a story of the city lights bookstore, san francisco

i spent the day with ginsberg and kerouac, cassady and ferlinghetti. i spent it sitting in a rocking chair, next to a window with that cool and cool san franciscan breeze keeping me wide-eyed, reading big sur and eating, devouring, soaking in the energy that filled the room like liquid inspiration.

that energy, it lingers there. in that room, filled with pages of stories, of lives hidden in hardcovers.

i was alone when everything stopped, just for a minute. everything was still and i felt the vibrations, i heard the vibrations, i sensed everything with overwhelming clarity. where the beat stood still in my chest and instead exploded around the other souls of that very generation living in the air between and inside those walls – there was not a sound, or a murmur or a whisper of blood coursing through. and my breath was stuck behind my heart, in a place of intuition and feeling. in a place where my imagination was blossoming and dreams were unfurling and i felt everything and all of them all around me all inside my soul. the magic of the place. the stories and the writings, and the musing and the poems, all alive, all physical, all waiting for me to reach out and grab them and pull them into my flesh and blood, in the space between my ribs, between my fingers and my toes, in my ears and my nose, on my eyelids, skin and tongue. urging me to thrive and discover it all all over again.

city lights, so full of the life and spirits of those artists, pioneers and legends. those greats who will forever move me to want to write better, be better, feel more, live faster, document it all in any way possible, as a poem on a page, in my mind, as a photo or just a lingered glance.

urge me to forget my name, forget everything i know. forget life as i learned it. that it’s all it is and all it should be. that i’m ready to go and be something more incredible than i imagined. because perfection lies in the grace, but extraordinariness lies in experiencing life on a phenomenal level – with all the devas and the spirits and the genies and the magic – on an plane so ethereal you can only describe it in your dreams.

extraordinariness lives in the everything else. extraordinariness lives in the people who were here before us all, who laid the paths and showed us how to change the course, who made it about living, not existing, but moving moving moving, travelling, growing, uprooting and revolving, living passionately. explosively. wildly. and, for fuck’s sake, loving with all the strength in our pulsating, hungry, throbbing hearts. 

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