much nothing
that the myth of time is created

And Holy yet are those
who can see all the nothing
for what it really is

Grits!

We ran through the rain tonight, our laughs tearing through the air like halcyons; we were laughing spirits gliding through the pouring rain on the city streets, racing to our unknown destination. Just running-- don’t know where to go. Right! No, Left! Faster! Duck under hear guys, for we are wet enough already.

We made it to The Social, torrents pouring from our soaking bodies, frozen by the rush of air conditioning striking us upon entrance to this domain, which, over the course of the night, would become a whole 'nother dimension.

Music traversing through time barriers played for us incredible sounds of worlds yet undiscovered by modern man. They had no lyrics, for they didn't need any. This was future music.

The singer of the daughters is a drunkard, already with 5 ginger ales and whiskeys, another is ordered and all hell breaks loose. He swims through the crowd, dissapearing and emerging like a haggard kraken with drool pouring from its face. I lose him again until I see that he has lost the wrestling match with the stage as well has his pants which are now fighting is ankles exposing his prick and testicles for all to see. I look over at Paul who looks unaware of the sight set before us all, upon which I mutter, "Paul... do you see what’s going on?" and he just nods his head and replies with a "yea" that is drowned out but the screeching guitars. Then he makes the mistake of looking around for the singer and sees what's really going on, and Paul makes the look of shack and amazement as I says to him "oh yeah? cuz I think you don’t know what’s going on right now..."

Pants are off for the remainder of the song, which concludes with an angry singer storming off stage in a mysterious fit of anger (were the pictures we took not enough, or did he demand sex?).

Interpretive dancing in the parking lot to Gil Mantera's Party Dream, Grits that stick together-- "Grits are the plauralization of a grit times a million, and this is one solid grit! I am holding grits in my hands! How am I doing this?! There are grits in my drink! Where's a plastic bag-- I need to show this to somebody!!"


Hell yes for us.

Night of the Tattoo

Fucking best night ever!

Tonight I got my first tattoo with some of the best people in the world: Mike, Allison, and Paul. What made it great was that we all decided to do it today and they picked out theirs today. The pain we endurd bonded our souls tonight. We're all really stoaked becuase they are symbols of our independence away from our families. They say that we are mature and can run our own lives and dont need permission anymore. We have become slopsists; we are our own supreme authority. We are at the top of the ladder. Kings of ourselves. Fuck! So happy.

After tattoos we went to taco bell, which is always a great idea after any exciting occurence. Everything we did tonight had perfect timing, because on the drive back all of our lives were changed by the sight of woman lying dead in the middle of Colonial whose leg had beenmangled if not compleatly removed. I cant believe that I was not disturbed by this sight, but later became super stoaked about the fact I just saw a dead fucking body; a person with a family and friends, relationships. She experienced tougher shit in her life and been in really fucked up situations. Perhaps she was raped last week. Maybe she had onced attemped to end her own life due to the surmounting suffering burdening her shoulders from a life of drug addiction and a pederass father who molested her when she was 8. Or maybe her life was one of privelege with a two story house and a white picketed fence in Vermont. And now shes dead. A lifeless corse of a life I will never know.

And now we're back at Allison's watching the greatest movie ever made: The Big Lebowski. This, I believe, is the only sutible way to end a night of life altering firsts.

Returning from my drunken state at devin's: day one

I cant believe the euphoria I feel right now. I want to tell eveyone how much I love them so, but I feel like I'd just be written off as just some annoying drunkard, despite the fact that I am as sober as Matt Reddy. I love Zach, laying there on the hideaway loveseat, that beardo; that bearded young man. He is beautiful. A pure specticle of my love for all humanity right now, in particlularly the ones I care about the most: my friends.

Devin has usurped the other love seat as a bed. He is a remarkable human being, that boy. I love him, as he lays across the room infront of me, riding sleep as far as his eyes will take him.

I want to get up and proclaim my love, and thank them for being themselves, lovely, drunken men that they are. I love em all and wouldnt change it for the world. I worry that I am a bother, but its probably just my paranoia, which wants to convince me that my current state of such supreme bliss cannot be maintained-- I know it cannot be maintained, but I still want to ride this for as long as I can.

I was not aware such a high could be achieved by ethanol alone. What perplexes me is the fact I hardly feel any after-effects of the alcohol at all asside from the bitter post-morning aftertaste of Guinness and Amber Boch having been swished around in my mouth for the past 5 hours.

I am the only one of us awake, 8:38 am. I too am beinging to feel the onset of the party: drowsiness. My plan is to sleep through the day in time for Mike to return from Venice so we can party with our tribe comlete. Mike will understand. He will share my need of huging and kissing every one of us; if not, than just eachother and zach. Mike will know. Mike will know.

As I began to climb the stairs in my Tower complex I got the distinct smell of burnt popcorn in the air. As I climbed further and further the smell only became stronger, like I was walking into the microwavic womb that birthed this magnificint fragrance. I love this smell, despite the horrible food that it produces. I may just feel like burning some popcorn, maybe several bowls, and placing it around my apartment like incense. God I love this beautiful smell.

I staggered in a drowzy stuper into my apartment, where the smell countinued to permeate through the air. Damnit did Rich do this? I walked in and the place has junk all over it. A pair of Family Guy stuffings of Peter and Brian on the table next to two brightly colored drinking glasses left unattened at 2am, a wet towel on the kitchenette floor persumably used to sop up some mess from the sink or dishwasher (maybe someone tried to do dishes and fucked it up and had a bubble party. I wouldn't be surprised.). There was a Mr. Coffee machine near the bathroom sink that had been already used by Rich or one of his pals after their Thursdaynight drunk around Greek Ave.

Rich just got in. I hear him fumbling his key in the door next to mine. He passes by the litter, ignoring it for tomorrow's chores. I feel as drunk as he, but my drunk is that of a tired young man who has been doin a whole lotta nothin but chillin with some pals since 4:30, when class ended. And now its 2:15 or 2:16 in the morning, and I am lost.

I've been at college for two weeks now and I have yet to get drunk-- whats with me?