“… 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!”
I read this in On the Road the other day and something in me sort of straightened up and took notice, and I wondered if that’s the way I feel too. Admit there’s something tugging in it.
And something sort of wearying. I tried to think of the people I know, the people whose lives I like to watch, tried to decide if they were mad in a strictly Kerouac sense (note: if nothing else, by the end of this post, even I will have learned to spell Kerouac. Every time I write KEROUAC, I have to stop and double-check).
I think I used to like people like that, which is, I suppose, why I spent some much time with theater people, who cultivate hystrionic personas with a jealous eye. Musicians too. But somewhere in the last ten years, I’ve switched channels, and the fabulous yellow roman candles don’t thrill me anymore. I still like the energy, but they’re not as interesting to watch. When you light off a roman candle, you know what’s going to happen. It’s the same every time. Eventually, it explodes.
For my taste, I prefer the internal people, the ones with whole labyrinths of motivation and doubt and indecision and self-awareness. They can drive you insane too with all their agonizing (and they can agonize over ANYTHING, any choice, any nonchoice), but at least they’re wide-awake. I like that.
The woodpeckers are nesting in the eaves outside my window, and there’s a lot of scuffling and fluttering going on. The cats are both sitting motionless, alert on the bed, staring at the window with tails twitching. They’ll sit like that for hours.
Cats really are robots. I adore them, but they’re always running according to some internal program. Dogs will watch you and adjust their plans to match reality. Cats are too basic for that. It’s like they’re receiving orders from the mothership somewhere.
And today is a big writing day. I’m within mere chapters of the book’s end. Maybe this week. I really, really hope so.
