This is the cold hard truth I've only recently become fully aware of. Before, I'd just blame it on coincidence. But coincidence can hardly explain how and why, despite my European background, my (sometimes obsessive) love for some parts of Europe, I'm still the kid of American culture. Which, by the way, I never experienced directly.
I grew up with Jack Kerouac, fantasizing about the endless road and its possibilities, about the magic of light travelling and light thoughts, with Richard Brautigan, Kurt Vonnegut, Tim Leary and his Politics of Ecstasy, discovered poetry thanks to Pound, William Carlos Williams, Allen Ginsberg and e.e.cummings. For about two years, I've lived with a strange nostalgia of Max Yasgur's farm and those three days of peace and music. Later on, the feeling transfered to CBGB & the good life provided by punk. Rrrrright... a radical twist. But hey, that's part of the growing up process :) I've dreamed about having my very own pick-up truck, pictured myself as a retro-housewife - yeah, that was me being delusional, but I still think the '50s rock (and roll), I even started mixing apple pie and ice cream because of Kerouac. My heroes: James Dean, the Marlboro guy, Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, Andy Warhol. The places to be: Route 66, New York, Chelsea Hotel. Is there any need to mention South Park, again? I suspect that my somewhat sick attraction towards crappy, insalubrious motels is also American. I've outgrown some of the influences. I've adapted others, reshaped them, and accepted them as part of my present life. Others suffered no change. But no matter what happened to them throughout the years, they're still here. All of them. And I have a feeling some of them are here to stay.
p.s. Managed to keep a safe distance from fast foods, Coca Cola and (partly) Hollywood. Does this make my American dream less dreamful?
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