I've taken to reading Kerouac again, his words the gift of a much needed rain and the loss of communication with the outside world. I've always loved the following passage. It is as if Jack found some small sweet appeal to limbo and in his way told us to be on the lookout for strange red afternoons.
I woke up as the sun was reddening and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was - I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that's why it happened right there and then, that strange red afternoon.
On the Road, Jack Kerouac
Today I am grateful for writers and how the really great ones can get us out of our own head to show us where we are.