So I pitched a story idea to elephant journal (they want the lower caps, so I obey). It’s about my life before I started practicing Yoga, and after. And you know what? I’m a little disturbed by my own life.
I used to write in journals that I never kept. No one ever saw what I wrote. I wish I saved it, but God knows what the hell I had to say. I read a ton of books, and poetry, and fancied the lives of American writers who went to Paris in the 60’s, wore all black from head to toe, and hung out in opium dens. They wrote, and had dialogue, and misbehaved, but it was the 60’s, and the artists called it art. Others called it obscene. Now it’s just known as alternative. I call it inspiring:
San Francisco. It’s a town so proud of it’s cultural history Jack Kerouac’s site offers a walking tour of The Beat Writer’s hang outs, where they drank, and wrote, and basically paved a groovy, psychedelic path for the freedom-loving beatniks and hippies. Those guys sure knew how to get their ya-yas out. Lotta drugs, group sex, and freaky cults. And what’s wrong with that? Hey, 10 million flower children on LSD can’t be wrong. Now they’re all like, computer geniuses and ice-cream makers who name flavors after dead folk-rock singers.
“Put down the pen someone else gave you. No one ever drafted a life worth living on borrowed ink. Get to San Francisco. Get to San Francisco in defiance of your geography, your ancestry and the lonely change rattling sad excuses in your pocket. Fuel up on pie and diner coffee and mystic visions and the freedom of not knowing what’s coming next except that you’re burning the road to outrun it.” Jack Kerouac
New York. Grimy, loud, and overwhelming. I was there in January one year, it was freezing cold, and I remember wearing a borrowed full length fur coat and walking by The Dakota at night. The thought of this makes me lonely. No wonder people in New York are so artistic; there’s something about it that makes your emotions rise to the surface, confront you, and make you want to smoke cigarettes all night and write novels and music and dark poetry. I think it’s the weather. And the general angry attitude of the people. Whazz up? New Yorkers are so fucking jaded. I’m so grateful I live in sunny L.A.
I see my copy of Allen Ginsberg’s HOWL on my bookshelf. I’m feeling inspired. I’m going back to my elephant journal essay.