And, of course, all is groovy here in Leeds and I'm for once in a sustained period of feeling where I ought to be, doing what I ought to be doing, not worrying about the future or provisions or being bogged down by anything I hate (jobwise, for instance). My girlfriend Ali and I rent a cheap ass little apartment not far from the uni and I reckon my fairly paltry savings will pay the rent for a year - and a little job I've got (refereeing soccer!) takes care of the rest. Couldn't really ask for more than that - on top of getting the degree paid for - so, as ever, I'm blessed. Do tell myself it's a bit 'last chance saloon' as far as the writing goes - but then I've said that before. If only I wasn't so lazy...if only some damn publisher had wanted my book. I pick it up every now and then and think, wow, this really is awesome and can't understand why nobody wants it - but then, maybe it's just not time (and, hell with it, it has sold something like 600-800 copies through Amazon, which is actually pretty impressive, I'm told, given the lack of marketing I've done - ie, next to zero). Still...one has dreams.
I was thinking recently about something you said - "you could be the new Kerouac" - and I always took that to mean the roadtrippin', and to a lesser extent the hedonism, the wildness, the seeking of the IT - but then lately I've come to believe something different: for what Kerouac was ultimately, I feel, was this: a soul who explored life and felt driven to share every little bit of it with the world through words. That's I guess what I am - in my ideal vision (which lies beyond the lack of work ethic) - and what I want to do: just simply this: to explain and share every little thing I ever felt and experienced and did. That's all. Other people want to steer me into fiction, television, short stories - and maybe I will give it a try and see where it takes me - but really it always comes down to autobiographical longings and I suppose that's probably what I'm best at too. Lucky, that: that the thing I want to do most is the thing that I'm best at. One day, I'm sure, this world will give me a break - it's either that or giving it up once and for all forever. Hard to imagine that, though - often I feel like old Jonah who just has to do the job he was born to do or else: this whale won't leave me alone. Be nice if it would though - then I could get back to drifting and swap computers for sunny skies and mad adventures in countries as yet unexplored and ones I have. Mexico...Peru...a sneak across the border into Washington state and the whole grand mad America all over again. More dreams - but first gotta do this.
Seems like for one of my uni writing course projects I'll be looking at reworking the last third of DB and certain times that followed into a fictionalised faction 'based on a true story' book about hitching around and having wonderful things happen and being provided for. You'll no doubt be in that too - though I might, if you'll permit me, have to splice you with a few other groovy people and create one Super-Shawn (with a new name), if you know what I mean. I wrote a synopsis for it the other day and I was quite pleased: felt like it had a good solid story arc (as they say in the trade) and a cool ending: that's the thing about 'faction': it's like you get a chance to re-write your life the way you would rather it'd went. When I wrote the synopsis I found it revolving more around women, and a certain woman - as well as all the spirituality longing searching stuff - and that's where it ended, with her: 'twas the woman - if you remember rightly - that I met in New Mexico in weird mad circumstances back in '99, in a supermarket and a gas station and had strange mystical times and connection. I was thinking about it and working it into the synopsis and re-reading that bit from Discovering Beautiful and - wow! - I wanted to bash my head at the realisation at what a dummy I was for not getting into the car with her the second time. Don't know if you remember but it goes something like this: me and friend driving to Albuquerque to see Amma for second time; friend suddenly whizzes around and heads back whence we'd come powered by sudden urge for soda; in gas station mysterious mystic girl pulls up beside us; my mind gets blown; we get out our cars and hug and kiss; she tells me she's off to Colorado to see her 'teacher'; I say same - only the next week, after Amma, and...and I bottle it. Some quote from the Alchemist hinting maybe we'll meet again - but truth, behind that, only seen later, is that I was afraid. Tom Shit! What a fool. And: alas, alack, what to do about it? Nothing - 'cept swallow and accept and learn from and resolve and - yes, but how I wish I could live it again. And I suppose rewriting it as fiction is a way to do that: there's my life, as it actually happened - and then there's my life as I believe it should have happened, and would have happened if I hadn't been such a mad crazy pumped up on delusion idiot. Once an idiot, always an idiot. And being, no doubt, right here in this moment, an idiot once more: but it's all good: I laugh when I type that: 'tis just the life.
Anyways, I think I just ran out of steam, lol! Hope to hear from you brother, and hope that all is well and groovy in groovy California, and the bairns, and the wonderful woman, and everything else in particular.
Lots of love,
Rory
No comments:
Post a Comment