Run To You

Bryan Adams is Canadian, and yet wrote songs that seemed quintessentially American, as if belted by John Cougar Mellencamp. Until you realize that, yes, Canada is America too! And "United States of America" just isn't that great of a name for a country. Germany, Germans. France, French. Japan, Japanese. United States of America. Americans?

But I used one of his songs "Run to You", which seems like a guy cheating on his wife, because of this article.

In it, there's a quote from Jack Kerouac, who I suppose I should read more about. What little I know is likely to be inaccurate. I figure here was a guy that was on the road, essentially hitchhiking and distilled his experiences, the freedom of not being tethered to a job, to a location, roaming the Earth (well, the US) and capturing a sense of adventure that came to represent what people wanted.

It's not surprising the sense of madness, of running, of going anywhere, doing anything, is compelling. Americans, especially this President, feel the need to extol the virtues of democracy and freedom. And yet, what is freedom? What does it mean to be free?

A friend said he recently watch Fight Club, presumably for the first time. I saw it about a year or two ago for the first time as well, though, by that time, its message of male emasculation, and desire to live and not be trapped by having that IKEA house (by the way, I still need to build my IKEA furniture--and Fight Club had it wrong! IKEA names are only one Swedish word, not two!).

That link serves as a touchpoint for me, because I had gone on a vacation by myself for the first time, off to Seattle, on the West Coast. Some people travel all the time, having been, with wealthy parents bankrolling the way. Their memories of jaunts to Europe, of irreverent evenings, of folks speaking a different tongue, are imprinted on their memories.

The diary, such as it is (being on Kuro5hin, after all), takes this sense of wild freedom, of simply dropping it all, and going, going, going, and realizing how much we escape through words. We read, and we are inspired, and instead of doing the things that the words are compelling us to do, we are compelled to write, to use the same words that move us, and craft our own words, words that imitate, words that evoke, and give birth to our own vision of running.

This was written, a week or two after I had visited Seattle, and at the time, I'm sure I misunderstood its significance, probably attributing more than what it meant at the time, though there's something fascinating about it being the only diary entry for this person, a solitary moment of creativity.

In many ways, it's typical of the Web, when people were suddenly inspired to creativity, crafting their web pages, putting their content up for the world to see, spending a few hours on a lonely afternoon or evening in a fit of activity.

Then, after a 15 minute of fame moment, they went to their lives, as ordinary as ever, and left their "under construction" sign back up, realizing it's hard to crank out creativity on a regular basis, especially when inspiration is the payment, not hard cash.

So occasionally, due to the history mechanisms of sites like Kuro5shin and Slashdot, I can occasionally read this entry.

Do you spend your days madly, wildly, without thought, without reservations, without inhibitions, without anything but life, pure sweet life which sweeps down through your feet and moves you and fills your throat with laughter and your ears with music and your eyes with beauty? Can you dig it? That's life, it's right there, it's going by, it's that train that's flying by you and you gotta run and jump on and ride it like the wild ride it is, whooping and hollering until your voice gives out and your fingers are sore. The wind whips through that train and makes you shiver and tear up and hug yourself, but it's tears of joy and a cold that doesn't chill you but lets you know you are human. All your logic and all your reasoning and flying behind you like the wind that's putting violent, mad waves on your shirt; you know it's still there but you can't pay any attention to it now. All you can do is cry out for joy, because the train is going off into the sunset and you don't know where it's headed, but you know you want to get there fast, fast, fast, whereever it is, and see it all, and drink it all, and have it all, and then make sure you jump on that next train going through because that's what it means to live. It don't matter where that train started nor where it's headed, but all that matters is that you're on it and you see everything rushing by in a frenzy of enlightenment and rapture. You can't hang on to it forever and even if you could it don't run forever, but you just want to hang on as long as you can, as long as your hands have some feeling and your lips have some singing you'll hang on, hang on, until you have to let go and then with all your strength left and all your soul you jump off and fly through the night in a mad, frenzied blur of motion and your spirit itself is leaping forth, letting out one last crazied, passionate, heartfelt cry until you vanish into the sweet, enveloping night.

And so the words, perhaps better than trite, perhaps better than that, resonate more for me than it might others, because it is a moment in time, capturing a sense of the past and nostalgia.

As Bryan Adams song was about a man who runs to a forbidden love, this running is to a period of time, to words, to a memory or an impression of a memory---a metaphorical run.

And occasionally, I find solace in this run.