On The Road

On The Road


Dean Moriarty

Copyright 2013

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You’re amazing, you really are; and for a dollar I’ll tell you your fortune; but first let me tell you a story.

“Bring on the beer boys, we’ve got a customer,” I said to the boys who had scarpered into another story far removed from this one.

Everything is empty, full of you, give or take a thought or two, and what with one thing leading to another in the glorious, mystical, fathomless ocean, we will begin.

I walked into this story from a hard place as an old perspective of confusion crept in over the stone of silence I was singing and went for the heart of me as I was calibrating some another dream that was easy to forget under the big sky, and so was taken unawares.

Panic set in for a moment but was dealt with as I went about from one thing to another trying to figure out what to do.

But after a little while of it I went back to haunting with no more resolve to do anything other than to know it was all a dream and waking up from it would be the only reality worth pursuing.

But how do you wake up and what does it feel like to be awake and can ghosts wake up?

The airings of a strange development three cries away from the end of a circular rope in the winds that blew pulled me away from thinking more on anything for long in a straight line so I pulled my coat collar up and began anew the wail of the ghost of all I was.

I was once, more than I am now and I lived on a desert island in a cave of winds that blew me away every day.

I stayed there for a long time and listened to the sea tell me many stories that would come in on the waves like driftwood, well worn by their long passage.

Sitting on the shore of all I knew I would unwrap them and read what they had to tell me and like the sand absorbed them into me and after a while of saying: “is that so?” I became them and was lost in their dreaming and in that way I gave them a life of continuation.

On the other side of the island were the moon people who came there twice a month to burn their dreams in huge bonfires under the full and half moons on the beach of their lives.

I felt a sorrow for all those untold stories that became smoke and drifted away on the winds of the wild parties.

Sometimes I would walk through and see all the scattered images of rustic ideals fading in the sand, half burnt out of their existence to be carried away by the tides and lost forever in the big sea.

But it’s a big world and this is a story of one small part of it. I’m sure there are others on their island recording their dreams too and we’ll probably never meet but who knows what comes from them to wash up on my shore and perhaps we are all dreaming each other home anyway in some unfathomable way.

“I want a beer,” I shouted out then.

The left-handed flies of doom ignored me and ordered more pizza.

On a sigh hanging out of shape from a lamp-post these words were there: There are many windows of desolation, but in our secret hearts we have a friend who can dissolve all the sorrows with nothing.

I was wondering who said that and thinking that the sea in waves washes away the castles of sand and there are more waves than sand, though each comes alone. So much sea for a grain to become one.

There was a lot of despair on the edges that came between what wasn’t there yet and was vying for the grandstand place, but the exceptional was the guard of the day and was writing notes to the friend in regards to the higher placement that had been asked for.

“Ok, who’s got the compass?” I asked, but there was no reply.

In a place that was forgotten, a wheelbarrow of grace was being delivered as a gift in the timeless place; if only I could find it.

I whispered to myself that I would like to lose myself on a desert island and write a book; to stay there until I finish. To let the waves of the ocean wrap me up in their wisdom, and the earth accept me, and the winds caress me to let the whisper of my soul free; to find that well in me, though it takes all I have and all I am.

The circles take me through the dust, where I pray that the virgin uprisings are not a poor masquerade under the stars.

I would lie where that sunlight streams upon my face between all the darkness shores I can’t erase. I have my breath to play as the stars call in the hugeness of it all as these pages flutter in the breeze that can’t be reached with all the memories of the ghosts that call…

And the calling on the mountain in the dust of dreams say: it’s alright to move stones with the whispers of hope even though there are too many mountains to move.

I will tell you about the fireflies in the sundown and that art painted on the walls of my hidden spaces, that cup of joy I create to ease the fight of it all.

I will tell of what eases my passion into the light that comes to be the ethereal point and how I laugh at the mirror in the depth of the old songs as I sing the new ones in the soak-up knowing of it all as the slave revolts to go on a new journey, where the darkness is lit by love instead.

