June 22, 2004

• The inability to come up with anything to write is an interesting study in itself.  I have sat several times over the last few weeks at the keyboard with the intention of jotting down some thoughts on some matter of interest, but haven’t been able to come up with anything.  One reason is that my mind seems to be in too big of a hurry, too unsettled to develop a complete idea… why, I don’t know.  It just is.  Another reason is that my mood is not in the right place.  I don’t have the thoughts screaming to get out.  I don’t have this deep sense of urgency to understand and express myself on a particular matter.  During the previous six months I was dealing with a number of intense personal trials that may have brought me to a heightened level of sensitivity.  Both prose and poem just sort of emerged in my mind and the challenge was to type fast enough to get the thoughts recorded before they faded away.  I can see this in my writing as some sentences seem to be singular statements of thoughts, only loosely related to the general thread.

  
  

   

  
  

  I appreciate more and more the ability of those who can take, not only the more poignant events in our surroundings, but even the seemingly routine, every-day happenings and describe them in a detailed, interesting manner that causes the reader to mutter, “yes, yes I know exactly what you are saying, I felt exactly the same way…” (Faith comes to mind)  I have read some of Hemingway with one goal being to understand what makes this author’s works to be regarded so highly.  I read and read, all the while, trying to decipher the code, the technique that made this work a treasured masterpiece.  And it wasn’t until the end of two or three books that an understanding slowly emerged that it was not in the profoundness of great expression or extravagant revelation that the work found its value but rather in the subtlety.  I realized that the stories and the imagery had become a part of me without my awareness.  The power of great writing (in my humble opinion and purely for my own need to “figure-it-out”) is in the author’s ability to slowly, patiently create an image or character that will stick with you…like grandma’s oatmeal breakfast.

  
  

   

  
  

  I would like to dabble a little with writing; sort of a recreational thing, personal growth thing, and outlet thing, when needed (learning to express a thought without using the “thing” thing).  But as I have found, it will probably be sporadic simply due to my moody nature.  I am going to end with a “scene” that I created as sort of an exercise in image creation. I hadn’t planned to include this when I started this blog (‘course Hemingway was the furthest thing from my mind when I started this blog) but, I thought it might be appropriate, given the direction that this blog sort of took on its own.

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  Survival and instincts

  
  

  We stood still, staring at each other, neither knowing what should happen next.  Her wound did not detract from her beauty and her nakedness was enhanced by the dancing, glittering waters which flowed against her thighs.  I was in the river up to my knees and was having trouble standing in current.  She seemed at home in the icy mountain runoff.  The red sash lying on the bank with her camos identified her as one of them.  There was no doubt what must be done.  I leveled my rifle, taking aim at her heart.  She raised her hands slowly to show her intentions.  I paused for a moment, her bronze skin and the sexuality of the whole scene conjured absurd feelings and arousal.  I had never gotten used to fighting and killing women, but the enemy gave me no choice.  Some of their most ruthless and fierce fighters were women, women who had lived half their lives living and fighting in the jungle.  She was so beautiful.  She wore her nakedness without shame.  She looked neither frightened nor challenging.  The level stare of her eyes sought to tame the circumstance, to tame me.  I knew what I had to do…squeeze the trigger…kill her.  Every part of me wanted to rush to her and take her, plunge into the water and let the warmth of our bodies contrast against the icy waters.  Make love to her instead of destroy her.  Her weight shifted slightly towards the bank and I was shaken from my images.  I hesitated, willing her not to move, nervously aiming more intensely at her breast, making her feel my dilemma across the waters.  “Don’t move…don’t do it” I thought in panic.  “We can stand here and let the world go by with the water”, my mind raced.  She raised her leg in a motion to step towards the bank; the image of her weapon, lying half hidden amongst her clothes flooded my vision.  There are reactions that keep one alive in war.  Those that do not acquire these reactions die early, those that do, might live longer.   My finger squeezed and she was gone.   The water rushing past my leg took on the crimson hue of the deep jungle sunset.  A shadow flowed by beneath the surface, out of reach.  I crouched and scanned the bank for more enemy.

  
  

   

  • 5:29 pm
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