There's something about the West that calls to Hobo'ing. It al makes me think of Kerouac. I have this vision of Kerouac's creative process. He looks out on everything. And in the midst of it, anywhere he looks, he casually discerns a hole, it doesn't obscure anything, but it's there always waiting and available. The hole's a headphone jack and anytime he wants he can just plug in and the phantoms sing to him. They tell him everything. They allow him all reconnaissance on every angle of the street corner he perceives or the sailors or Dean's particularly perfect abilities as a parking attendant. He just plugs in and the sounds of the rest of the world fade away. All he can hear is this amazing steam that he takes to be his own consciousness. He just scribbles furiously, getting it all down, from where ever he points his eyes, these sonar locators. He can know everything, because everything is to be know by plugging into this jack, all revelation from every seed kernel to curb stopper, every bit of grit sings up to him, and he transcribes the song. I like to think too that he was handed these special headphones as a courtesy from Henry Miller.
O! to sit in a comfortable private car with you half-sleeping daughter quietly there across from you beneath the window that holds all of dry winter, slightly snow drifted New Mexico out it.
