In my life I can remember at least two literary awakenings. The first was my exposure to Lord of the Rings. I remember my mother got a set from a friend of hers for me one summer. The three books and cardboard sleeve that held them was at least 10 years old. The pages all had that tattered smell us bibliophiles love to breathe oh so deep. I disappeared in the fantasy.
But that has nothing to do with this project.
The second awakening was the summer of 1992 on the beach at Long Beach Island when I was first introduced to the spontaneous prosody of Jack Kerouac. Throughout the previous year or so my curiosity had been bombarded with the hype of hipness by a long time comrade and fellow writer. As my boredom was reaching its zenith with the rhythmic lulls of the ocean and unminded children, it…
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