I was a Caspian flame-thrower in the style of: love it now because we are gone forever later and was making big inroads into my life as the sun shone hotly down on me where all things were pure and the past was a stone I’d trod to there that is usually called here.


A silent longing for one came by from out of the blue and asked why I was knocking so loudly on the hidden door of a perception I wanted to reach.

I was hanging onto the subliminal anchor point, that tertiary adjunct of the mind where the old beliefs hide with their invisible strings of attachment and were pulling me every which way but the one way I wanted to go.

I had no answers to give but that perhaps I could find a way to move forward beyond what was holding me back, if I was persistent enough in the desire to proceed.

So I asked myself where I could go that wasn’t where I was and so hoped the inspiration would come as I travelled in my dreaming; but what a long road it has been to get more here where I am and I find the more here I am the less out there is real and becomes surreal like some cult movie where the actor feels out of place in his movie.

How strange it can all seem, yet nature flourishes under the sun and I too would thrive under my sun.

The aardvark of an aged swansong, high on the lattice lace interlace put on a size large used overall, rolled up the sleeves and went to work in the play being written while the intractable redoubt of absurdity gave a running commentary over all.

“Come get your fingers burnt here,” it said, but was ignored as the buzzing fly on sandpaper in the storm of an idea that has no purpose.

In a postcard from a hollow place I wrote: slip this into the nest where the thoughts come from a dime a dozen then send me a postcard from there where I rest in the heather of my love and later, crawl back again for more.

This dish is an old plate of things that I escaped from in the long ago to find my fill with my turnings coloured with what I found there and “no matter how I loved you I loved you all the same,” I said to the one I loved then.

Then into that big suitcase we came with all our gains to lie in the dark corner where we came from, and lying there still it asks for passage back to the dream waiting for its chance to fly home even though a lifetime has come and gone since then and the sands have long since been washed clean.

But I am a little bit full of this that makes the blue dream spiders hiss at all the crazy as the ladybird of love climbs on my page this way to say hello while the winds blow silence and the king sighs from somewhere in this that listens.

Now the twilight is here and I am fascinated as it falls around me its deepening fallen out of the skies this way; I want to jump out of my skin to blow apart this blown apart and make it new again to feel grand.

Now the night is calling to go somewhere else; but here where I am is stranded so I jump into my skin and find I am still here, what am I waiting for?

Bird of love come back and show me the way out of here, you were here and now I find I am longing for you and I am left without you in this space that is too long with a bucket of tears in each hand for shame to ask is this enough?

But I would be inured now from all the other suffering long gone, and anyway, I’m alone with these thoughts in the verbatim vernacular.

“We are that left here all that we could, and this is the secret key,” the old thoughts said, and ran off with it to run away most assuredly and not stay there anymore. They are not what they seem I sang to seem this unseemly thing

And then I saw a Japanese couple eating chips and I knew the world had changed too much.

“This is too new,” I said, but I knew the new was unstoppable, and so I pressed on, once again into the new and left behind all the old because I knew the new was better than the old new; come now you know this is so, that the new is newer and better and give my regards and condolences to Doris who passed away last century now that I remember, she would have agreed with me.

By the way there is a new sale on to sell all that can’t be sold to those that won’t buy.

“We’ll teach those buggers what’s new,” Doris would have said, and I always had to agree with her never mind what was being said at the time.

But never mind that now, today I saw many things: today I saw a man lying on the grass wearing little more than wellington boots; I could not guess what he had been doing.

And a cart, left in the road, with ten bags of ice, dripping, melting fast in the hot sun. And in the river were dead fish, all striving ceased, to breathe the dirty water.

A tourist on a stretcher over in the crowd was being put in an ambulance, fighting to get off.

Walking on I saw the disappointment of another man, who had had everything stolen from him, now trying to get home, listening to the shadows whisper from a woman, standing perfectly still in the moving mumbling, her ideas close to a beggar, dirty and old; and near to that scene, a small child, shaking the tin beside the road, pleading and looking in everyone’s eyes.

