He did it here. Those fingers to these keys. Fueled by whatever drink or need, he typed it all out. Rejected, rejected, rejected. Seven years of rejection, and then On The Road was published. Roaming and writing. The Beat Generation. Jack.
I haven't given all of that Jack Cassady stuff a proper try yet. A friend at work is all over that stuff. Still, whenever I get into that mood, I tend to go to Bukowski.
But I hardly go a week without listening to Kicks Joy Darkness: A Tribute to Jack Kerouac. On that, people ranging from Allen Ginsberg to Morphine to Matt Dillon to Steven Tyler read his works and play their songs in his honor.
Matt Dillon also narrates On The Road on a 10-disc set. Not available for checkout at my local library, so it's unlikely I'll hear it anytime soon.
Still -- that typewriter above. I love looking at it.
Like my blues music thoughts in the previous post, the tools around the art may have gotten better, but they don't necessarily improve the art. Laptops don't make better poems as ProTools doesn't make better songs. But I do love my laptop.
Still -- that typewriter above.
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