From the Archives: May 22, 2000 - Age 24

Note: For context, this was day 18 of our 37 day cross-country road trip.

At Clearlake State Park in California, our campsite was populated by a very large group of black ants. They worked throughout the day in a line crossing our entire site. The colony consisted of a central area that was very busy, and a few outlying areas that were more sparsely populated. It struck me that the ants moving to the outer areas were the misfits of the group, but Shawn reminded me of all the misfits we saw in San Francisco, which is a densely populated city. So, maybe the ants that moved to the outskirts were the ones who just wanted a bit of peace and quiet at the end of their day—the suburbanites, or country ants.

In San Fran, we were surrounded by the drug culture, from weed to psychedelics to cocaine. Now, I don’t care either way whether people do drugs or not. It’s their own choice, and their own business. This is not about that. What interested me was the sadness and desperation of the people, especially the coke users. They gritted their teeth, waiting for their fix, took their snort, then were absent from the room; drifting. And they were guilty, trying to justify their reasons, some even admitting that they hated what they were doing. But they did it anyway, and it made me sad, and I wanted to see my dog.

This is more than a single-threaded observation. I’ve been reading “On the Road,” on this trip, and in his book, Kerouac often glorifies the all-night parties, drinking, and booze, while also writing often about time, and how to make it stand still. Yet all of this wastedness is only killing time—or wasting time, even—because though the vacancy of the cokehead’s eyes might indicate time has stopped, nothing happens while they’re gone. Wasted people wasting time.

The only way to keep time moving, to feel every second, is to keep moving oneself. Perhaps that was what Kerouac was trying to say—travel, keep moving—only then can you absorb every moment, to feel life more deeply.