"Don't Let the Fuckers Get You Down"

Ahhh.... Youth!

As a friend of mine would say in our more reprehensible, unabashedly glorious moments gone-by. The energy and the enthusiasms of the (predominantly male, white) beliefs, efforts and disenchantments of the young american. The crackling, uncertain energy. The fierce desire and passionate longing - all-too-often manifest in form of self-tacking, wayward compassing, drifting hither and yon - that in a confessional sense resonate, at once tired and explosively novel, with each generation of the misunderstood; always in their own eyes. More contemporary shallowness than the unceasing voice of the dismissed longing of the voiceless? Unquestionably. Absolute freedom from responsibility turns only selfishly inward, as, I think, Jonathan Franzen writes. Resonance endures.

"Don't let the fuckers get you down!" Viggo Mortenson (Burroughs?) declares. And he is right. A worthy creed to be certain. The sparkling, the crackling energy of the film On the Road feels like Kerouac. Ginsberg too, perhaps. Energy, excitement, youthful enthusiasm: all worthy of celebration. The outcomes? The expenses to be paid for indiscretion? Surely just as necessary for their inclusion. Where does the end bring us after the night? This too is non-trivial. Journeys inward also are held accountable for the morning after.

Truthfully it could be argued that the message of Kerouac is only for the elite, for the comfortable. Selfish journeys of attempted disconnection from comfort. A particularly cynical interpretation for anyone's longings - nonetheless worthy of reflection. Yet such disparagings do not marginalize the reality of experience. Longings are felt across the spectrum of humanity, the reality of each is accountable only to the pilgrim along the way. Such a message speaks in contradiction. So, too, do our journeys.