Kerouac's work
lives on through
modem readers
“You guys call yourselves poets, write
short little lines, I'm a poet but I write
lines paragraphs and pages and many
pages long."
— lack Kerouac
Summer memories are the ones
that remain the longest. Even as win
ter reaches its prime, I still glance back
to all the summers in this 22-year-old
life with saccharin sentimentality,
Aaron Shakra
The poet’s tree
holding the memories like little glass
worlds. I've been learning that this can
be both good and bad. Forgetting,
however, doesn't seem like an appro
priate column topic, where the goal is
to fill the page with words and ideas.
So for you, dear reader, I will flood my
mind with memories again.
This last summer was unlike any
other. For the first time ever, 1 was
blissfully without work, school, a re
lationship (although that didn't feel
so blissful at the time) or responsibili
ty. This mixture could have been po
tentially devastating were it not for the
months of saved-up Emerald pay in
my bank account and a whole bunch
of freaky friends — some new, some
old, some since disappeared — sur
rounding me. One friend with whom
I have had the pleasure of spending
much of my last two summers goes by
the name of John Kaiser.
Now, let me say that this Kaiser
character is probably one of the most
outgoing, mercurial cats you'll find
this side of Springfield. To illustrate:
Picture, if you will, a smiling, bearded
man walking the streets of Eugene in
the heat of a clear, red summer day.
This man wears nothing but sandals,
a stark white flowing galabia (this is a
loose Egyptian garment) and a blue
baseball cap with the word "Kerouac"
emblazoned on it. He holds a copy of
Jack Kerouac's "Book of Blues" in his
left hand and takes long strides as he
walks.
Less picturesque but equally mem
orable was the time John walked
down the main strip of campus read
ing passages from "Mexico City
Blues" for all to hear. I guess I was the
only one.
So the common factor here is Jack.
Compared to many other authors I
adore, I haven't made some sweeping
literary attempt to read everything he's
written cover to cover; I haven't read any
biographies or bothered to read chrono
logically, and I haven't made some at
tempt to construct his life outside his
writing. He seems to be a writer whose
life was his writing, entirely. Suffering,
joy and everything in between was
spilled in ink on the scrolls of paper he
wrote upon, eventually for all to see
i-—
One friend I know won't read him
for this very reason. He says that he
wants to have memories for himself
and doesn't want to have Kerouac's es
capades stuck inside of his head. One
time I started trying to tell this same
friend about Kerouac's adventures
with Gary Snyder and other San Fran
cisco beat poets in "Dharma Bums."
It ended up making him angry.
Two summers ago I sat in during
Paul "Beat" Dresman's beatnik litera
ture class (this same class is being
taught right now) and had the honor
of meeting one of the most wonder
ful, beautiful people I now know. I re
member how I didn't have enough
money for a copy of "Dharma Bums,"
which Dresman had assigned, so I
rode to Borders during the heat of the
day to read in the bookstore's air-con
ditioned climate zone. A friend of
mine, whom I had met, said she had
already read it four times. Even now,
no matter what I do, she always seems
to be one step ahead.
There were other beat writers we
read in the class. Like Diane DiPrima,
whose biography we read and who is
a worthy enough poet to talk about in
another column. Or the aforemen
tioned Gary Snyder, who never really
considered himself a beat poet, or the
booming orator Kenneth Rexroth, the
transcendent Michael McClure and
conscientious objector William Ever
son (although claims of his beatitude
are also debatable).
uunng me last weeK or class, all ol
the students met at Tsunami Books
and performed individual pieces. This
marked the first time I had ever per
formed anything in front of a live au
dience, and the event turned out to be
the moment of conception for a band
I'm currently in.
So I write this because, for the first
time, Kerouac and I connect in the
dead of winter. I just finished reading
his novel "Big Sur", which contains a
poem called "Sea." Much like the sea
itself, reading the poem was refresh
ing. It leads me to wonder how he was
able to write these books while con
stantly inebriated with alcohol. Note
that this is not a judgment of the au
thor, who has long since passed from
this temporal world but who is most
certainly still somewhere out there,
riding on the constant waves of birth
and death.
Written works often reveal them
selves to me as lessons to be learned,
if I'm attentive enough to listen to
them. This is the case with "Big Sur."
And no, the lesson isn't some com
mercialized cliche like "Don't drink
and do dmgs, kids." For the worst
points, the lesson is contained be
tween the lines and within the flow
ing prose. It's something like, "Aware
ness can drive you to maddening
levels of self-consciousness. Be down
simple, and don't forget to eat, drink
and breathe."
Contact the Pulse editor
at aaronshakra@dailyemerald.com.
His opinions do not necessarily
represent those of the Emerald.
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