Postcode is a place for us to share our creativity and voice our opinions. It’s also a place for us to share the opinions of others when they resonate with us/ make us feel feelings. As such, I’m sharing this – originally shared with me by Postcode contributor, Steff.
(Hey Justen, remember when I was telling you about Jack Kerouac? Pay attention, ’cause this involves him and is right up your alley).
““The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
- On The Road, Jack Kerouac
Sometimes, I worry for my generation. I worry for the ones who went from child-care to elementary-school to high-school to a job to a mortgage, always listening to instruction and taking orders. Never once spinning out of control and crashing at full speed into a ditch. The ones who’ve never spent a day hungry or slept a night on the beach, shivering drunk without a blanket.
The ones who were brainwashed from an early age into thinking that living life consisted of following the predetermined patterns of behaviour laid out for them and trying not to deviate too much from the sensible social milieu. The ones who never truly felt the gravity or the inherent fulfilment of sex or art or experimentation. The ones who think experience is only something you put on a resume.
Maybe like The Beat Movement it’s just the difference between the squares and the hip. Maybe. Or maybe it’s something we can subjugate together. Let’s talk about my generation…
Every single generation has had to overcome the pitfalls of their allotted passage of history, we are not unique in that regard. But the pitfalls facing the millennials are different. In this new paradigm of social media and simulation relationships and imaging, it’s reasonably easy to see how we’ve lost touch with giving ourselves over fully to living life and being in the moment. When so much of our culture is a replication of something real, we need to be careful not to become confused.
Take sex for example. For some time now, our sexuality has been locked up in a repressed culture of homogenised beauty and self-consciousness. We’re constantly being fed a construction of what is desirable that leaves us feeling inadequate on every level. Instead of opening ourselves up to the craziness and beauty of the true desire that was intended for us as organisms, we’re worried about labels and how our bodies look with the lights on or more importantly, what that partner might think of the view.
So say it with me… Fuck that.
Give me the sweaty, bare-foot dancing, unabashed honesty and naked midnight swims in a dirty river beneath the full moon. Give me the flaws, the unique parts in candle-light, fluorescent light, spot-lights, whatever. And more truth. Give me the total adherence to a moment of uninhibited sexuality, lost in a some kind of strange desirous meditative state with no preconceived ideas about anything, just touch, just chemistry.
If we follow the smell of smoke, we can find where life is burning and turn that sex, that desire and passion into art and expression. Real art.
I mean, what ever happened to controversial artistic expression anyway? It seems so rare these days that I come across anything amongst the hundreds of self-described artists in my Instagram feed that makes me feel anything other than a pithy four second aesthetic interest. Great art should make you feel uncomfortable on some level, or at the very least make you feel something.
Where are all the fringe-dwelling poets and painters, the downtown high-rise hermits, suffering for their craft through lost jobs, eviction notices, ketamine addiction and existential paradoxes? All I see is little rich kids with SLR cameras worth thousands of dollars posting generic photographs shot on auto-mode to upload to blogs and websites they paid someone to design with trust-fund money.
Lets forget about followers, forget about dollars and etch a meaningful mark in history, and in our own histories. Whatever it takes to taste and touch everything for ourselves. Pack a bag and set out for Guatemala to live on pennies while you fill your lungs with life if you have to.
The important thing to remember is to forget everything you’ve ever been told and set your seconds on fire.
Because the real secret to life is that we are all writers. We’re the Kerouacs, the Ginsbergs, the Burroughs’ of our own stories. So go ahead and fill up the pages with beautiful madness, the twisted full moon sex by a dirty river, the broke hitch-hiking from Portland back to Vancouver or the hysterical mushroom hallucinations in Spain, the nights spent drunk and hungry trying to sleep in the sand dunes or those spent falling deeply in love with a girl from Amsterdam only to never see her again. Let go. And let’s give ourselves over to be destroyed by the madness.
Who’s with me?”