Then a lone blag-man rumbling along on a mission was beset by a child screaming, and another one smiling, and another asking a question to which another replied: “this is the way to do it,” and ran in fast to touch the blag-man on the arm and then run away to not get caught.

A little boy ran through all this, his head full of hot thoughts. And then I saw a dog under a table forgotten, fast asleep, and a yellow bug, confused and another man, skinny and soulless, melting into the hot pavement, and I could not help but notice, he wasn’t wearing wellington boots.

I saw a small tug boat, going up the river, desperately pulling five barges full of a million tons. And I saw Gunga Din, mellow as saffron go aboard a boat full of faces. And I heard from many the call to say: today was the day to be counted but I lost count of the many things to be counted.

In a cool solitary place, I found joy and a relief from it all.

In the ravages of the day were many equations and questions running around, and the lost blest, indecisive about their next move.

I saw dreams and ghosts and desires and bottomless pits and hair that went on backwards and make-up that came off everywhere.

I heard laughter and anger and silent cries of anguish. I saw leaves full of people sweeping up, and children in their school clothes, eager for a place in the world.

And by a drinking fountain where the moon-dust had blown them, a bunch of old hippies, soaking up the heat near to an old tractor lying in the dust, rusting away and abandoned forever.

And another beggar, and another, and another, the city churning them out as fast as you can count. And one million protesters everywhere as two fat ladies counted their sleeping children.

And then the night came with a fort full of guns, bristling into the darkening that fell on an Englishman with a moustache who loosened his tie as a Chinese man ate his toes.

The night will give you mushrooms for toadstools with watercress that you can take for your ailments to call it even like the shoes left at the temples on Buddha day, gone to sleep on the steps, while a frog woman will sell only frogs and a mango in a pair tree.

Yes, I saw many women wear their attractions in public, and many men who fell through these holes as many women with their attraction base mixed with a pallet and the men who fell into this.

And the chicken fried rice came, and the watermelon juice and the hot heat and the wind-blown in the wandering was the flavour.

Today I saw a lion lie down and give up in a dirty bowl of surrender and a bear sing of love with a yearning only hungry lovers know, and an empty onion drinking beer. I saw sex on a stick that didn’t know what sex it was. And I saw the blue dream spiders again, forever in their dreaming. I saw the wild man, tamed, and the dust that healed his wounds.

Today I saw the blessings in the carnival and the time it took to count them in the endless progression of time that runs out too soon.

Today has gone in the shimmering of time in the black dust along the walls of countless borders where the dispossessed packed their bags and left home forever.


And then my thoughts turned to other things, that the fight is not new, it has been going on for a long time and that in this war you must find your centre so you can move in it to where you need to move to. Many things you will hear, and see, that will try to move you from your centre, but you must stand alone from it all, make your own judgement and be in your own space that is strong from all the wars you have fought as it all comes at you to see it all for what it is.

Your heart strings will be pulled by all the images and words that will try to bend you to move that way. Do not resist and do not eat it, it cannot harm you unless you let it. When you have found your way then you will find yourself. What you have been looking for has been closer to home all along.

And then for no reason at all eleven words escaped and went swimming to the Yangtze River.

“Excuse me,” said the dust as the lemon lady swept it up beside me. The dust swirled and disappeared slowly until it was all clear again.

From the temple came a haunting lament, some prolonged call to a deity that may or may not have been listening and a cool glass of water was becoming warm in the heat of the day that was gradually turning into tomorrow that never comes.

As the Eleven words escaped and became more than just mere squiggles I became the observer again until the next hour came and then eleven more escaped but the sun wasn’t counting and the shadows hid them from prying eyes until they could all get to that utopia they were longing for.

The Yangtze river was where they were heading clandestinely and for sure one day when they all get there they’ll be an army and they’ll devour the river and float out to sea and everyone will think it’s the Chinese come to invade but it’ll only be eleven words from a rusty hour multiplied by some desire to live and get loose on a page of shadows in respite from the hot sun.

But living out of a suitcase has its advantages with rustic images of love and beauty passing in consciousness of adventure and time of rhyme.

