Last weekend I made a trip to see the new film On the Road depicting - quite accurately it seems - Jack Kerouac's eponymous novel. The film was bright, vibrant and blunt, depicting the energy and ultimate pointlessness of Kerouac, Cassady and others. What did they achieve other than to demonstrate that all things are possible? Perhaps On the Road is not a particularly literate work, however it is an evocative narrative of an influential group of iconoclasts. It showcases the dark side of human desire, when the unconscious takes hold. It asks why Dean Moriarty could seem like such a fun companion, and what it is within us that his type appeals to. I think that a little bit of him appeals to many of us. His failings could become our failings, were we to relinquish control. But super-ego watches over us, protecting and making sure that fun is kept to a practical minimum.
The film, of course, has attracted plenty of criticism. To me, this smacks of a simple objections. On the Road doesn't have a happy ending. Kerouac doesn't show good triumphing over evil. There are no special computer-generated special effects or car chases. In short this film does not pander to the public's desire to be entertained. It challenges them to think, to seek meaning from this tale, and to ask where the beat generation has led. No wonder most patrons plumped for James Bond or a nice safe comedy.
I suppose that I went on a sort of long road trip in Transylvania. I shed convention, travelled to a wild place where shadow reigns, and did much as I pleased until the money ran out. Sure, unlike Kerouac's travels, we didn't consume prodigious amounts of weed. However quite a lot of brandy was drunk. Enough that, had Kelli not shown up, I might not have lasted through my forties. So, I received my lucky break and had the sense to take it. Love triumphed over chemical-induced alternative reality.
Kerouac was a religious figure: a Roman Catholic, oddly enough. But he was frustrated by conventional society, mixed in wild company, drank heavily and smoked weed. I sense my lucky escape. I have a spiritual side, bore plenty of frustration and certainly drank enough, but missed out on the worst of the wild company and didn't take to drugs. I was too badly infected by the fearfulness of my adoptive parents, by their terror of leaving a narrow comfort zone, to relinquish all control. It's better being brought up by dull conservatives than pot-heads, I'm sure. I did get out and explore, followed my road a fair way, and survived relatively unscathed. A part of me would like to have explored more, and another part is grateful to be here intact with plenty of creative inspiration.
As a writer I'm still travelling. I'm out on a very road indeed. Seeking the sensational for its own sake has lost purpose. And the bumpy stretches aren't enough to send me to the bottle. But it was a close run thing.
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