View allAll Photos Tagged BURROUGHS
An Iron Age hill fort in Leicestershire, standing 210m (690ft) high. Great views from here; will be posting more later.
Title: 31 Burroughs Street
Creator: City of Boston
Date: circa 1980-1990
Source: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, 5210.004
File name: 5210004_010_669
Rights: Copyright City of Boston
Citation: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, Collection 5210.004, City of Boston Archives, Boston
Title: 45 Burroughs Street
Creator: City of Boston
Date: circa 1980-1990
Source: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, 5210.004
File name: 5210004_010_676
Rights: Copyright City of Boston
Citation: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, Collection 5210.004, City of Boston Archives, Boston
Title: 27 Burroughs Street
Creator: City of Boston
Date: circa 1980-1990
Source: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, 5210.004
File name: 5210004_010_668
Rights: Copyright City of Boston
Citation: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, Collection 5210.004, City of Boston Archives, Boston
Title: 49 Burroughs Street
Creator: City of Boston
Date: circa 1980-1990
Source: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, 5210.004
File name: 5210004_010_678
Rights: Copyright City of Boston
Citation: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, Collection 5210.004, City of Boston Archives, Boston
William Seward Burroughs II.
February 5, 1914 – August 2, 1997.
Steve.D.Hammond.
Enjoy the Clip www.youtube.com/watch?v=IzdW7Fo0eB4&ab_channel=KedAhpook
Nah that's just me. How's y'all post seasons going? Mine didn't start yet, PA runs the latest season.
Title: 51 Burroughs Street
Creator: City of Boston
Date: circa 1980-1990
Source: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, 5210.004
File name: 5210004_010_679
Rights: Copyright City of Boston
Citation: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, Collection 5210.004, City of Boston Archives, Boston
View of the Salem Witch Memorial, In 1692, 14 women and 6 men were accused of being witches, were tried, convicted, and executed.Executions took place on June 10, July 19, August 19, September 19 and September 22, 1692. To this day,the events of 1692 are used as a yardstick to measure the depth of civility and due process in our society. Salem Village (present-day Danvers, Massachusetts) was known for its many internal disputes, and for disputes between the village and Salem Town (present-day Salem). Arguments about property lines, grazing rights, and church privileges were rife, and neighbors considered the population as "quarrelsome."
The invisible collaborator shows his face.
This photograph is from one of the exhibits of a Brion Gysin exhibition in the Spencer Museum. It was great to see so much of his work on view in one place.
Burroughs and Gysin were as thick as thieves and collaborated on innumerable projects and experiments. The best known of these is probably "The Third Mind", a book which lays out the methodology of the cut-up technique.
The exhibition mostly featured pieces from the Burroughs Estate and some other pieces from the Kansas University archives. It was put together by Stephen Goddard, the Senior Curator of Prints and Drawings, and I had a very enjoyable few hours being shown various other pieces and eating lunch.
Title: 32 Burroughs Street
Creator: City of Boston
Date: circa 1980-1990
Source: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, 5210.004
File name: 5210004_010_670
Rights: Copyright City of Boston
Citation: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, Collection 5210.004, City of Boston Archives, Boston
Burrough Hill is an iron age hill fort in Leicestershire, just south of Melton Mowbray; I've tried to give a good impression of the massive earthwork here.
Part of a series of typewriter ribbon tin reproductions, referenced from the excellent collection of Janine.
1990:
Series of designs done for movie adapting an Edgar Rice Burroughs book from 1917. Like many Hollywood projects it died in the preliminary phase of dev.
The rain put a damper on alot of my shooting but i still managed to grab some pictures at H20. The best week of the whole year and it goes by way too fast!
you are sleeping. you do not want to believe. // glitched text that was cutup from the internet, with sound.
Started at Sunrise area at about 6400'. Hiked to 7406'. You can clearly see the smoke hazing out Mt Rainier from fires that are happening across the Cascades. DNR is putting all resources on the larger fire East of here, and the smaller ones are not being tended at this time. Hopefully the rains will come in and help the fire crews.