Running time is hot, with no real destination in mind, just moving, to one more place such as swimming in the Thai sea or rafting down the Mekong Delta to rumbling trains in Vietnam to borders where huge gateways mark little roads of dust and hot heat and wind-blown faces, one after the other.

I took photos of it all, stored them for some other time and lived in hotels with internet and architecture of someone’s rambling dreams where the local moonbeams shone, or not, as may be and explored temples, churches, mosques and castles.

In silent dungeons I felt a solidness of self, some exploration of being; and in the temples I wondered if the people really knew the divine they bowed to; it made no difference to me, I was just passing through, and anyway, my temple goes with me and my praying is answered there.

Meals came to me, brought by serving girls, some with smiles, some with a hunger of their own that left no room for the appetite of beauty, but rather some all encompassing emptiness to be filled, some chain to be put on and dragged around as some token to a dark god only they could see, or a trophy that can fit no description.

And as I flit through these dreams I wondered if my awakening was due anytime soon; but perhaps it had already happened and I was still catching on.

You have to ask sometimes, what is the supposition of an old postcard on rum? But when the electric machine out of nowhere beats the drum of explanation in the affirmative gasp one can listen to it or go to sleep, or catch the big bus to the nearest tropical island of mystery and chill out on the beach of the holy cow and let the warm sun stream into you to relax all those little niggles away, which is not a dying, though some may prefer the shade, it is a place to drift away in your own dream for a while, to come back later in a better moment to smile and laugh with your friends who may still be climbing the mountain of exceptional and may need a hand to find an alternative way down that they haven’t thought of yet, and lions and tigers aside, this could be your chance to be the hero of the moment.

And last but not least, remember to send a postcard to the ones left behind who may not share your point of view but love you all the same because you’re awesome.


Another teenage glass of soup with a mouth too soon was pretending to grow onions like the best of them with a handshake here and there for good luck, and an old tractor driver rolled over in his grave and had a fight with Charles Bronson at the sight of this.

I was trying on shoes in a department store and talking half here and half there about things and said: :”Lemmings have a half life that gets left on the shelf you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” said the teen with curly hair.

“And Peter was a piper part elf.”

“No, really?” said the teen looking around.

And then never in a minute who had changed his name from now in a minute came over and said: “What’s going on here?” To which no one had any reply.

Another pair of shoes came to be fitted and I became lost in my thoughts… And it doesn’t matter about the time, the time is whatever time is in the tropical dance where time is no time at all where we come to un-become we become what we want, or become what we are.

This time came from an arrow that was lost, but then found its way home again like a boomerang with a smile behind its ear in the electric wind of mystical fortune.

Suddenly, money poured in to the bank and was withdrawn immediately for a bus to the south, and this was ok too. I was on a roll. With 30,000 dollars you could buy a lot of bus rides. You could even buy a bus. And then the poetry started to flow out of the ears and this made me very sleepy, so I went to bed and fell into a very satisfying dream.

Shortly before the fall of Rome, by about a million years, and over in another galaxy was a little worm with a lot of knowledge about floating about. He also had a wireless TV that showed pictures of Doris Day in the carnival of peace. And he had other things too that were strange.

None of his friends knew where any of this came from, but some say it was from the space ship that crashed a while back, and that it came through the wormhole from some place far distant.

The TV was solar powered, but had a faulty circuit and gave off electrical waves that made you dance whenever you came near it. The little worm was always dancing and his friends thought him strange now, and such a change they said, and to think he was once the same as us. And so, one by one, he lost his friends, who all turned into strangers.

It was not so long before the little worm had no friends at all, and talked in a strange language that no one understood. The little worm wrote down his new found thoughts, and after reading them, people said it was the ramblings of a mad one, lost, to one and all. And so they avoided him and all his works, and the little worm became very alone, spinning in his floating about that he came to know a great deal about but was wondering what was the use of it if it drove everyone away?

Forty thousand meters deep in worm world, burrowing about, was a wormhole of dreams with the unlikely name of True-good. He was a French wormhole who had escaped the time of the guillotine and had come to worm world to be safe. He was of course a little bored, being among only other worms, and missed the excitement of Earth.

