Restriction.  Sometimes I feel that in my life.  There are seemingly 
so many can't-do-this's and oughtn't-do-that's pasted onto daily life.  I 
can't just one day go and rescind my past, my friends, my family, and try a 
totally new lifestyle, then wipe the slate clean again and have another go-
round, and another, etc.  We get the ol' Tabula Rasa once, for sure, but
 then, ça y est.  There's just not enough flexibility and time to do 
everything I would possible want to do in my lifetime.  Grrr... lifetime.  
Fictional characters, on the other hand, get all the good stuff.  They're 
lucky.  They can do whatever they want - try a dozen different careers, 
jump off burning buildings, establish and destroy relationships at whim; 
generally, they have nearly absolute freedom (save for pre-established 
rules of plausibility in fiction writing, but, really, rules schmules...).  But, 
eh, we human beings, those of us cemented to the tarmac of "reality", at 
least have imaginations.

	My eyes glaze over and rest upon the pages of the book I'm 
reading; not the words, just the slightly eggie-colored pages, the scratchy 
parchment.  No longer do words or meaning flow into my head; the mental 
gears are no longer oiled on "literature" and "book" - they've long since 
slipped over to careless, free-form imagination.  I've been reading 
"Dharma Bums."  Jack Kerouac.  Nice stuff - great dialogue, character 
development, down-to-earth.  I've been thinking about my life, as I often 
do, while I've been reading about the narrator and his friend, Japhy Ryder.  
Japhy Ryder - fun name.  I've been thinking - What am I doing here?  
Just reading books and sitting in my bedroom, with excitement being a 
move to the living room.  I'm concerned with achieving a "high standard 
of living," with nurturing my current friendships, with exploring our 
fantastic world in all possible ways.  Yet, how is sitting in a room with a 
book going to solve, answer, even address any of these issues.  Now this 

---

16 Renford Road (three)
Page 24