This is 6 photos taken with a Nikon D810 shot RAW (All EXIF is to the right) Merged together and processed in Photoshop Lightroom Classic.
I took this picture. I set up my other camera on a tripod, set the 10-second timer, and hurried to get in place, haha.
Title: 48 Burroughs Street
Creator: City of Boston
Date: circa 1980-1990
Source: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, 5210.004
File name: 5210004_010_677
Rights: Copyright City of Boston
Citation: Boston Landmarks Commission image collection, Collection 5210.004, City of Boston Archives, Boston
IDIOT RUBICON
By Brad Fox
I can’t let you in because the owner is my sister, and she’s not at home right now. You can come back later and talk to her but she’s not going to let you in either. You’re not the first or even the second who’s asked about this. Many people have come, and the señora always tells them the same thing: NO.
There was no convincing her to let us into the apartment. She stood in the door, blocking the entrance with her body. Behind her we could see unremarkable white walls. A cross hanging. Mark had his camera out and asked if he could just shoot the number 10 on the door, but if she could maybe leave it open a bit so there would be enough light. He adjusted the camera and took one shot, checked it and thanked her. She closed the door and we were gone.
Downstairs he showed me the shot—the woman peering up at the numbers, no doubt wondering what it is in them that fascinates these people that come to bother her and her sister.
Mark was pleased: “I always get the shot. My father sold life insurance. I know how to get my foot in the door.”
Mexico City, Calle Monterrey 122, apt 10—the place where, on September 6, 1951, in a game of William Tell gone wrong, William Burroughs shot his wife Joan Vollmer in the forehead. An act of incredible suburban stupidity that became iconic in our culture.
Why had we come? Not even the first or the second?
Two years ago Mark Powell and I were having our midmorning coffee in the Cafe de Carlo on Calle Orizaba, as was our custom. Two Middle Americans living in Mexico City. We got to talking about the history of the neighborhood, of foreigners living in Mexico. Eventually it led us to Burroughs.
“You know he lived right down the street.”—I’d heard that but I didn’t know exactly where. Mark said the house William and Joan lived in had been torn down, but the apartment where he shot her was just around the corner.
We threw some coins down on the table and headed down to find the building.
A black iron door on a nondescript brick apartment building. It must have been recently built when Burroughs and Joan used to get loaded with Americans on the G.I. Bill at the Bounty Bar on the ground floor, when he headed upstairs to John Healy’s apartment to try to sell one of his guns back in 1951.
We managed to get inside and knocked on the door of the super’s apartment at the foot of the stairs.
A couple of children scrambling, a man and his wife. They knew what we’re talking about, they’d heard about the American writer that had come through, but they weren’t sure which apartment it was.
As they were closing the door to cut short our questions, a woman emerged from the back of the entranceway. She was standing close, but separated from us by an iron security gate. In her early seventies, with big eyes, the remains of a recent perm sagging on her head, wrapped in an animal print robe. She curled her hands around the twisting iron bars of the gate.
“You want to know about the writer?…and the accident?”
She whispered conspiratorially, with a tremor of paranoia in her voice. She knew about the incident. She was young when it happened. It was up in apartment 10 on the second floor, she said, gesturing with her eyes toward the stairs.
Mark and I decided to leave her alone and come back later with his camera to get a picture of the apartment.
We headed back to Carlo for another coffee, shook hands and parted ways on the corner.
A few days later Mark left for San Miguel de Allende. When he came back I was in Veracruz, then Oaxaca, then I left Mexico for Istanbul, where I set up shop in Galata, to watch seagulls jab their beaks into the necks of pigeons on the rooftops.
It was a year and a half before I was in Mexico again. A couple of days after I arrived, I got in touch with Mark—tomorrow 10:15 at Carlo, we agreed.
Nothing had changed.
