Long before our society’s obsession with The Go Go’s “You’ve Got the Beat” or Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” a group of American writers started the literary movement after World War II known as The Beat Generation. Weary of the proliferating materialism after WWII and desiring to shed the prudent behaviors of their parents’ generation and the conformist ideals of the McCarthy Era, The Beat Generation pushed the limits of society’s standards by openly depicting experimentation with drugs, sexual exploration, and raw human conditions. So in a city known for pushing the standards, it is no surprise that we can find remnants of three well-known authors of The Beat Generation - Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and Neal Cassady - scattered across the streets of Denver, Colorado.
I decided to begin my journey into The Beat Generation’s existence within the streets of downtown Denver at a bookstore located in the belly of the Denver Dry Goods Company building where Jack Kerouac, King of the Beat Generation, signed copies of On the Road, the novel that lead to his notoriety. Although nowadays this downtown area is the heart of the famous 16th Street Mall – a compilation of trendy stores and restaurants - as I approached, excitement energized my steps as I closed in on the still-standing old brick building. Although the occupants of the top floors of the building remained a mystery, the city had converted the street level offices into some of these trendy shops and eateries. That’s okay I thought; the bookstore was in the basement. One of the doors led to a Visitors’ Information desk. I walked in and asked the older gentleman for directions to get to the basement bookstore. He stared at me in bewilderment. He declared that he’d worked there since the 1960s and never knew of a bookstore in the basement. Disappointed I started to walk away, but he called out that if I wanted a bookstore I could visit the famous Tattered Cover bookstore just down the street towards the end of the mall. Feeling deflated since my first stop had ended in failure, I decided that maybe I should really work backwards, start by buying one of Kerouac’s books at this modern day bookstore and then feeling revitalized continue my search. So I stepped into the overheated space crammed with books in every direction and asked the reference clerk for assistance. She too looked at me in bewilderment but eventually she unenthusiastically pointed me in the general direction of the fiction shelves. I was on my own. Scanning the ABC’s in my mind, I searched for books with authors starting with “K. Small section. An even smaller section for the Jack Kerouac that I had so enthusiastically started my day researching. Crammed in with the other “K” authors stood three of his books - none proudly displayed nor in special print and all way over-priced. For a second the temptation to simply order his book on Amazon for a fraction of the price crossed my mind, but I decided that purchasing it from this Denver icon had a price tag of sentimentality with it so I plucked an unadorned copy of On the Road from the shelves, paid the exorbitant price and rushed out the door to inhale a deep lungful of blessedly fresh and cool air. While on the shuttle back to my car, I thumbed through the pages of his text. Yep, his writing really existed. I even took a quick whiff of the pages (yes the heavily tattooed man sitting across from me rocking out to his music raised his brows – as if he should judge!). With a bit of success under my belt, I referenced my list of “Beat Generation Stops” and spied one that met my two new requirements: 1) the city had not demolished or built over it – after all I had already stood on a sidewalk between 21st Street and Larimer Street where Kerouac used to socialize with the city’s homeless on skid row, and stood in front of the building on the corner of 27th Street and Welton Street where Kerouac used to listen to the expressive and soulful jazz music. I didn’t want to simply stand on a sidewalk where Kerouac had once stood, which led me to my second requirement for my next Beat Generation Stop – it had to inspire one of the Beat Generation writers. With this in mind, I drove to 980 Grant Street and illegally paralleled park in front of a tall dilapidated brick building called the Colburn Hotel. I didn’t go in. I assumed that if security existed we’d return to the looks of bewilderment I had encountered earlier. So, not wanting to regress, I sat in my rental car staring up at the window on the third floor. It was here that Allen Ginsberg, one of the original core members of The Beat Generation that had formed back at Columbia University, came to visit Neal Cassady for the summer. Neal Cassady became a member of the Beat Generation during a visit to Columbia, and although he asked Jack Kerouac to teach him to write because he wanted to escape the confines of the poverty-stricken streets of Denver where he had grown up, he became more renowned as Kerouac’s muse, for several of Kerouac’s characters in his books truly represent Cassady. While visiting Cassady and feeling the pressures of life, Ginsberg wrote the poem “Denver Doldrums,” which every person who has ever experienced a period of poverty and bad luck can relate to its realistic portrayal of poverty and its audacity to question our perseverance through life’s challenges. It is also here, gazing out that third floor window (the same one that I too now gazed at) at construction taking place across the way, that Ginsberg wrote his most mature and sexually charged poem “The Bricklayer’s Lunch Hour.” Although written in prose, or maybe because of its prose, after reading the poem, one can sense his longing in his attention to the details of the bricklayer. It’s quite humbling to understand that such a base location can be the inspiration for such works of art. Feeling strangely at peace, a little hungry, and anxious that I would get a ticket because of my parking job, I drove to my last Beat Generation destination for the day - 2376 15th Street. Nestled on the corner right behind the biggest R.E.I. store I’ve ever seen, stands the longest operating saloon in Denver, “My Brother’s Bar,” in an old brick building with wooden shutters engraved with a golden letter B (which instantly brought forth a smile as I thought how that initial connected me to these writers on some deeper mysterious level). I sat down at the bar where a young slightly over-friendly bartender took my order (a paper-wrapped burger dripping with jalapeno cream cheese sauce and all the trimmings nestled in a convenient compartmentalized tray). As I sat and listened to this young girl spill out the woes of her non-existent love life (the boy she loves apparently only wanted to be friends- ouch), and the regulars gently tease her, I could even feel the sense of community polished in the deep grains of the wood bar, and again I felt that overwhelming presence of peace. This was the bar Kerouac and Cassady had frequented back in their day. I could imagine each one sitting at this bar listening to the woes from a not-so-different bartender yet feeling like he belonged. Willing to release their own woes to the strangers, yet non-strangers. And this bar continued to stand in this downtown community and embrace the notoriety of their beloved group of authors. The bartender didn’t look at me in bewilderment when I asked about the letter that was supposedly hanging on a wall somewhere from Neal Cassady while he was in jail to Jack appealing to him to pay his bar bill. She handed me a souvenir copy of the letter and then simply pointed to the back corner. As I maneuvered through the warm dining room and around the other patrons enjoying their lunch, reality hit. Yes the letter was there, hanging on the wall… but crammed between the restrooms. Surely this was not where he would have wanted to be remembered. Surely he deserved better wall placement. Maybe front and center over the bar. Maybe an entire wall in the main dining room, or even in the second dining room. But between the crappers? Really? I left with an overwhelming sense of disappointment – and a full tummy. As far as I could tell, Denver could make a lot of improvements in honouring this cluster of writers known as The Beat Generation, especially since their fight for freedom of speech in literature has so greatly influenced today’s writers. Several websites exist with different “Beat Stops” to check out, and each time I return, I’ll visit a few more, but I could not find one site that compiled them all… That will be my new goal each time I visit Denver… create a comprehensive “Beat Stop Treasure Hunt”! Wishfully thinking, maybe the city will even create a red line to follow around the city like Boston did for their tourists and they can wear headphones that blasts “We’ve Got the Beat” and “Beat It” as they walk between stops!
