My Journey to Become a Hep Cat.
I am bored and uninspired. Writers’ block has crippled my creativity, and painting a picture on canvas no longer holds my interest. My guitar rest in a closet, untouched for over two years. It calls me, but I refuse to hear. My tubes of paint have dried and died. My hair hasn’t been cut in four months, and my facial hair speaks of radicalism, so the time is right for a change. My wife says I look like Kenny Rogers; I see myself as Buffalo Bill, but minus the buckskin and rifle.
Consistently pissed off about everything is my nature at this time in life. Restlessness on the pillow takes its toll. Two major surgeries have left me with a gait like Frankenstein; the waltz of the monster mash. Children recoil in fear when I stumble in their direction. Old ladies in the grocery store give me the evil eye and cross themselves. I view my titanium cane as a weapon instead of an aid and have used it as such. Either I change, or the world changes to meet my demands, and that will not happen, so I will accommodate myself.
I will splatter my canvas with vibrant colors, the ones you see in dreams. Your art is the Holy Ghost blowing through your soul. I will marry my novels and have little short stories for adults who see themselves as children. A raconteur of genial ditties that will keep them amused or disturbed.
No, my dear, this will be different and life-changing. “This coming Monday,” I say, “around 9 AM CST, I will no longer be a grumpy old dude, but instead, will become a finger-snapping, beret wearing, caffein guzzling, poetry writing, deep thinking Hep Cat, a Beatnik or a Bohemien Pontificator, and a Deranged Poet”
She touched my whiskery cheek and said, ” now won’t that be fun.” She thinks I am not serious this time, but she can hide and watch.
I didn’t realize a change was afoot six months ago. This transformation has been deadly silent and gradual. It’s as if Tinker Bell, or the Beat Fairy, has visited every night and sprinkled pixie dust on my pillow.
Last night, after a few cocktails and after watching Wheel Of Fortune, during our supper, I announced to my wife, MoMo, that I have decided to become a Beatnik. Without looking up from her plate of manna, she asked, “So it will be like time when you decided to become a Hare Krishna and move to India to become that Beatle guy and play the sitar and hang out with Yogis.” Ouch, that stung. She knows me too well.
A month back, out of boredom, I re-visited “On The Road” by the great beat author Jack Kerouac. It’s a challenging read, but I made it through for a second time. The free and rebellious nature of the characters piqued my imagination. If I can capture their “cool factor,” it might add a few more years to my punch card. Dreams of change have no age limit or shelf life.
10 Replies to “I’m Bored. I Think I’ll become a Beatnik !”
It seems to be working out so far.
Ha I keep running across posts and people talking about Kerouac. I personally have never read him but I know people who swear by him. Maybe the universe is telling me to pick up a book and just read the damn thing!
He wrote multiple books that were different than On The Road. Over a twenty-year period, I have read most of them. On The Road is a tough read, but worth it. Funny about Kerouac, he was considered the father of the beats, but when the Hippies discovered him, he told them to buzz off. He hated hippies.
I am trying to comment as me and always seem to comment as my wife haha.. can Kerouc give me tech support too?
Yep, he can certainly influence ones writing, and view of the country in those times. Check him out.
Dude. Lot to be said for beat cats. You probably know but I’ll put it out there anyway: You don’t become a beat dude; the beat mindset overtakes you like a mist rolling into the harbor. G Maynard was always my hero. Kerouac and his crones were overrated. I’ll sit down with Maynard any time he’s free, but pass on Kerouac, Ginsberg, et al. Good luck to you. You’ve heavy aspirations.
I like Kerouac, but no Ginsburg, he was just part of the scene. Actually, Kerouac despised the hippies. I have no aspirations of being a Beatnik, it’s all a yarn, like the title to my blog states; Tall Tales and Ripping Yarns from the Great State of Texas. Pure fiction.
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Pshaw! Inside the heart of every straight-laced soul slowly thumps the heart of a Beat Dude. Yes, we write fiction. Every time we sit, we draw upon life experience. Every time we think or cajole a character to think, we have worn the path well often before. Press on!