Before Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and Neal Cassady became iconic figures of the Beat generation, they were friends who partied and traveled together, heading off to follow whatever had recently captured their imagination and spirit. When Cassady came out to San Francisco, shortly followed by Kerouac and Ginsberg, he wasn't after the café culture and thriving arts community of North Beach, as some may think. He was following Carolyn Robinson — soon to be Carolyn Cassady. An outstanding artist in her own right, Carolyn became the calm center of the Kerouac-Cassady storm, raising a family and attempting to keep a somewhat normal household during the era Kerouac later dramatized in his classic, On the Road.

The night you stole your father’s car
you played Russian roulette with Carolyn Robinson
you did not realize it was she
as you dodged oncoming traffic
directing the car like a misfired missile
through the suburban landscape
laughing like a hyena
amused at no one

you picked her up off the side of the road
and she sank into the passenger seat, crossed her chest
and prayed against your hand to the clutch
with your photographic eyes
nailed to some deep state of exemption
Carolyn begged you to drop the revolver
so you brought your foot to the floor
and sped faster

you flew over the mahogany landscape
as though this was the only entrance to Mexico
you risked more lives than two
hair burning of someone else's poetry
the desert sky
thick and sweet
swallowing your neck
fueling your addiction
backing Carolyn into a corner
as she braced herself
then turned the other cheek

late at night she would fantasize
things would change
when you slid your weight upon the coffin lid
she jimmied it open with a crowbar
when you brought your tires onto the curb
she pushed the wheel toward the median
her face red hot
she needed no reminders of your insanity
but you gave them to her anyway

and when you dropped her
and the child
and continued your slow descent to hell
she breathed into the night
taking on the black residue
as it settled upon her skin
she watched taillights flicker in the distance
and waited for sleep
as the end to her misery.

If you believe in peace, act peacefully; if you believe in love, acting lovingly; if you believe every which way, then act every which way, that's perfectly valid— but don't go out trying to sell your beliefs to the system. You end up contradicting what you profess to believe in, and you set a bum example. If you want to change the world, change yourself.

- Tom Robbins

In seventh grade I was told I needed glasses. Four months later I received braces. Despite pleading with my mother not to take me to the orthodontist, I was held under a bright light while the dentist glued pieces of metal onto my yellow teeth. At 13 years old, I was 15 pounds overweight; I had pale skin and bright red hair. In my primary days, I had been a skinny, optimistic and popular child. By the time I reached seventh grade I was depressed and utterly self-conscious. I had no control over what was happening to my body. I was hungry all of the time, hormonal, and keenly aware of my own sexuality. I was confused. As my body transformed, so did my self-esteem. I measured myself against who was attractive and who was not. I remember telling myself at 13 that I would need to develop my intellect because my looks were not going to get me anywhere in life. I believed I was an ugly child. I was a teenager with braces, glasses, and a bad haircut; an adolescent desperate for an escape route.

We were told ask questions and belittled when we did,
we were told to make choices on the conveyor belt,
we were told to participate then chided for clever operations,
dummy up we were told to touch the sky
as they constructed glass ceilings
over our curiosity
we called them our teachers.