So, one day, from out of nowhere, the thought came to go and create some mischief or something, anything to relieve the endless ennui of burrowing about in the dirt. So he gathered up his by hook or by crook and went north, that is, straight up, and popped out by the TV, which was showing a picture of Doris Day doing things on the screen. Immediately, the electrical waves of the TV sped across the ground and caused the wormhole to dance.

“Yes M,lud, this is exactly how it happened, all written down here in this note book.”

“Well I’ll believe you for now. Carry on with the story,” said the honourable judge presiding.

Well, the wormhole was doing quite a jig in the left happenstance of thereabouts. And so, the little worm, coming upon this scene came over to see what was what, and began to dance too, with thoughts that became mixed up with the wormhole. Pretty soon they were doing a fair dance, and that’s when the town’s folk came to see what was going on. It looked wild and esoteric to them all, but what the hell: it was a party, and who would gainsay it? Ole blabbermouth began to, but he was shut up with a bottle of beer, and then everyone began to dance.

The night came and they danced far into it, no one wanted to stop, and the beer just kept on coming.

Blue sparks from the TV showed Doris Day melting down into a jelly ghost, and that danced too. 15 virgins, out for a lark, came across the dance, and so they danced. An old salty sailor, banging a drum, danced. A rabid dog came to nip at the heels. Rowboat Friday dropped in. Sanchez the leopard came. Suzy from the whorehouse with Jungle Pete and Samson man danced around the edges, while the witch of mustard spat out incantations that some new arrivals and adventurers and a wanderer could not make out, and some kind of bird in a tree came too to dance as the mosquitoes from hell left no one unbitten.

“Excuse me,” said the judge.

“Yes M,lud?”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Sorry M,lud.”

“Where did you get this information?”

“I can’t reveal my sources M,lud.”

“Never mind. Carry on.”

“Yes M,lud.”

And then time sped up and did a jig as Captain Crispin, who shall forever be unnamed, blew his nose in the back benches of the judgment room. But it made no difference to the story. It was only when the cleaners started switching the lights off and on that anyone began noticing what time it was.

As we began this story with no time, then we shall carry on in the same fashion, and so it is and such like and so on.

Now, as the birdie in the tree was recording all this, hush, hush, I was on my bus going south full of whisky and a girl on each arm. The driver, who was an old Texan from Missouri farted a lot and took no prisoners when it came to bridges, and truth be told, his life span was measured in now kind of moments. He played the Doobie Brothers on the sound system of the bus and was growing his beard very nicely and long thank you very much, and he would never pinch Exxon if he could get Esso, it having a tiger in it.

The fields of doom in their masquerade in a dune buggy could calibrate no turns on their straight road to find more beer, and so flew past the bus in a flash at a hundred miles an hour, but nobody saw them, and so did they even exist?

Ben, the kangaroo jumper thought not much, and so, did he even exist?

Some kind of bed was calling to everyone to lie down and rest, but not yet, the night was not over. Even the judge in his courtroom of judgment was nodding off. The cleaners were bored with switching the lights off and on and so went into a closet to play cards and bet on the outcome. But the outcome was a determination yet to be made.

“Zoopdust,” said the wormhole. “Make your mark here.”

And so the little worm jumped in and zoomed through the heavens at nineteen thousand miles an hour, which is pretty fast for a worm on beer.

Poo was the password and the little worm knew it off by heart and so flew down to land beside me on the bus but I had my hands full with the two beautiful girls and so couldn’t shake hands as was proper. As no one else was English, no one knew why it was so proper, but there you are.

A big bang was suddenly heard and the wormhole appeared in front of everyone with an invitation to disappear forever.

“OMG, if only we could,” thought the judge.

The bus blew a little singularity to show what it thought about that, and the radio played blowing in the wind to let us not forget our heroes here.

I and the little worm began to burrow into existentialisms and co-existent none-thoughts as was the way of things while being driven on a bus by a Texan from Missouri.

