Showing posts with label Jack Kerouac. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jack Kerouac. Show all posts
Thursday, October 30, 2025
Monday, May 20, 2024
PULL MY DAISY (1959) ~
Jack Kerouac provided improvised narration. It features poets Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovsky and Gregory Corso, artists Larry Rivers and Alice Neel, musician David Amram, art dealer Richard Bellamy, Delphine Seyrig, dancer[3] Sally Gross, and Pablo Frank, Robert Frank's son.
Monday, September 5, 2022
Saturday, March 12, 2022
JACK KEROUAC AT 100 ~
Don't use the telephone.
People are never ready to answer it.
Use poetry.
People are never ready to answer it.
Use poetry.
––Jack Kerouac
from Scattered Poems
photograph by
Allen Ginsberg, 1957
Saturday, January 16, 2021
RE-READING KEROUAC AT THE "WILD BOAR" ~
An uneven (it's strength) collection of essays, memoir,
poetry, photographs compiled by
librarian and Jack Kerouac climbing partner
(with Gary Snyder) John Montgomery
from The Dharma Bums, a rightfully so
ragtag membership of Kerouac
friends and scholars come forth, be it
David Amram, Ann Charters, Joy Walsh,
Gerald Nicosia, Michael McClure.
More more and more.
Seymour Wyse shows his skills
balancing Beat and jazz.
From Montgomery's own press
Fels & Firn, 1986
[ BA ]
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Saturday, September 14, 2019
Friday, September 13, 2019
Thursday, September 12, 2019
Saturday, April 7, 2018
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Friday, December 1, 2017
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Friday, January 20, 2017
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
THE UNKNOWN KEROUAC ~
The Library of America 2016
"More than a rock in my belly, I have a waterfall in my brain;
a rose in my eye, a beautiful eye; and what's in my heart but a
mountainside, and what's in my skull; a light. And in my throat
a bird. And I have in my soul, in my arm, in my mind, in my
blood, in my bean a grindstone of plaints which grinds rock
into water, and the water is warmed by fires, and sweetened by
elixirs, and becomes the pool of contemplation of the dearness
of life. In my mind I cry. In my heart I think. In my eye I love.
In my breast I see. In my soul I become. In my shroud I will
die. In my grave I will change."
J A C K K E R O U A C
1950 "Private Philologies"
a rose in my eye, a beautiful eye; and what's in my heart but a
mountainside, and what's in my skull; a light. And in my throat
a bird. And I have in my soul, in my arm, in my mind, in my
blood, in my bean a grindstone of plaints which grinds rock
into water, and the water is warmed by fires, and sweetened by
elixirs, and becomes the pool of contemplation of the dearness
of life. In my mind I cry. In my heart I think. In my eye I love.
In my breast I see. In my soul I become. In my shroud I will
die. In my grave I will change."
J A C K K E R O U A C
1950 "Private Philologies"
Thursday, March 12, 2015
SWEET JACK ~
'Adieu, sweet Jack, the air of life is
permeated with roses all the time.'
Jack Kerouac
from Visions of Cody
Jack Kerouac ~ Alec Finlay
MORNING STAR PUBLICATIONS
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
THE LONELY VICTORY OF JACK KEROUAC ~
Jack Kerouac
The Voice Is All
by Joyce Johnson
Viking 2012
Look at that face — the rough and the gentle — and for the very first time, at the hands of a woman, we may have the finest biography of Jack Kerouac.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Sunday, March 17, 2013
DREAM RIDER ~
THE MOST INCREDIBLE BEAT DREAM in the world, it's near St. Rita's church, on that street from Moody, but as my mother and sister Nin and I are traveling up Mammoth Road on some kind of train a woman rushes up shouting "I want to see Dinah Shore!" — She, Dinah, lives right up the street, right at the location of that grammar school — in a house — she has a "canary yellow" jeepster or convertible, which I point out to the lady saying, "That'll be her house there, Olivia DeHaviland has a canary yellow car" — (confusing the names) — My mother and sister accompany the woman: but I stay behind in a kind of suddenly transplaced Sarah Avenue house, it's Sunday, I'm the 30 year old beat brother and loafer of the family — "Dinah Shore" is standing in front of her house, and, seeing that I had directed the woman autograph hound to her she says, bleakly looking at me in an "official" or "Hollywood courteous" way — Wont you come in with us?" (for a bleary visit) —
"Oh no — I'm busy — " but, they can see that I'm yielding and in my head I've started calculating advantages I can get from knowing "Olivia de Haviland" — So I gave in, but in such a beat obvious way, and we go on in —
