A story that caught my eye on the wire recently led me to this photography exhibit, which I hope, hope hope to catch before it ends. Perhaps I’ll go on my four-day weekend, if I live to see it. I love Allen Ginsberg’s photos of the Beats – they capture the lust for Life that tore nonstop through their arteries and the magic that’s captured so many boyhood hearts. Every picture shows someone I want to hang out with, whether or not I recognize their faces or names.

The first time I saw any of Ginsberg’s photographs was in 1989 in Syracuse, N.Y., in a car tearing back to campus from the local airport. I was sitting in the back seat, freaking out. In the front passenger’s seat, flipping through a collection of old photographs, sat Allen Ginsberg, proclaiming “I love to take pictures, too!” just after I told him I did a lot of photography. “Here are some photos I’ve taken of my friends over the years … have a look.”

I was half captivated by the fact that I was hanging out with Allen Ginsberg, fellow poet, and half captivated by the photos and stories of Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs. My heroes – his friends. I appreciated Ginsberg’s poetic talents, and wish I had spent more time grilling him on them rather than just his adventures with the crazies. I also wish I hadn’t been so stressed about his penchant for young boys – I’ve never been freaked out by gay people, but with my long (at the time), curly locks and my baby face that definitely did not look 18, I was worried about an awkward come-on and let this prevent me from opening up and taking advantage of some moments alone.

A few of us on the entertainment board took Ginsberg out to dinner before his show, and I remember wanting to show him some of my poetry for guidance … but feeling afraid that he’d tired of that. I did get him talking about his technique a bit, and was surprised to hear him say that he does not believe in rewrites; he lets the verse flow from his soul to the paper and leaves it as it is. I rarely can leave words alone in their original incarnation.

The show was phenomenal; he recently had released the paperback of an anthology, and he read from poems all over the years. Even sang songs and told stories, including a very touching one about his dying father. The room was packed and the energy was strong. Afterward, a few of us went to a local pizza joint and I got Allen’s autograph and Buddhist drawing on a copy of his book for an old friend of mine. We talked a little more, but eventually his attention focused fully on some high school guys who had joined us.

Eight years later I saw Lawrence Ferlinghetti do a reading. Allen had died in the spring, and Ferlinghetti did a little tribute after Anne Waldman graced us with hers. Burroughs later died at the end of the summer.

The tribute was held at The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. Earlier in my life, I was sure I would end up there. It seemed the perfect fit, destiny. But like way too many plans it slipped through the cracks of time and I forgot about it … until I moved to Boulder the year Allen Ginsberg died. I found myself in the school’s hometown, about to visit its campus for a reading by Lawrence Ferlinghetti! Yet I never made any effort to attend. Maybe I got turned off by the trustafarians that populate the place (I swear to God, if I had been forced to endure one more fucking group drumming session …), or maybe I just chickened out.

I’m thankful I got to meet one of the Beats, and I think it’s fitting I met “the poet” of the bunch. Ever since my father gave me “On The Road” in high school I wanted to live my life in their spirit. Not follow in their footsteps or try to be them, but to celebrate that excited curiosity about experiencing everything and everyone and sucking in moments and experiences as if they were the world’s greatest drugs. You know, be one of the roman candles.

I accomplished this with little effort in high school and college, but it seems to become harder and harder as time goes by. Sadly, I don’t think it’s a natural aging thing – hell, look at Ferlinghetti. I haven’t written a poem in years; I don’t seek out mad people for adventures anymore; I stay at a job I don’t like because I’m good at it and am afraid I won’t be good at what I really want to do.

But I don’t give up. I keep fighting this fight inside my head because there’s still a piece of me that burns, burns, burns … and that burning keeps me alive. My father likes to say that only 10% of the people in this world are truly living and awake, and the rest are merely sleepwalking through existence.

I choose awake.