shrug
605 plays
7,133 views
7,133 views
Jack Kerouac : Now it's jazz, the place is roaring, all beautiful girls in there. One mad brunette at the bar drunk with her boys. One strange chick I remember from somewhere wearing a simple skirt with pockets, her hands in there, short haircut, slouched, talking to everyTAG NOT ALLOWED. Up and down the stairs they come, the bartenders and the regular band of Jack and the heavenly drummer who looks up in the sky with blue eyes, with the beard. He's wailing beer caps of bottles and jamming at the cash register and everything is going to the beat. It's the Beat Generation, it's "beàt", it's the beat-to-keep, it's the beat-of-the-heart, it's being beat and down in the world and like old-time low-down, and like in ancient civilizations the slave boatmen rowing galleys to a beat, and servants spinning pottery to a beat. The faces, there's no face to compare with Jack Mingus, who's up on the bandstand now with the colored trumpeter who outblows him wild and dizzy. But Jack's face overlooking all the heads and smoke, he has a face that looks like everyTAG NOT ALLOWED you've ever known and seen on the street in your time; sweet face, hard to describe, sad eyes, cruel lips, expectant gleam, swaying to the beat, tall, majestical. Waiting in front of the drug store, a face like Hunky's in New York. Hunky, whom you'll see on Times Square, somnolent and alert, sad, sweet, dark, holy. Just out of jail. Martyred. Tortured by sidewalks, starved for sex and companionship, open to anything, ready to introduce a new world with a shrug.All comments (2)
605 plays
7,133 views
7,133 views
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