The Voice Is All Event

(Me & Joyce Johnson.  Yes, I am holding her hostage.)

When I was about 25 or 26 years old (back in 95-96) I somehow found myself reading a ton of Beat Generation books.  I was working in NYC at the time and commuting four hours a day at least so the amount of time I had to consume was phenomenal.  I'd devour books, underlining, memorizing, wearing the copies down...of any book, not just my Beats.   I was a sales rep for a small company in the music industry, and enjoyed a pretty flexible schedule.  I read tons.  I wrote tons.  I experienced - tons.  I met and fell in love with a man who would change my life in numerous ways to this day.  There was no shortage of Me time.  I remember napping at home sometimes, piles of books and clothes on my bed, Tori Amos playing in the background or some trip hop cd, electronica or new age.   The Beats became my favorite genre of the written word.  

I'd read some earlier in the 90's, but I'd have to say that this was the time where I truly tarred and feathered myself with their words.  I learned that - gasp!- women(!) were also part of the crowd!  I bought a book by Diane DiPrima - "Memoirs of a Beatnik", which I was entranced by.  I went further and bought a nice, hardcover book called "Women of the Beat Generation".   I pored over it on those train rides.  I lost touch eventually with those gals who experimented out of the norm so that by the time it got to me, it was normal.  Last year I decided to read "Door Wide Open" by Joyce Johnson - a collection of letters between Jack Kerouac and herself.  I loved it.  I felt like I leveled up a little.  My mind was more expansive for a moment in time again.  I looked her up on Google thinking that I would invite her on to our show, Scorpion Equinox.  Then I was curious to see how she looked.  How did a woman with those adventures, all that drinking, that fun - and to be chosen for while by Jack Kerouac...how did she age?  What does a Beat look like Later On?  Well, pretty typical I suppose.  She was in her early 70's.  What was I looking for?  Something edgy and wild?  

I did not find a contact in which to ask her on the show.  With more googling and thinking, I was able to find a phone number that I bet was hers.  I didn't use it.  It felt way too intrusive.  

Probably a year later or less, I checked my Amazon.com recommendations  because when one is not reading a book, one likes to read About potential books acquisitions.  There was a new book sitting right there, beautifully newborn - still on pre-order in fact, by Joyce Johnson called "The Voice is All".  I was so excited to see that she'd written another book!  

Upon my Google search I somehow found that she would be at the Strand in NYC (they boast 18 miles of books!) on September 26th.  Come hell or more hell or fifty shades of hell with Flip, I was going.  I had to.  How would I have taken the news at age 26 that I would meet Joyce Johnson, get an autograph, picture with her and possibly have her on my show?  But that it wouldn't happen for another sixteen years?  SIXTEEN!  That would seem so far away!  And then I'd feel the pressure of "What radio show?  How do I start it?  When is it supposed to happen?" and probably scare myself out of doing anything at all.

I haven't really gone into the city alone in a long time.  Back in my 20s, it was something that I did daily.  Even on weekends.  Now I'm a little more world weary and think that people have gotten more comfortable with expanding on their Inner Crazy in public.  My mother was terrified and made me promise to call her constantly.  I'm 42.  

So I set up my Humanling to be at the G of Maw's and started my trek.  First off, I bought so much food yesterday that you'd think I was anticipating that the impending bacon shortage meant that ALL food was in danger of being sparse.  On the way there, my tall bold with room, the cashews and croissant.  But before I left for the night, added would be two salted caramel cupcakes (which are both stuck to the lid of the container currently by the frosting), a cranberry orange muffin, potato chips and an everything bagel with cream cheese.  Most of that ended up coming home with me.  I crumbled up what was left of the chips today and put it in with my black beans.  Delish.  Don't scoff.  It's like croutons.

I had left that apology message for Flip earlier and now he was bombing my phone.  I had to turn the ringer way down.  A total of 25-ish calls.  Two or three of them while Joyce Johnson was right in front of me talking to the crowd on the 3rd floor of the Strand.  

So while waiting for her reading, I perused the Strand.  And I love their motto ~  Where Books Are Loved.  But before walking in, checked in with Mother.  "I'm here.  Looking right at the building that I need to be in.  Yep, right across the street from where I am.  No, there isn't anyone following me...."

