Kerouac
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22 creative works found
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corner of mission and 2nd street, san francisco, holga madness. / kodak tri-x turns out this is just up the road from the new RB office, but I didn’t know that when I took it. (having only been to the US thrice i still find steam rising from the vents in the street most evocative, the locals probably find it annoying)
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from my series of Beat themed designs
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chairs, lots of chairs, pretty colours. / tel aviv, by the beach. holga, kodak, cross pro blahblahblah
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tel aviv beach front. / the strange mark on the right is this super cool filter i found in ps you click this thing and move this slider and.. no it isn’t i didn’t wind the film on properly holga / kodak e100g cross processed
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my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them
by onetonshadowUS$3.99–US$91.20
The fine art deco, and overpriced cafe situated next to the Golden Gate Bridge. / Medium Format Holga Madness / Kodak E100G / Cross Processed
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The Beat Generation is a term used to describe both a group of American writers who came to prominence in the late 1950s and early 1960s, and the cultural phenomena that they wrote about and inspired (later sometimes called beatniks though this is considered by many to be a pejorative term). The major works of Beat writing are Allen Ginsberg’s Howl (1956), William S. Burroughs’s Naked Lunch (1959) and Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (1957)[1]. Both Howl and Naked Lunch were the focus of obscenity trials that ultimately helped to liberalize what could be published in the United States. On the Road transformed Kerouac’s friend Neal Cassady into a youth-culture hero. The members of the Beat Generation quickly developed a reputation as new bohemian hedonists, who celebrated non-conformity and spontaneous creativity.
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Inspired by Jack Kerouac – The Road “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom…”
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one for all the budding writers. and even the ones that are good.
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This poster is part of my ‘Writing Without Words’ project, a project where I attempted to visualise writing styles in literature. I chose to focus most of my visualisations on the novel On the Road, by Jack Kerouac. Here, the structure of Part One of On the Road is mapped out: Part One splits into chapters, chapters into paragraphs, paragraphs into sentences, and sentences into words. This creates a detailed, tree-like structure showing the relationship of all the various components of the novel to each other. Colours chosen from 1940s car paint swatches were used to mark various key themes (Parties, Sal Paradise, Dean Moriarty, Women, and so on) found within the novel. NOTE: this is only meant to be printed at A0 size. Print any smaller at your peril.
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Vesuvio’s is a famous bar in the North Beach area of San Francisco. Many famous beatniks, rock stars and avante garde renegade artisans hung out here. Most famous for being the subject of the 1st Chapter of Jack Kerouac’s novel, Big Sur, where infamously got raging drunk and passed out in the basement after vowing to slip into SF un-noticed.
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Kerouac is a gorgeous almost 17yo moggie…his mum was Siamese and his dad…well someone called Tom I think LOL. Kerouac has a white love heart on his belly. he is a sweet gentle old fella with his hearing and eyesight starting to go and the rheum-tis setting in…but I love him dearly.
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Wandering Fort Lauderdale… / Peering down tracks… / Wondering about / What he wrote about… Jack Kerouac, right? You know what I’m sayin’ here? — I wonder about that stuff… here . / - / . / / .
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KEROUAC
by SANCHEZISDEADlovely lovely post!!! please take a look / tks to Kenny King for post it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IU0yHycuz0
lovely lovely post!!! please take a look / tks to Kenny King for post it http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IU0yHycuz0
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Back track Jack Kerouac
by montdragonJack Kerouac beatnik bebop hip-hop
Poet’s writers and musicians’ et al have written ideas and thoughts some with the eloquence that will last for the ages and some just plain old doggerel, takeout words to go, barking nifty bow wows while you whistle or meditate the meanings….but when you hear or read “All the world is a stage” it still rings true for him and us when Shakespeare speaks…..or other men and women literally speaking with the written word. Me I just bow wow and forget to punctuate and I am a living non sequitur.
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Extracts from my reading VIII
by nancyames22. / John Keel, “The Eighth Tower”, 1976 The extradimensional world is not a place where trees grow and politicians steal. It is a sta…
22. / John Keel, “The Eighth Tower”, 1976 The extradimensional world is not a place where trees grow and politicians steal. It is a state of energy. All kinds of information about our trivial reality are stored in the energy field through a system of particles or units of energy in a negative or positive state, just as our brains store information by opening and closing billions of nerve-switches called synapses. The field is like a massive radio wave and certain human brains have the ability to tune into it. Some of these brains are adjusted to the frequency of the bank of future data. So they receive glimpses of the future in sudden thoughts, visions (images in the conscious mind), dreams (images in the unconscious mind), or a combination of all three. Since the superspectrum is outside our time frame, its system for measuring time is different from ours and few humans with precognition are able to unscramble the time cycle of future events. / —-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—- 23. / Carlos Castaneda, “Magical Passes’, 1998 “How is it possible, don Juan,” I said, “that you could be younger than I?” “I have vanquished my mind,” he said, opening his eyes wide to denote bewilderment. “I don’t have a mind to tell me that it is time to be old. I don’t honor agreements in which I didn’t participate. Remember this. It is not just a slogan for sorcerers to say that they do not honor agreements in which they did not participate, To be plagued by old age is one such agreement.” / —-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—- 24. / Jack Kerouac, “On The Road”, 1957 ... I decided to leave. I went out on the porch. “No, dammit,” I said to myself, “I promised I wouldn’t leave until I climbed that mountain.” That was the big side of the canyon that led mysteriously to the Pacific Ocean. So I stayed another day. It was Sunday. A great heat wave descended; it was a beautiful day, the sun turned red at three. I started up the mountain and got to the top at four. All the lovely California cottonwoods and eucalypti brooded on all sides. Near the peak there were no more trees, just rocks and grass. Cattle were grazing on the top of the coast. There was the Pacific, a few more foothills away, blue and vast and with a great wall of white advancing from the legendary potato patch where Frisco fogs are born. Another hour and it would come streaming through the Golden Gate to shroud the romantic city in white, and a young man would hold his girl by the hand and climb slowly up a long white sidewalk with a bottle of Tokay in his pocket. That was Frisco; and beautiful women standing in white doorways, waiting for their men; and Coit Tower and the Embarcadero, and Market Street, and the eleven teeming hills. I spun around till I was dizzy; I thought I’d fall down as in a dream, clear off the precipice. Oh where is the girl I love? I thought and looked everywhere in the world below. And before me was the great raw bulge and bulk of my American continent; somewhere far across, gloomy, crazy New York was throwing up its cloud of dust and brown steam. There is something brown and holy about the East; and California is white like washlines and enptyheaded – at least that’s what I thought then. / —-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-
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