In Jack Kerouac’s Desolation Angels, he talks about a girl he met in New York.
That night I called a cab to take me to the bus station and downed half a bottle of Jack Daniels while waiting, sitting on a kitchen stool sketching the pretty older daughter who was on her way to Sarah Lawrence college to learn all about Erich Fromm in the pots and pans. I gave her the sketch, rather accurate, thinking she’d keep it forever like Raphael’s Michelangelo. But when we were both back in New York a month later a big package came containing all our paintings and sketches and stray T-shirts, with no explanation, meaning ‘Thank God you’ve gone.’
What a powerful message to send: I want no memory of you in my life.
If only it were truly that simple.
