Preface
My brother Andrew has always been my mentor in regard to reading, music, traveling and adventuring.
Recently, he was browsing through a used bookstore and found this book by Jack Kerouac, On The Road.
As I embark upon this journey into yet another great book recommendation for him, he also is on yet adventure! And it’s timely that I have this distraction, because I must give him time for self expression as he makes his home, his new routine, his new friends and family that are all around him. Yes, I will come and go from his equilibrium, but he is leading his life, in the most truest sense.
Running Interaction
August 8, 2025
On The Road…
From “INTRODUCTION” < click there for context>
My thoughts provoked? Or evoked? Big brother?
Here>
I think the writing came from his soul! And was lying there, awaiting the moment when he would begin typing. The short time is actually a proof of the purity of the work.
I myself Laurence, realize at 62 years of age, that’s folks seem to need to sort me. To put me in a category, and place me there. Some fail to find such a place in their world view or experience, and tell me that they’d never met anyone like me, but I sense they are feel awful about that on my behalf. That it must be so lonely to be “not like the others”
John 2:23 Now when he was in Jerusalem at the Passover Feast, many believed in his name when they saw the signs that he was doing. 24 But Jesus on his part did not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people 25 and needed no one to bear witness about man, for he himself knew what was in a man.
In short, that happened to Jesus! And he didn’t lose any sleep over it.
My Own Voice
As I embark on this road, I do so in faith, that God has brought me something good, once again, through my dear brother Andrew.
I arose early to set apart time for God, writing out his word. Writing out his word. I look forward to reading this book, On The Road.
Yes! The Great Gatsby transcended the words written there. God spoke to my soul through that book! Another that was given to me by my brother, Andrew.
Today, as I chatted with my daughter, a bit of prose came to me, and I carefully sketched its words on the screen to her. Being careful not to contrive. To leave the skeptics no trace of my craving that they would love me; love my writing! Receive my offering?
My life is his. My life is HIS food!
Yes, I myself have been On The Road for 7 years! It’s already an amazing ride for me at this fun fare!
Here is today’s prose >
…to be continued.
August 9, 2025
… It is the exact stuff upon which American Lit is still to be founded. You must and will go on at all costs including comfort & health & kicks; but keep it kickwriting at all costs too, that is, write only what kicks you and keeps you overtime awake from sheer mad joy?
On The Road, JK, introduction.
This is an excerpt from some praise and encouragement written by Kerouac, to his friend Neal Cassady.
“…write only what kicks you…”
August 10, 2025
But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes Awww! What did they call such young people in Goethe’s Germany… page 7
On The Road
The Con man… <click there for the whole context>
…and though he was a con-man, he was only conning because he wanted so much to live and to get involved with people who would otherwise pay no attention to him. He was conning me and I knew it (for room and board and ‘how-to-write,’ etc.), and he knew I knew (this has been the basis of our relationship), but I didn’t care and we got along fine…
Intellectuals Vs those that live life
Click the words up there to read the quote, then read on…
There’s a kind of fixation that we of the human race have in common across all demographics — race, religion, colour, creed or status.
We can tend to get stuck on the research and don’t do much actual living?
Sal notes this>
Besides, all my New York friends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookish or political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love; he didn’t care one way or the other… ‘so long’s we can eat, son, y’ ear me? I’m hungry, I’m starving, let’s eat right now!’ – and off we’d rush to eat, whereof, as saith Ecclesiastes, ‘It is your portion under the sun.’
On The Road pg 10
M. Scott Peck mentions Augustine’s deliverance from this! HERE
Lonely Hotel Room
- He describes his first few hundred miles of hitchhiking. Not allowed to sleep?
- He described the first ride>
Here the big trucks roared, wham, and inside two minutes one of them cranked to a stop for me. I ran for it with my soul whoopeeing. And what a driver - a great big tough truckdriver with popping eyes and a hoarse raspy voice who just slammed and kicked at everything and got his rig under way and paid hardly any attention to me. So I could rest my tired soul a little, for one of the biggest troubles hitchhiking is having to talk to innumerable people, make them feel that they didn't make a mistake picking you up, even entertain them almost, all of which is a great strain when you're going all the way and don't plan to sleep in hotels.
Then after such a long time of nearly no sleep, he writes>
Now I wanted to sleep a whole day. So I went to the Y to get a room; they didn't have any, and by instinct I wandered down to the railroad tracks - and there're a lot of them in Des Moines - and wound up in a gloomy old Plains inn of a hotel by the locomotive roundhouse, and spent a long day sleeping on a big clean hard white bed with dirty remarks carved in the wall beside my pillow and the beat yellow windowshades pulled over the smoky scene of the railyards. I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was — I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.
Running Down Vimy 