What is it about holding a baby that makes you feel better when you’re coping with a loss? Maybe it’s a circle of life type of thing. Every person lost is someone’s loved one, and every baby born is someone’s little squish monster, love, cuddle bunny.
Ebb and flow. Wax and wane. Life and death.
Plus, aside from when they shit themselves, babies just kind of smell good.
Also, everything is new and wonderful in their eyes. Your hair, your jewelry, you clothes, rocks, sticks, bugs. They just want to grab hold of life and the world and shove it in their mouths and taste it, too.
There’s no fear in them. They’re so new, and everything is new to them, and they haven’t the slightest clue how terrifying the world can be. So they’re just little bundles of light and optimism.
It’s freaking magic and infectious, because when you’re holding them, you realize that they have a chance to not have all the fucked up shit you’ve had in your life in theirs.
Or maybe their drool is just a natural anti-depressant, heartbreak numbing supplement.
Either way, I think I need to do a lot of babysitting.
And please don’t misunderstand me. I still don’t want my own. I just want to borrow one that I can give back.
I watch a ton of documentaries, and I just finished watching one about Kerouac. I’ve watched several about the Beats in general and specifically. I’ve read On The Road and Dharma Bums, and I’ve enjoyed them. Watching this film, though, man am I jealous.
He wrote On The Road in twenty-one days. I can’t even fathom that. I have a novel or two half-written, laying around. Every once in awhile I add five or ten pages to them, and then they sit around for another four or five months, forlornly. There’s so little in this world that I can accomplish in twenty-one days. It makes me tired just thinking about it. It also makes me want to push a few buttons on Netflix and start another movie. That’s so much easier than writing. Not to mention my least favorite friend, rewriting. Ugh. Revision.
Though there have been times when words have flown out of my mind and through my fingers via pen or keyboard, but never have I been able to type out a scroll of a novel in a matter of days. Forget how good it is. Forget that he changed and influenced the world. Just that fete alone.
Of course, the amount that I could get done if I just started using a bunch of speed and drinking 24/7 might impact what I could accomplish, however, I think it would probably be in the opposite direction. I can only imagine, thankfully, how distractible I could be on speed.
He died at 47, though. I’m closer every day to 47 than I ever will be to 27 ever again, and I haven’t even had a single story or poem published, yet. Think of what he left unwritten.
So right now I’m feeling a little bit inspired, but I’m not sure it’s to write. I may just want to read On The Road again.