It was beautiful. The pinkness vanished and then it was all purple dusk and the roar of the silence was a wash of diamond waves going through the liquid porches of our ears, enough to soothe a man a thousand years. -Kerouac
The sounds of Ray Smith, Japhy Ryder, Henry Morley.
Bridgeport was a prop in the song tale of Beatniks callous to Western grind. The lazy gent walk so elegant to sullen Buddha. The holders of medicine stabbed in rainbows and Eastern foothills. The dirt that elongates the life. The fretting of worry we hold. The journey among decent strangers.
Twin Lakes Road, the Bridgeport Inn (unnamed in The Dharma Bums) but recognizable in scene and language. A bar was adjoining the hotel and restaurant but nobody cared about alcohol this morning. Ray, Japhy and Henry were ready to ascend Matterhorn. Morley needed a pair of warm blankets, borrowed from fine folk at the lodge.
The spell of aching roots, tinkering. Sips of canvas shoes and wool socks. The drive from Berkeley. Frost on the heels. Hunters disgust. Christian Brothers Port. Bad sleep. Illumination of dawn. The trees were Gods. Anglers of definition. The Earth. The child crests in wild weed and gusts.
And so the mountain they adjourned...RW