Up above in the here below never to be mistaken was another thing to be taken into consideration as the judge moderated this all of it all in the time that never was with a big froth of beer in the last glass to be drunk.

“If only,” thought the judge on his throne, wishing.

“Bad men come here with their hides and I would see the truth in their sunken misdeeds, but today I cannot find any bad men to judge, and that is that,” said the judge.

It was a first for the court room so everyone stood to applaud as the judge left the story that is coming to an end for want of a big stick to beat it onwards.

The judge went home to sleep what was left of the night. Time carried on, as it does. The birdie made a last note then put its head under its wing. Money kept pouring into the bank. The electric TV kept giving out electric to zing the masses. The French wormhole kept on inviting to come in and disappear. Beer was poured forever. The mystical fortune packed its bags and went home. The little worm expounded its knowledge to me and I nodded away to it all as the bus went south to forever.


Dreams chase this where the light shimmers from the hot reflective surfaces inside of the calling that would lead me where I want to go; and getting there I will find I was already there before I even left on the pursuit.

So does this mean the dreaming was always in me, for if it’s not in me then how can I ever get there?

If this applies to me then also it applies to you so pay attention to your dreams and have the courage to fulfil the one that calls you the most, or you may find yourself chasing the wandering in between of the best your life could be.

When you get out there where the lonely bird of dawn calls, you may want to go back to sleep and that’s your privilege, but if you’ve heard it then it’s your wake-up call to dress and make your way into the new day; and who knows what and who you will meet there. So just turn up and see.

The bus stopped working after being driven into the sea and so we all got out and went our separate ways and I thought that it was a good lesson to one and all on the bus not to drive into the sea.

And never shave with a rusty razor-blade either, it won’t make you happy in the bone-yard of all you know running for another bus that never comes and if it does it’s the wrong number or it’s an old dream of stale biscuits you won’t want to eat in the graveyard of your mind where the ghosts live and rattle their tin cups for attention; no don’t live there, that’s for the dooms-brigade who won’t leave their leavings and can’t fly anymore and never will with wings of lead they’ve bought with their greed and evil doings down the long reaches of time where over and over they chose the path of the ego and its trappings.

But if you do find yourself going backwards to end up leaving again where you’ve already been before then ask yourself the holy question: why am I here?

You may not see the answer in all the familiar pathways that run with you as you run them but that’s not the place to look anyway.

Now, if it’s freezing cold and boiling hot and you’re somewhere in the middle with a damn good coffee it all becomes a moot point of no return so try to make the coffee last, but if in the trying it ends too soon then you’ve learnt the lesson that if you try to catch the wind with a spoon you may as well stand on your head for all the good it will do.

And if you catch yourself staring at a pair of extremely red kissable lips peddling a bike and drifting through your world then you’ve only got yourself to blame if you don’t invite her out to dinner for maybe chicken with a bone.

But enough now of kissable lips, time to get back to the point of this strange thing called life.

An intensely hot cup of tea will roast your mouth if you’re not careful and I’ve been there so be warned.

Three hundred and thirty three number plates and forty four thoughts later you could find yourself arriving at a conclusion that where you began from is where you could end up if you don’t go somewhere else as some do when they get half way and then have to change horses in the middle of the flow and not always from choice either let me tell you and a terrible inconvenience it can be with all the new plans having to be made on the spur of the moment so to speak and all you can do is grin and bear it; but if you’ve got loads of money you can book into a good hotel and pamper yourself and all can be well in that.

Travelling on a budget could find you with a spanner in the works, but the fun is in the journey and all turns out well in the end, unless you’re a book of philosophy and then you might find yourself on the outer reaches of where you really ought to be.

Dreaming on the other hand is a great pleasure and will take you to where you want to go in no time at all with great companions and in style so leave room for dreaming even when events and circumstances are going well for what goes up comes down, which means things change.

And if you don’t know by now, everything changes sooner or later so no point in making long range plans other than to have a template to start out with and to be flexible enough to turn with the tide and ride any new winds that blow along that tear the map right out of your hands as you’re reading it.

