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.
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.
posted by Tserrof at 12:37 AM
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