I found myself super hungry once I was in the basement area.  I opened up a bag of popcorn (oh, I forgot to mention that I bought popcorn earlier) and trying not to use my fingers, tilted my head back and shook the bag.  I'm not too bad...only lost a kernel here and there.  On the fourth or so tilt, my eyes locked with the ceiling.  I would obsess about this for at least an hour.  The ceiling was so gross....I imagined that with my head back, it must be like licking it.  Like all the particles went into my mouth, even though the bag was in front of my mouth.  I experimented over and over again with head tilt in a cleaner aisle, then went back and looked at the ceiling to see the probability of anything actually breaking it's shackles and falling loose for the second that my mouth was open.  Eventually I gave up and decided to stop thinking about it because what was done was done.  

While I enjoyed wandering around this giant book haven, I found myself feeling sort of like I do in Marshalls or TJ Maxx at times.  Like there is too much. Too much to look through, I see there is an order to it but at the same time I can't find simple things that I am looking for.  Like the Wicca section.  I'm sure it was there.  I think the ADD in me got bored looking and wandered off leaving me to just be open to anything in front of my face.  I wanted everything.  And eventually left with nothing for me - well except my copy of "The Voice is All" which I had pre-ordered online.  And that was enough.

As soon as I heard the tiny man in the speakers announce that it was time to head upstairs, I happily pushed the elevator button.  Third floor please.  I felt rather important with my name on the "registration" list of having already purchased book and event ticket, JAH! (as my ex and I use to say teasing each other about enjoying things that we thought were a big spoof on the high life).  For a former wallflower, I sat front and center and must say that I did align myself quite well with wherever she would stand or sit.  

I caught my mind weaving in and out of things here and there.  Once in a while I'd catch my mind  doing that testing thing where it checks in on my strength.  "You're all alone on the 3rd floor of a bookstore.  What if the building gives way?  What if you suddenly realize how far from home base you are?"  Indescribable really but that's an idea.  And then the inner Zen fairy kicked in, "Hey.  What the Eff?  Joyce Johnson.  Look ahead, hang on the words.  It's now only."  ZF won.  

Joyce came in wearing her cardigan on inside out.  I don't know if anyone else noticed but the tag nearly had a band playing.  

She spoke of Jack and of how the Library (forget which one....whatever was housing his documents, drafts, diaries, etc) finally allowed his things to have outside eyes set upon them.  She wrote her book basically about his life and about the miracle breakthroughs that he had on the way to On The Road.  Her story, over 400 pages, ends in 1951, predating her relationship with him.  Apparently, Jack had written On the Road many times, only in different forms.  She shot holes in the myth of the No Revision rule I'd so often quoted and lived by in my earlier 20's. As I got older, I started writing knowing that I couldn't write it perfect the first time, every time, so would expect a revision here and there.  

She spoke of his brother who had passed away when he was about four.  About his supposed Franco-American roots and how he felt like an outsider here in America.  His family was from Canada, and apparently people in New England treated the French like crap covered crap.  Joyce spoke of the different dialects of the French language and the oasis that it seems his mother created for him.  Then the Q & A where people brought up conclusions they drew and Proust.  I felt my IQ drain a tiny bit out of my left ear.  

Joyce was gracious enough to sign two of my books (I'd brought Door Wide Open with me) and a piece of paper for my mother (who decided last minute that she wanted an autograph).  ANNNNNDDDD I asked for a photo with her.  THEN I gave her the radio show business card to which she said she would be "delighted" to do an interview with us.  But we'll see if I hear from her.  I think I hogged too much of her for being only third or fourth in line.

Afterward, I desperately searched for a book for my mother, who wanted a souvenir.  I finally settled on "Song of Brooklyn" since it was full of stories from way past and then some.  For my Humanling, a Monster High book.  She's thanked me at least three times for it.  

The ride home was nice....I was starving.  I ate half of an everything bagel with 200 lbs of whipped cream cheese on it.  I read the beginning to "The Voice is All" and just enjoyed.