But that’s life and we’re all living it as sparks from the great fire that jump around here and there and set off a flare or two and then fizzle out and return to where we came from.

It is possible that we only have one life in the all of it all and this is it, this is our time, no second chances to come again, for anyone; what we live now is all we will ever have and who knows but that it is recorded for us to live over and over again for all eternity; but who can really say, no one’s come back to tell and the only map we have is our own heart’s compass to guide us in this journey of life.

If one day we do go to meet our ancestors, what a tale we can tell of our time here, what a story our life will have been if it has been lived for all it’s worth.

So who are we and can we meet ourselves while we are here? What if we are all one; how could there then be any separation? What if this is all a dream and in the dreaming we have become lost from our true selves and now, in this time we are all finding our way back home?

And time, what if time is only of our dreaming, a construct that is not real, something devised in the dream that eats itself as it’s made and only in the now can we know this; and if now is where the joy is, the now where there’s no time then the mind boggles trying to figure it out where no figuring out is necessary for life and love are now and that’s what is important.

So, there’s dreaming in the dream and life in the now and ghosts in the charcoal embers of where we’ve been and a snake that eats its own tail and lips that are kissable and bubbles in the beer…

Have I left anything out? Of course: there’s the whispers in the whispering machine and the ferry man who will take your penny and the loose cannon and the ten thousand stories never told and the espresso that never works yet coffee still appears when you ask for it, to name just a few and so I will touch on all these points and more as I go along in this life or the next.

It is here in this exponential palace of possibilities that we really do have to stop worrying and get down to earth and touch the base of our most illustrious beauty while we still can and so let me be brave here and say what I have heard said many times to me, that what we are looking for is inside. Anyway, if you can’t find what you’ve lost where you look for it then stop looking for it and it will turn up where you least expect it to be.

So I went inside with my menu card and looked around and didn’t find a bloody thing except a few clouds drifting on by and a half eaten potato that someone threw out years ago and I wondered what it was all about; and it came to me that I was looking for what I wanted to find rather than being with what my emptiness could be filled with.

So I raised my hand and said: “But all I see is what I’ve brought with me.”

“Empty your glass,” came the reply.

“But all I’ve ever known is this dirty water,” I said.

“And that’s all you will know until you become empty to be filled,” I heard.

“I’m afraid,” I said.

In my right ear the whispering machine suggested that I let go; and then it went to sleep or something because no more was forthcoming.

“Let go,” I said to all my troubles that paid me no mind and carried on eating away at all the big words I needed to explain it all.

So I jumped on a motorbike and scrambled away to the deep puddles of a long ride to where I would escape. The puddles didn’t say how deep they were and I was forced to go around the edges and ended up at the blue lagoon in Laos where I went into a huge cave that was too dark to see into and met a gorgeous dream that wanted to know my name.

“Brace yourself,” I said as we slithered deep into each other and then moved a mountain that stood in our way; but in my loving of her I forgot about everything that meant anything to me and became lost.

Eventually we came back down and fell onto a slippery slope that took us all the way to the bottom to where we had left all we knew and I became the love torn lover and she became the play I had to leave.

She came to me one last time on a bridge of parting, and although I gave some words of meeting again somewhere, the moment had passed and she became another whisper in the whispering machine of all that was gone never to return.


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On The Road

You have to ask sometimes, what is the supposition of an old postcard on rum? But when the electric machine out of nowhere beats the drum of explanation in the affirmative gasp one can listen to it or go to sleep, or catch the big bus to the nearest tropical island of mystery and chill out on the beach of the holy cow and let the warm sun stream into you to relax all those little niggles away, which is not a dying, though some may prefer the shade, it is a place to drift away in your own dream for a while, to come back later in a better moment to smile and laugh with your friends who may still be climbing the mountain of exceptional and may need a hand to find an alternative way down that they haven't thought of yet, and lions and tigers aside, this could be your chance to be the hero of the moment.

  • ISBN: 9781311993151
  • Author: Dean Moriarty
  • Published: 2015-11-30 15:20:06
  • Words: 32826
On The Road On The Road