I was following the pack, all swallowed in their coats, with scarves of red tied around their throats, to keep their little heads from falling in the snow, and I turned around and there you go!
The first time I watched On the Road, there was this particular scene where Carlo Marx/Ginsberg and Dean Moriarty/Cassady run and jump wildly across a hallway, and Marx just jumped on the air and screamed his lung out, and Sal Paradise/Kerouac just stand behind them while laughing and words just flow in his head about how the only people to him are the mad ones, who are mad to live, to talk, to be saved, never yawn, and bla bla bla and then burn like Roman candles across the stars. It is not how he described it--it is how much I related to him at that exact moment. The one who observes the moment instead of be in the moment.
I was in India, following the pack, and suddenly a friend of mine screamed at midnight "Hare Krishna! OOO-OOO.. Hare Krishna!!" He's an African, and he says "Namaste" wherever he goes. He dances on the street to stop a tuk-tuk and he greets everyone every morning like he hasn't seen them in years. I remember thinking: He was Carlo in that exact night, and I was Sal.
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