A Dream, A Fish, Allen Ginsberg and Me
It was the summer of 1983 that I attended a two-week session of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. I had just turned 26. I had graduated college four years earlier with a safe degree in teaching. Instead of teaching though, I moved to San Diego to be near the coast, the edge. I worked at night as a waitress. During the day I went to the beach alone with my books and journal. My reading felt like a treasure map. I followed the words of Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Diane di Prima, Anias Nin, Henry Miller, Djuna Barnes. One writer would lead me to another. I felt like all these writers were in on the treasure hunt. Maybe we were searching for the same symbols. I wanted to join the search, look for the treasure. I wanted to scream the yes, yes, yes of discovery.
After hours of reading on the beach, I’d close my book and rise to stretch my legs. The wet sand near the shore felt solid against my bare feet. As I walked I’d search for seashells. Each wave lapped at my feet, bringing the possibility of new treasure. I’d spot part of a shiny shell glistening in the wet sand and bend to pick it up. On further inspection, I’d often find that the buried side was broken. I’d drop the damaged shell and continue my search for the whole shells with interesting color and shape throughout.