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Let the fun begin! This is my first official post on “Bee’s Tales at the Literary Hive.” To begin my adventures I headed to Denver, Colorado. Why Denver? My husband’s work required his presence here so I tagged along, and I have to get my feet wet somewhere, and Denver welcomes everyone! Now people know Denver for many attractions – the great outdoors, football, universities, breweries, marijuana – but not many know about its literary significance. Back in the day, the Beat authors called Denver home. And nowadays, Clive Cussler also calls this area home. But I’ll come back to these famous literary experts next time. I wanted to first pay homage to someone who lived in this area long ago… during the late 1800 and early 1900s. She was not a literary powerhouse; she never wrote a novel nor published a poem, but she fought for women’s rights, for worker’s rights. She had a passion for travel and adventure. This woman is Margaret Brown. Most of us know her as the “Unsinkable Molly Brown” because she survived the Titanic tragedy, but really her prior life experiences drove her to survive that experience. So it is with this thought that I sat on the wooden porch swing waiting for my tour of her historic home in what is now downtown Denver. As the tour began, the grandeur of her new wealth overwhelmed me as I stepped into her foyer. The walls are lined with gold hued embossed paper, a lit chandelier hangs above, a stylish radio plays, and statues from faraway places greet you. Back in the day, if Margaret or her husband, J.J. Brown, accepted your arrival at their house, they’d invite you into their formal sitting room. In here, children were not allowed, and provocative conversations were not allowed. This was a room for proper society. And Margaret understood the need to impress that society. She understood the benefits their influence could provide. This was why she even draped a shawl over the small European statues’ exposed breasts as to not offend these prudish house guests. If your interests took on a more controversial tone, Margaret would invite you upstairs to her personal drawing room. And as I grasped the exquisitely carved golden oak banister and felt the sun seep through the colorful stained-glass windows, I too could imagine Margaret Brown beckoning me upstairs, encouraging me to join her fight for women’s and worker’s rights. In this room, the real conversations took place. She had a strong moral compass and refused to allow society’s expectations to stop her from voicing her concerns about workers, about women, about children, even about animals. She researched, joined and organized committees, and campaigned to do what was right. Most women during that time period resolutely obeyed their husbands. Not Margaret. When her opinions differed from his – he argued the need for his miners to continue to work regardless of bad conditions, and she fought to improve those conditions – instead of acquiescing, they separated. And as an independent woman, she continued her fight for our rights, understanding that money oftentimes produced results, so she flounced her wealth in front of all the right people, which brings me back to the grandeur of her foyer. I immediately understood that Margaret Brown was a force to be reckoned with; she had power both literally – she had electricity and indoor plumbing in her home which left others in awe, and figuratively – as an experienced traveler she planned ahead and knew how to influence her surroundings. Both of these traits helped her survive her ordeal on the Titanic. She recognized the trouble before others and proactively dressed in warm layers, stashed her money in her clothes, and went on deck to find a lifeboat. It was her moral compass that asked to return to help others. So thank you Maggie (I won’t call her by the moniker “Molly” because she hated it and preferred friends to call her “Maggie” – and yes I think if I had lived back then we would have been friends and travel buddies). Thank you for pioneering the fight for our rights. Thank you for proving the perseverance of women. Thank you for traveling the world as a strong, independent woman. Thank you for surviving. You helped pave my path for traveling and writing. For information about visiting her home, please visit https://mollybrown.org/.
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AuthorLet me introduce myself. I am Julie Blasofsel. While teaching high school English for the past dozen years, my appreciation for works of literature increased after visiting several locations associated with the authors and their texts. You can't help but feel the presence of Ralph Waldo Emerson as you stand on the shores of Walden pond, the despair of Henry Longfellow as you stand in his house, the loneliness of Edgar A. Poe as you descend into his walled basement, the candor of Samuel Clemons as you reach his men-only study. My goal is to gather information and relate my experiences about these places of literary significance in this literary hive. Please add your literary travel experiences and recommendations. Together we can bring these authors to life and light the flame of passion for reading in others. Enjoy! Archives
October 2018
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