I am an American, Chicago born—Chicago, that somber city—and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. But a man's character is his fate, says Heraclitus, and in the end there isn't any way to disguise the nature of the knocks by acoustical work on the door or gloving the knuckles.
On top of reading great literature to get out of my mental slump, I Google something like “Kerouac Memorial,” or “Kerouac Lowell Mass” and up pops
KEROUAC COMMEMORATIVE, Bridge Street, Lowell, Massachusetts
I decide to make the thirty-minute trip to Lowell the following day.
“It’s a really bad town,” my brother warned. Since moving to Nashua two years ago, he has become an expert on everything. He has never visited Lowell, but because he knows all, I assumed his assumption, making two asses instead of one. Kind of like a buy one get one.
We brought the dog and hoped for the best on a sunny afternoon. The town itself is an old textile city north of Boston. At one point, it was America’s largest textile center. It sits along the Merrimack River and was once prime fishing grounds for the Pennacook tribe. So, for the majority of its life, Lowell was a happy, wealthy town. When the town was “founded,” it was known as the Lowell Experiment. I’m assuming that this is where the creators of LOST came up with the Dharma Initiative.
When you first drive into Lowell, you see a city in the process of reviving itself. The Kerouac Commemorative is in the part of town that hasn’t been revived. The park itself is nestled in between an old textile mill and the city, along side a trolley service that tours the old mills. During our visit, the trolley passed twice. The only person on the trolley was the driver. This was a Saturday afternoon. The sun was shining. The plants and trees were green. If there were ever a day to tour the textile mills of Lowell on a trolley, today was the day.
I took some pictures and sat on the marble bench: part of four that surround the memorial. On the inside, I saw some graffiti and my heart began to sink into my belly, coming back up into my throat as a big burp and then I turned to my left to watch a man with two rottweilers hand over an envelop to another man passing by. The two did not acknowledge each other.
So I learned a few things. I learned a bit about Lowell. I saw the birthplace of Kerouac. I saw his memorial. And I learned how to do a drop off. Is that what it’s called? I haven’t watched The Wire in a long time.
But the point is this: When I got back to the hotel, I was inspired enough to write ten manic pages. I have no idea what I’ll do with the mess of words. But they exist. And my drought has received its rainstorm. I guess it was more like a hail storm. Words are more like pellets than droplets and pellets is one of the funniest looking words I have seen today. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.
