Leaving poor farmhand C. Willy was so agonizing, remember I told you? that I got drunk and missed my flight out of Boston. When I pulled away from him it felt like the whole Great Wall had disintegrated, bees stopped making honey, and all the stars burned out.
I missed that kook’s boyish energy. He’s one of the mad people Kerouac talks about–the ones that “burn burn burn.” I swear he’s trying to wrestle the whole universe, and it’s costing him shoes and toe nails; soles cannot hold up to his erratic movements and his toe nails are cracked and black.
So I’m not going to do what I normally do this time of year (trim pot in southern Oregon with hikers), instead I’m meeting up with Willy in the South, and we’re gonna try and find a juke joint, drink some moonshine, two-step, and walk streets with the hustlers, beggars, degenerates, poets, and bleeding hearts.