Tortillas turning gold in hot oil. Otomi girls selling tiny stuffed animals for pocket change. The tiny waitress with black eyes had been replaced by another one, identical.
“While you were in Istanbul I moved to a place here around the corner,” Mark told me. “It’s actually right next to that Burroughs building. I was just thinking about it, telling myself I have to go get that shot finally—but I’ll wait until Brad’s in town. I said that to myself just a couple of days ago. I had no idea you were gonna show up. We gotta do it now.”
We agreed to meet in two days. Mark’s wife Karina served up some fried ham and plantains. Mark grabbed his camera and we headed around the corner.
We got to the door of the building as a deliveryman was coming out. We went in and headed up to find apartment 10.
“So these are the stairs Burroughs walked down right after it happened.” Mark was feeling for ghosts.
The 2nd floor landing was dark and empty, but knocking on the door marked 10 we got an answer.
And Mark got the shot.
Back down on the street, we savored the moment over aguas de pina.
“Something was completed today.” Mark sucked juice through a straw. “Two years later and we got the shot.”
For us it was nothing more than an idle hour, a way to seal a friendship. I had never been really caught up on the cult of Burroughs, though there’s no doubt he’s an ancestor to my generation. I have a photo in my apartment of him in a urinal taken by Ira Cohen, a friend of Burroughs and a friend of mine. But visiting the scene of this 58 year-old mishap?
I got my hands on James Grauerholz’s The Death of Joan Vollmer Burroughs to find out more about the event. In the narrative of the last year or so of Joan’s life, William comes off as a desperate and embarrassing fool. His plans to grow pot in Texas without even learning how to cure the weed, his obsession with guns, trying to put up a tough facade that fooled no one. Always saved and supported by his family back in St. Louis. A white, middle-class American, spoiled and self-absorbed, on an entitled rampage through the mid-century. The description of the scene in the Bounty Bar, a bunch of Americans crowding together to drown their malaise in cheap piss, reminded me of irritating expat scenes in Prague and Budapest from the early 90s.
When he was jailed after the event, Burroughs’ parents sent his brother Mortimer down to help. According to Grauerholz, this hardworking American—representing the square option among the brothers—was universally despised: whining, lecherous, self-righteous and self-pitying.
My sympathy for Burroughs returned. I grew up in suburban Kansas City. I know that culture. It’s enough to give anyone congenitally outside of it, because of a taste for young boys, even an allergy to forced smiles, a craving for mental and physical extremes. Whatever is beyond the wall of euphemism.
And that he pursued.
Still, by all accounts the shooting wasn’t intentional. Not only did he mourn, he was horrified. He was forced to confront what his self-indulgence could lead to, what the rest of his life could possibly mean. In all the times he was asked to talk about the event, two lines have become famous. The first is from the introduction to the 1985 edition of Queer: “I am forced to the appalling conclusion that I would never have become a writer but for Joan's death.” The second was shouted out during an interview with George Laughead: “Shoot the bitch and write a book! That’s what I did!”
The second is a provocation, a statement of the obvious. The first is an acknowledgment of incomprehensible transformation that opened him, allowed him to be what he would be.
The act is beyond logic, but if you’re trying to truly confront a space without judgment, there’s no cringing at the horror and shit you might pass through. To feel guilty would be a retreat into Protestantism. At the same time the anguish he felt is no doubt natural. He was entering a world that was unknown.
Many have come, and the señora says NO.
So, in the face of all the harrumphing Mortimers and gateblocking señoras, that’s what we we’re paying tribute to: Apt. 10—a place where, like it or not, one man reached a point where there was no going back.
When I was a senior at Ohio State University in 1948 and taking statistics, there was only one of these electric calculators in the lab. The rest were hand cranked.
May 29, 1948 Saturday Evening Post
Set: Control Freak. Burroughs Calculator (1930s). I have no idea how to use it.
"Protected by the U.S. and foreign patents. Burroughs Adding Machine Company, Detroit, Michigan. Made in the United States of America."