But you have to give credit, to Hemingway, for what he did, his early joy at being a writer.  It's of course in A Moveable Feast.  That's his tribute to writing, to wanting to do nothing else but writing, and then doing it.  He's like your older brother.  He's that strong guy who came along and did it.  Sketches.  Up there, the fifth floor of some walk up, he's got a fireplace, he peels his oranges and twisted the peels into the fire and the colors, blue, magenta, green, come out.  Yes, he's seeing the spectrum.  Again, like Melville, he is making prose into poetry.  The idea of prose, is now seen, just as he is working on it, as he shows us the early collections, prose is poetry, poetry can be in prose.  And really, it always was.  It's almost very religious.  Defining what is spiritual, what is prose, what is poetry, what is story, what is allegory.  And writers, the good ones worth their salt, yes, they have that subliminal repeat of that Jungian story, that dream, of writers.  Kundera, same thing.  And it runs along the lines of what we are sensitive to, what we recognize in any kind of good writing, any kind of literature.  That substrata, the reality, organic, botanic, that writing the most basic of words and thought, yes, that done, which a real accomplishment, that will lead to something that is, finally, actually, writing.


I took a break.  went out into the back yard.  Wanted to play Lonesome I could Cry, Hank Williams, and there were the crickets, hiding, but signing away.  What key are they in?  It is a key.  I think they liked D.  But G worked too.  I felt I was talking to them, and I've had that feeling before, playing a Pogues song at the first light, birds, mockingbirds staying up like I do...

But life's a bit too sad, the way it's set up.  That's where any writer, and Hemingway with good credit for it, is good and real, like some sort of ancient doctor to soothe reality..


Hemingway was always ready, hinting, almost explicit, about the writing, the process, going hand in hand with the material that then was worth writing about.

Perhaps he also knew the strangeness that this career, this penchant would make of him in other's eyes.  A writer?  He had the protection of Hadley, his first wife, a financial protection from her family, support in every way, back in the time that people gave each other support.

He liked hamburgers.  He had his own recipe for them.  He didn't report on everything in his life.  He could not cover everything, everyone, every relationship;, every sunrise, every sunset.  He reported that he tried, realized what he could do.


And what a strange time frame he would have had, being out of the ordinary.  Writing.  When does it stop, when does it end, where does it begin, what is there to talk about, write about, what is dialog, what is inner reportage, what is the strange encompassing ability that is picked up and realized when you, me, I, one, he, she, starts to write...  When do you start with the pen, in the day, when do you end?

Again and again, he would write about that time, when he could write, and then that time when he should avoid writing, let the water refill down in the well...