"I'm a novelist," I announce forthwith," you should read my book," I say to the hostess — "Your husband is a writer too — a very great writer, Marcus Goodrich." Then the persistentifiction I have that Dinah Shore is really Olivia de Haviland has to break down here and I say "Oh well, of course, yes, you're Dinah Shore, I keep thinking you're Olivia de Haviland" — but this is so gauche — and I havent shaved and stand there in her parlor, she is bleakly attentive, I'm like a thinner younger Major Hoople who really had a small taste of early success but then lost it and came home to live off his mother and sister but goes on "writing" and acting like an "author" — on the little street — But now, my sister sees that I am botching everything so she steps in and in an even more beat awful gauche way begins to try to impress Dinah with a kind of halting Canuck-English speech (attempts at 'social smartness') (and really painful to hear) goes into some speech about how this and that, and so on, to show how really chic she's been at one time, we've been, our really more elegant real backgrounds than what shows (and in spite of this pitiful brother, and she's spoken up really to cover me up and also cut me, as she has her own ideas about how to impress people like Dinah Shore) to which Dinah listens even more bleakly — and my mother standing by like the original lady who wanted an autograph — it ends on this bleak beat note . . .with me all anxious and chewing my nails —the comic opera of our real days —
I'm also a neighborhood self-styled roue' ready to make all the housewives but they don't really want any part of me, except a few of the older ones who want to have something on my mother —
Dinah Shore entertains US troops at a show in France, Aug 1944
THE MOST INCREDIBLE BEAT DREAM in the world, it's near St. Rita's church, on that street from Moody, but as my mother and sister Nin and I are traveling up Mammoth Road on some kind of train a woman rushes up shouting "I want to see Dinah Shore!" — She, Dinah, lives right up the street, right at the location of that grammar school — in a house — she has a "canary yellow" jeepster or convertible, which I point out to the lady saying, "That'll be her house there, Olivia DeHaviland has a canary yellow car" — (confusing the names) — My mother and sister accompany the woman: but I stay behind in a kind of suddenly transplaced Sarah Avenue house, it's Sunday, I'm the 30 year old beat brother and loafer of the family — "Dinah Shore" is standing in front of her house, and, seeing that I had directed the woman autograph hound to her she says, bleakly looking at me in an "official" or "Hollywood courteous" way — Wont you come in with us?" (for a bleary visit) —
"Oh no — I'm busy — " but, they can see that I'm yielding and in my head I've started calculating advantages I can get from knowing "Olivia de Haviland" — So I gave in, but in such a beat obvious way, and we go on in —
"I'm a novelist," I announce forthwith," you should read my book," I say to the hostess — "Your husband is a writer too — a very great writer, Marcus Goodrich." Then the persistentifiction I have that Dinah Shore is really Olivia de Haviland has to break down here and I say "Oh well, of course, yes, you're Dinah Shore, I keep thinking you're Olivia de Haviland" — but this is so gauche — and I havent shaved and stand there in her parlor, she is bleakly attentive, I'm like a thinner younger Major Hoople who really had a small taste of early success but then lost it and came home to live off his mother and sister but goes on "writing" and acting like an "author" — on the little street — But now, my sister sees that I am botching everything so she steps in and in an even more beat awful gauche way begins to try to impress Dinah with a kind of halting Canuck-English speech (attempts at 'social smartness') (and really painful to hear) goes into some speech about how this and that, and so on, to show how really chic she's been at one time, we've been, our really more elegant real backgrounds than what shows (and in spite of this pitiful brother, and she's spoken up really to cover me up and also cut me, as she has her own ideas about how to impress people like Dinah Shore) to which Dinah listens even more bleakly — and my mother standing by like the original lady who wanted an autograph — it ends on this bleak beat note . . .with me all anxious and chewing my nails —the comic opera of our real days —
I'm also a neighborhood self-styled roue' ready to make all the housewives but they don't really want any part of me, except a few of the older ones who want to have something on my mother —
____________________
JACK KEROUAC
Book of Dreams
(unabridged edition)
City Lights 2001
Dinah Shore entertains US troops at a show in France, Aug 1944
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