Some kind of boom has taken hold and I fear that it will not stay. But I do not fear the fear.
Fear makes me human and in touch with the waves that surround the young. It is all ok and it makes me alive. I don’t know what brought it out. This must be how it goes with art, this new realm that I embrace with an unusual and wonderful certainty, one that has only grown in the days following this past Thanksgiving. All I know is that there are feelings, places and people that dance within me. I recall the poets Rimbaud once again, and Kerouac and the Beats, so hungry so frail and yet eternal in their spirit that is the fabric of the hidden America. The undying America. And it is interwoven with the music of old jazz, our founders. Bebop and Charlie Parker and Monk and Sonny Rollins playing his saxophone off the Brooklyn Bridge.
And so Jim Morrison dances, and Hunter Thompson pounds at the keys in the background with the Rolling Stones, while Patti Smith stands visible and to the side, proclaiming it all to the winds, which have grown furious.