Big Sur by Jack Kerouac Page A

thousand jeepster stationwagons and ten thousand Dave Wains and Cody Pomerays without a sigh of reminiscence or regret—There it is, every sad contour of my valley, the gaps, the Mien Mo captop mountain again, the dreaming woods below our high shelved road, suddenly indeed the sight of poor Alf again far way grazing in the mid afternoon by the corral fence—And there’s the creek bouncing along as tho nothing had ever happened elsewhere and even in the daytime somehow dark and hungry looking in its deeper tangled grass.
    Cody’s never seen this country before altho he’s an old Californian by now, I can see he’s very impressed and even glad he’s come out on a little jaunt with the boys and with me and is seeing a grand sight—He’s like a little boy again now for the first time in years because he’s like let out of school, no job, the bills paid, nothing to do but gratefully amuse me, his eyes are shining—In fact ever since he’s come out of San Quentin there’s been something hauntedly boyish about him as tho prison walls had taken all the adult dark tenseness out of him—In fact every evening after supper in the cell he shared with the quiet gunman he’d bent his serious head to a daily letter or at least every-other-day letter full of philosophical and religious musings to his mistress Billie—And when you’re in bed in jail after lights out and you’re not sleepy there’s ample time to just remember the world and indeed savor its sweetness if any (altho it’s always sweet to remember it in jail tho harder in prison, as Genêt shows) with the result that he’d not only come to a chastisement of his bashing bitternesses (and of course it’s always good to get away from alcohol and excessive smoking for two years) (and all that regular sleep) he was just like a kid again, but as I say that haunting kidlikeness I think all ex cons seem to have when they’ve just come out—In seeking to severely penalize criminals society by putting the criminals away behind safe walls actually provide them with the means of greater strength for future atrocities glorious and otherwise—“Well I’ll be damned” he keeps saying as he sees those bluffs and cliffs and hanging vines and dead trees, “you mean to tell me you ben alone here for three weeks, why I wouldnt dare that . . . must be awful at night . . . looka that old mule down there . . . man, dig the redwood country way back in . . . reminds me of old Colorady b’god when I used to steal a car every day and drive out to hills like this with a fresh little high school sumptin”—“Yum Yum,” says Dave Wain emphatically turning that big goofy look to us from his driving wheel with his big mad feverish shining eyes full of yumyum and yabyum too—“S’matter with you boys not making extensive plans to bring a bevy of schoolgirls down here to wile away our conversation pieces thar” says Cody real relaxed and talking sadly.
    Behind us the Monsanto jeepster follows doggedly—Passing thru Monterey Monsanto has already called Pat McLear, staying for the summer with wife and kid in Santa Cruz, McLear with his own jeepster is following us a few miles down the highway—It’s a big Big Sur day.
    We wheel downhill to cross the creek and at the corral fence I proudly get out to officially open the gate and let the cars through—We go bumping down the two-rutted lane to the cabin and park—My heart sinks to see the cabin.
    To see the cabin so sad and almost human waiting there for me as if forever, to hear my little neat gurgling creek resuming its song just for me, to see the very same bluejays still waiting in the tree for me and maybe mad at me now they see I’m back because I havent been there to lay out their Cheerios along the porch rail every blessed morning—And in fact first