September 10, 2000

Upon starting my term here as the writer-in-residence, I’ve received many letters and e-mails from people telling me how Jack Kerouac inspired them.  From spontaneous road trips to a newfound sense of patriotism, people all over have felt his influence in one way or another.  One guy even traveled to Lowell, Massachusetts (Kerouac’s hometown) and had dinner with Jack’s priest, Father Spike.  I feel honored to live in the presence of Kerouac here at the home on Clouser Avenue.  There is an energy here, both in the house itself and the Orlando community, that easily makes writing part of everyday functioning.

So I’ve begun to explore the city for inspiration.  On Friday, I went to the Mennello Museum of American Folk Art.  It was hard to believe these artists were not formally trained.  The permanent collection consists of paintings by Earl Cunningham.  They are extraordinary works of art.  Although born in Maine, he eventually settled in St. Augustine, FL.  His work is described as “historical-fantasy”, but I think that title hardly does justice to the beautiful images he created.  He painted over 450 pieces before he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound in 1977.  I was so interested in his work that I decided to write about it in a poem.  I hope it does some justice to what I found to be a very engaging contrast between the world of his paintings and the world he lived in. This Thursday, I will be attending the Steve Allen & David Amram concert benefitting the Kerouac Project.  I am very excited and am certain to have interesting stories to tell in the next journal entry.

Until then, keep writing!
Erin

As Painted by Earl Cunningham

A sign on your door
read:

NOT FOR SALE,

referring to your paintings,
but maybe
something else,
something in
a shade of blue deeper
than cerulean,
something discernible
in the unevenness
of your waves—

an America deemed
perfect in the detail
of a brush,
a land made beautiful
in the reflections
of schooners and Viking ships,
a place made foreign
in your present tense

and now on the museum walls
that bear the name
of an old man and his sea
parted
by the barrel of a gun
and a mind storming
over the sedated landscapes
of  a time when angels
navigated.