Over the last couple of weeks Henry wondering, mulling over the “why” of writing. His work short of august, not getting there, Henry a voice in the crowd not heard, apolitical to boot.
Henry at Wa Wa Coffee Shop... thinking, wondering if the great writers had a burning passion to get the word out.
Hemingway looking at a blank page, giving up and offing himself, his writing kept him going like junk, when it died he died.
Henry out of juice too, dragging the g-d damn thing around like a fat wife or herpes.
He knew what it was to be powerless over something and to live in pain, it was the kind of stuff that accompanied you in old age, like a shadow you couldn’t shake, or that fat wife with herpes.
Henry wanted to get a story out, always the same, g-d knows why? The junk's itch, an irritation that had to be scratched and dealt with from time to time.
Take the award winners, the lionized and lauded, Henry secretly hating them — jealous and envious.
Henry beyond having had enough of it, beyond not caring about it, between the cracks somewhere, only occasionally coming up for air and not liking what he saw.
Wondering if you could call his stories, “Stories”? It wasn’t story telling, more a process of waste management.
The biggest service Henry could do for his readers was to keep it short and sweet.
Well?—
“Ars est celare artem”
True art is to conceal art— and so it goes, maybe Henry was on to something after all.
Henry on top of his typewriter, caressing it some, at it again, not wanting to write, pushing himself to do it. In a vacuum writing story after story with no feedback. Having a good wank and talking to himself that’s all it was, it was pathetic, why bother?
Maybe if Henry straightened up some, it would be easier to write.
Lately obsessed with Bridget Bardot, she was pure light for Henry, legs spread, lovely bush airing out, eternally innocent, the French angel flying high over Paris in the sky spreading, wings wide open too.
Henry particularly loved her first film, “Manina, the Girl in the Bikini.” Young Calve the hero and adventurer kissing Bardot by the sea. Henry imaging it was him who was kissing her, her young mouth, what it tasted like, feeling the warm fluids inside the mouth, it was an easy kiss for Henry.
In Wah Wah Coffee Shop, Roy Buchanan on You Tube, Roy a strange bird playing the guitar in strange ways unheard of by man. His work diverse, songs tailored to fit new sounds discovered and invented on his guitar.
Life offering nothing new for Henry, it was as though he was locked into it, a lousy, stinking pattern, not for him at all, oh well and anyways, it was overwhelming.
The French painter Modigliani, absolutely nothing to live for, painting in a vacuum, great stuff … nobody cared. In the end, drunk and stoned on the street selling sketches nobody wanted for five francs, later found dead on the street.
Modigliani’s life proved that people in the mainstream are--- stiff in a vacuum occasionally peering out at the world---
Henry speaking to you from his heart he had nothing to hide, Brigitte Bardot where are you?
