whispering of the stars (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} decapitatedhope) wrote,@ 2008-12-31 00:19:00 |
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winter tales,
A man known as Ernest Hemingway once wrote of the times when he would stand out at Paris shining and sneering before him and would think, when starting a new story -
'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to write is one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know. So I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard somebody else say. And if I started to write elaborately, or like someone introducing or presenting something, I found out that I could cut that scrollwork or ornament out and throw it away and start with the first true simple declarative sentence I had written'
It gives me this image of an old man slowly shovelling the snow from his path in the thick dark night of siberia with a shovel, for his dying dog to be able to walk without the cold settling into his fur.
Kudo, my old dog, is sick too. I've known him half my life. He does invisible shits everywhere. Even he, who is in love with everything, cannot like to do invisible shits. As soon as he steps outside, he begins to quiver, the urge within him immense. That he waits so long partake in this ritual is remarkable for he lies on the sofa for great periods of time, sounding like a dog chicken as only he can do as he sleeps and dreams. Sometimes he spends his days eating his paws. At one time, it may have been possible that we gave him a bone that took on the appearance of one of his paws and he's been confused every since. Whenever I return home, sometimes after months and months from the road, he growls at me all night and won't stop until the next day as if he has been angry that I have left. Now, at ten years old, he doesn't run or jump up to lick me in the morning when I'm in bed for me to take him out.
I don't know if he'd be able to make it to the sea anymore, a 45 minute walk away from here, his bowels would be of greater concern than the whip of the sea air. They say he has to have his balls cut off and when he does, I'm sure, for a while it'll feel like mine have been cut off too.
A man known as Ernest Hemingway once wrote of the times when he would stand out at Paris shining and sneering before him and would think, when starting a new story -
'Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to write is one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know. So I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard somebody else say. And if I started to write elaborately, or like someone introducing or presenting something, I found out that I could cut that scrollwork or ornament out and throw it away and start with the first true simple declarative sentence I had written'
It gives me this image of an old man slowly shovelling the snow from his path in the thick dark night of siberia with a shovel, for his dying dog to be able to walk without the cold settling into his fur.
Kudo, my old dog, is sick too. I've known him half my life. He does invisible shits everywhere. Even he, who is in love with everything, cannot like to do invisible shits. As soon as he steps outside, he begins to quiver, the urge within him immense. That he waits so long partake in this ritual is remarkable for he lies on the sofa for great periods of time, sounding like a dog chicken as only he can do as he sleeps and dreams. Sometimes he spends his days eating his paws. At one time, it may have been possible that we gave him a bone that took on the appearance of one of his paws and he's been confused every since. Whenever I return home, sometimes after months and months from the road, he growls at me all night and won't stop until the next day as if he has been angry that I have left. Now, at ten years old, he doesn't run or jump up to lick me in the morning when I'm in bed for me to take him out.
I don't know if he'd be able to make it to the sea anymore, a 45 minute walk away from here, his bowels would be of greater concern than the whip of the sea air. They say he has to have his balls cut off and when he does, I'm sure, for a while it'll feel like mine have been cut off too.
