I was going through some things today and came across this essay I wrote my freshman year of college. November 2, 2005, to be exact. It reminded me of a place and time that seems so long ago but influenced me so much. And of a man who meant a lot to me, despite him being a pariah among other friends of mine. I try to see everyone for who they are, and not take sides, and that was the case here. I was friends with him; I was friends with them. I didn’t talk about him with them and vice versa. I felt like he and I shared some deep connection on a spiritual level, but perhaps I was just enamored with his disregard for normal. I could listen to him wax philosophical for hours. One of those people who was in and out of my life, but I always held him dear and felt he did the same for me. He’s since disappeared, went MIA from social media, email, phone, etc, it seems, since the fall, and finding this really hit me. I don’t recall what the assignment was, but I wanted to share. And Jon Worley--Cornbread--if you’re out there hiding in the shadows of an Appalachian haze, and happen across this, just know what you’ve meant to me and my life, and that I think of you often.
I looked back into the rearview mirror of my 1994 Dodge Spirit and then anxiously glanced over my shoulder for any sign of the near total stranger I was about to meet in the parking lot of the east end Waffle House. I sank back into the cloth seats and closed my eyes, capturing in my mind the pinks, purples, and oranges of the early spring sunset before a peck on the window brought me out of my reverie. I looked to my left to see a too-familiar face that belonged to an unfamiliar soul; dark eyes stared at me through the glass. I smiled and left the security of my car behind.
Bright industrial lights reflected off of the polished red, yellow, and off-white surfaces of the more trafficked of the two Waffle House locales in Morristown, Tennessee. These lights irritated the headache that began long before my venture. The usual smiling faces of the evening shift WaHo waitresses greeted us. The small of bacon, sausage, and other short order, greasy spoon fare, filled my nostrils, and my salivary glands reacted in a fashion similar to Pavlov’s dogs--although I had not come to eat. I sat across from this friendly spirit--a 26-year-old, long-haired hippie by the name of Jon, who my mother reluctantly allowed her 16-year-old daughter to meet in a place full of security cameras. Soon the smell of self-rolled cigarettes, which I believe contained something other than just tobacco, and the coffee he was drinking joined the other sensations that were enticing my sense of smell. We sat there, in this intensely commercial atmosphere, talking somewhat awkwardly over coffee and sweet tea for hours. I say talking, but I really mean he talked and I listened.
As the sky darkened, he suggested moving the conversation to another locale. A more discreet, friendlier place: his house. My heart raced as I followed him there, but I knew he meant me no harm. We walked into the living room of the ranch-style house where he spent the majority of his waking--and sometimes sleeping--moments. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hit me as soon as I walked through the doorway. The decor was drab, and the dim lighting numbed the already dull room. The couch, which looked as if it were a product of the 1960s, was comfortable from years of wear and was a much-needed changed from the hard, cold booths at the Waffle House. The paneled walls and sheer, yellowed curtains also added to the 1960s atmosphere of the room. I distinctly remember the old stereo with a record player, the various guitars, and most importantly the 1966 Wurlitzer organ, which Jon had acquired from a yard sale for a mere forty dollars. One man’s trash...
Jon sat down behind the keys of the Wurlitzer and began to play a song for me. He told me he had been attempting to tease the lyrics for this song out of his brain for quite some time now, and as he played he added in the words as they came to him. As an aspiring musician who had just acquired a guitar--in part due to Jon’s inspiration--I could not believe that I was witnessing his musical genius at work first hand. The deep, soothing tone of his voice combined with the immensely hippie feel of the Wurlitzer sent me into another dimension of time and space.
After Jon finished his performance, he read aloud to me the beginning of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”, something that had inspired him which he wanted to pass on to me. I remember to this day the way he read the lines and how it seemed as if he had been the one who had seen the best minds of his generation destroyed by madness. Perhaps he had. Behind that young face, was an old soul. Jon briefly prefaced the poem before he began the recitation, barely needing the pages as he read. As I sat in the room, where the only object that seemed like it did not belong was the modern computer, I felt as if Ginsberg himself were reading this poem to me in the late 1960s or early 1970s.
I was immediately transfixed by this writing and this new form of poetry that I had never been exposed to. The realization that poetry is not confined to rhyme and reason took on a new meaning after hearing the recitation of the first stanzas. I was so enthused by this brief exposure to the genre that Jon then bequeathed to my care his copy of The Portable Beat Reader, which contained many works by writers--such as Kerouac and Burroughs--who are similar to Ginsberg in style, personal belief, and way of life. (Addition: I carried this copy around with me until I was finally able to return it to him on a happenstance meeting some years later.)
I went home that evening, well after midnight, and began to delve into this anthology. A new way of writing, and a new way of life and looking at the world was opened to me. I have since become an avid fan of the writers of the beatnik era, their style, and their cause. Not only did this book influence my writing style, but also my way of thinking.
I have often wondered how strong the initial impact of the excerpts Jon read to me would have been had I not been taken back in time by the atmosphere in the room. The 1960s feel of the house, with its paneling and original decor, the authentic 1966 Wurlitzer organ, the smell of stale cigarettes, the dim lighting associated with the beatnik coffee house poetry readings (not to mention the modern-day hippie doing the reading) all enhanced the contents of the book. Had it not been for this vivid experience, I might have continued living in my sheltered existence and not experienced this awakening that deeply changed the course on which my life had been set.
kianamaiart
stormborns
areudirty
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
