So I love to listen to music and write. It’s something that just makes sense for me. It makes the process work. I’ll be writing a piece later this week about music to listen to while you study, but here’s just some songs that I’ve been enjoying the last couple days.
Tonight, I’m listening to Monk’s Dream by, who else, Thelonious Monk. The track on right now is Body and Soul. When it comes to music, I often think that I’m stuck in the past. I mean, if I was living in the 50s and 60s, would I have even known who Monk was? Would I have appreciated him? Would I have seen him on television? And I find myself wondering, who is Thelonious Monk today? You know, I’m scared that he might just be some DJ or electronic guy, and I have been missing the boat.
But that’s not what I wanted to write about tonight. What I want to write about tonight is a message I received from the past. Yes, the past.
In graduate school, I took this class called New York in the Fifties, taught by Dan Wakefield. In that class, we read Salinger, Baldwin, Miles Davis’ autobiography, Kerouac, as well as others. For the final project, we had to write an essay on a book we were reading and how it related to the class. Well, being the smart ass that I am, which I’m some what proud of — my grandfather, Poppy, would probably be pissed. He always told me not to be a smart ass — I wrote a personal essay on how Kerouac’s On the Road changed me.
Well, it was the first time I really wrote about my mother’s mental illness. It was the first time that I confronted those memories on paper in a way that wasn’t just journal entries. And well, rereading the piece inspired me. I’m about to share a piece of that writing with you.
But first, a bit of context: Honestly, yesterday I was having a tough day. Freelancing is tough. You don’t get paid much right away, and it’s difficult to come to terms with having no security. So, I had this idea to pitch a piece on Kerouac. And I pulled out the essay from Wakefield’s class. And it brought tears to my eyes. Not because I thought it was good writing, but because I heard a voice, my voice, speaking to me, reminding me, of the principles and thoughts I had when I was younger. That I should continue to have today.
Here is that piece of writing:
“I see many similarities between the 50s and now, and it is the reawakening of a great spirit. The American spirit. The spirit Kerouac saw during his travels. I see this spirit in Obama…I see this spirit in my friends who are trying, desperately, to create art in the face of a recession. I see this spirit in my little brother, waiting to graduate high school so he can take on his road. I see this spirit in myself. This spirit is madness.
“I’m only 23, but I’ve driven all over the country, taken trains across Europe, and I read and listen and search all forms of art and thoughts for a truth. Kerouac has changed my life and millions of other people by showing us that we’re all mad in a certain sense. He showed us that there is a way to react against the delusions of American values by pursuing the true American Dream — the promise of adventure and discovery and equality. I know this is all highfalutin ideas, and I’m not grounded, really, but I’m finding a great relief in this writing process. I’m finding a great freedom in my mind. I’m not scared anymore…But here are my thoughts on Kerouac and the 50s and what I’ve learned from your class. My whole life I’ve wanted to be special. I’ve decided on writing. I’m often scared that the way I see the world is so different and my values are not shared. I often fear going forward with my writing career. But if many of the standards of America are delusions, than so is my fear of failure within that system. I’m mad. I know it. I’m going to find my own way to express myself one day. One that fits.”
Well, it was good to hear my voice. And for a moment, I couldn’t be happier. Because whatever it is that I’m after, I’m still trying to find it.