Big Sur

by Jack Kerouac

A creek having so many voices it’s amazing, from the kettledrum basin deep bumpbumps to the little gurgly feminine crickles over shallow rocks, sudden choruses of other singers and voices from the log dam, dibble dabble all night long and all day long

And as far as I can see the world is too old for us to talk about it with our new words—We

There’s the simple woodfire and the careful yet absentminded feeding of it which is an activity that like all activities is no-activity (Wu Wei) yet it is a meditation in itself especially because all woodfires, like snowflakes, are different every time—Yes,

You feel sick in the greatest sense of the word, breathing without believing in it, sicksicksick, your soul groans, you look at your helpless hands as tho they were on fire and you cant move to help, you look at the world with dead eyes, there’s on your face an expression of incalculable repining like a constipated angel on a cloud—In

Pat and I are in a serious talkative mood and I feel that lonely shiver in my chest which always warns me: you actually love people and you’re glad Pat is here.

It always makes me proud to love the world somehow—Hate’s so easy compared—But here I go flattering myself helling headbent to the silliest hate I ever had.