No one is Jack Kerouac the Original Itinerant, wayfarer. Not even Jacky Boy himself. Because of this Huckleberry found himself perpetuating the progression of impredictables in hopes of luring the path to the tips of his ambulating digits. Suckering in, convincing the unknown to take a chance and cede trail to Huckleberry was a precarious engagement. There were great risks involved: sudden aleatoric leaps, unrequested bouts of shoobie doop boo dop vocalizations, mischieviously only offering two examples leaving you just itching to have the form rounded out properly.
Yes, biscuit business, fluffy warm butter melting biscuit business for all roads to fall in hazardous line before his Rolly-pollyness and his legendary insect obvserving dopey smile.
“On that rock,
there’s another guest
of the moon”
From common perch, other howls screech madness and delight. It’s been a while since the Banana poets, and chivalrous delusionals, and seductive Genjistas reincarnated but improperly alocated as cyranesques in France have seen their genetically cryptic codes encased in the concrete chambers of fragile ink-paper reductions. Ginger beer and rum, tequila and loquacious evenings in tents with progressive women may haved failed to derrail catchy imperialist trends; but the world has changed in other ways.
Luckily one may still rise to the Realm by oblique entry.
“Actually cerebral theaters obligate such entries,” Huckleberry thoughtlessly whimed, “just to get outside subjective projections, through the screens and onto the prairie of the Real scrolling away into wind. The force is massive: a thousand and one films screen hopeful debuts everyday. Which ones sell out, returning tomorrow to repeat? What say the paparazzi? The critics? The self-critics!? When must we close the curtain on those that overstay their welcome, and how? Look! The theater’s guests start music, soundtracks, and sound derailments! On any given day one could be so entertained, “A granite color crowned blueberry lying in a Goya-esque painting whilst murmuring coquettish whispers of toxin defusing anti-oxi-morons” or possibly the lesser known but for its sucint expression and infinite interpretability – the highly appreciable, “Disjunct expectations.”
“Leave this strange world, exit the theater!” Huckleberry wonders why the green lit exit sign has so many words. Theaters aren’t the most efficient .
He leaves through the dusty projected light, and walks out onto that prairie out down below those clouds you see flowing pink, blue and red off of that long cliff wall below the black lit stars. Leaving an impression in the ground, a small pond fills in the memory of his shoe soles in which (in fish eye lens magnifying reflection) gathers the entirety of the unwrapped Milky Way.
When one witnesses such enthusiastically minimalist rhythms through said vertigo inspiring stellar perspective grows in the individual a new, atemporal definition of identity.
It’s the simple things like the entire night sky clearly illuminated in a shoe-print-pond which intrigue wanderers. Wanderers of parks. Or park benches. Or the kitchen sink. Thud! Thwack! Dohhhhhmmmmmm…Peripatetics hunting asymmetrics with perfectly round lenses. Travelers of great variety who cover inequal distances with equal immersion. Huckleberry encountered one traveler catching the eye of a bird who, on the first day of summer, leapt dove and skipped in the air only to abruptly regain composure on a branch, looking over its shoulder to make sure no one saw its glee. The look of surprise in its beak as it turned around!
A stork above an open world spotted Huckleberry below the pines in the park where humans gather, and – just for fun – the stork imagined our man as he once knew them to be, in nature, before all these strange vertical nests were built up. At the circumference of a fountain sit 30 archers spouting arches of water towards the center. They collide and cascades of red, purple, blue, green and yellow fall down in droplets. On the otherside, a blanketed couple wayfares through the vastness of leisure on a Sunday afternoon. In the lowest laid fountain were orange fish looking at each other under the blasts of UV from the afternoon sun. Gracefully floating and ignorant to our world, they have no fear of falling.
Waterbugs paint concentric impulses in shadows that cross current with the light raying and rippling like sand dune crests through the bottom of the shallow water. Snake stripes and other gaseous fumes are evoked in the mad currents of a souless park pond, under pink blossoms and beneath the stoic calls of spring frogs.
These are other simplicities that help an itinerant gauge the how much quality they are truly digesting in the moment, and therefore how they should proceed. Self evaluation 101.
Lately Huckleberry had been making good use of a nickname he didn’t know he had. The Errant American. (In spanish, Errante mainly carries the meaning of Wandering, so let’s leave all notions of moral decrepitude out of the story😉 )
He not only fully exemplified this wandering type, but lately sought parallel human resources of such devotions and disciplines to help fuel his current efforts. He was in a deluged Plasencia hunting for a bookshop in hiding.
Huckleberry meandered the depressed faces, and traversed the puffed up umbrellas bearing the might of the Great Nothing above apparently on shift at Olympus.
Streets flew from perpetual rainfall, rain escaped the radiant judgement of Zeus, and Zeus cracked thunderous laughter as he watched Huckleberry get lost in the messy matter. It’s a small world, afterall. Life is intertwined by the roots, even though sometimes this Creation’s lyricism seems sloppy at times. Humans still haven’t come to an agreement upon which of the gods is to blame. We’ve all pretty much come to an agreement that no one is The god or The goddess( You’d think we’d have learned after Troy) but one of them sure as hell is to blame.
Suddenly someone grabbed Huck off the street. It was Tannhauser. Coffee-Bookshop Tannhauser
(Wagner squeals in maniacal delight.)
There, Huck bought two books about two travelers: one, Cyrano de Bergerac recounting his blasphemous journey to the moon and the sun; two, the diary of Matsuo Basho (he’s a Boss. A Haiku writing Boss) on a poetry pilgrimage.
It was good to be among veterans.
So good, that Huckleberry decided to wrangle the undomesticated students up on Tuesday to feed on collective poetry writing sessions. ¿Would they survive? Of course. With flying colours and tasty colors and touchable no never mind. In a much less psychadelic manner Huckleberry played Haiku and Improv games with his students.
One aleatoric masterpiece went as such,
He seems to be a singersongwriter,
How much longer will he live?
It was a truly inspiring day. The onus of editing fell upon the already guilt ridden Spanish-Catholic shoulders of his students, of course. Cut the innecessary and redundant (woops), readjust the awkward and banal bits. By the end they were vagabond in the open plains of that massive Truman Show like cage under the tyrrany of “now, only 5 or 7 syllables at a time.” They found the untraversed paths.
Huckleberry essentially brought them on board the process of writing such mistakes as “On the Road” and such bloopers as “Oku no hosomichi.” Every step of talented revision becomes more dificult, more enigmatic, and more…new. It’s an important tool in the
apprehension expansion of one’s linguistic capabilities. In a few brief revisions, a student’s expressiveness opens and flows by leaps, bounds, and kaplooshes. One must, afterall, maintain the fun once in a while in those operation room like classrooms. (Poorly, poorly funded operation rooms – we might add, Dear Readers)
At the end of the day, he got to see a side of some students he may have otherwise not seen. This is one of the many joys of teaching.
After such a momentous day of meditative music, Huck left to take a short journey between the school and home which might involve going any which direction (there aren’t that many) and thoroughly bathing in that life sustaining itinerant habit. He looked forward to meeting whomever, whichever of the Also the Original Jack Kerouac’s he might come across. Where to today? With whom? Whoever they were, hopefully they’d be able to stand the presence (or that “recently christened” stench) of one Huckleberry “el americano errante” Grimm.