A LOAD OF UNMITIGATED TWANG. riginal.
I have mentioned on occasion that authors in my opinion who ramble along the path of "my Godness my head is aching i have been racking it all night with the ubiquitous torture of literary furnace mind detachment flaring, dying embers of another idea screwed, relegated to the LT bin-worry needlessly. "Oh my gawd! i'm tortured by the inner turmoil of Hemmingway curse." More like it, or I.T. like, the lady sitting in front of the laptop 'hem in way' of idea after idea shelved,deleted, ends in hysterical thought which women seem to strangle with consummate ease. Don't get me wrong, i don't want to feel a woman's pain of a birthing book. Or perhaps even a fat fishy cooking book forced to go skinny dipping on a diet. See this is the Shakespearian wallow tragic trough whereupon hare is torn out of the magical mythical thinking cap of write. It's ears folded and shoved back in the hat. To make way for the agony of "gawd! i know just how Hem must have felt. 'The old Man and the 'C' ' that kept attacking his hard won fish that had it had water flowing through its gills at a steady rate, Hem could have spared the old man a bad case of tortuous verbatim. Sunburn, band aid a peeling fingers, nausea, and possibly high blood pressure- boredom? Plus cramps.
IE... the old man could have floated the fish alive, back to a seawater secluded spot big enough for the fish to live its magnificent life out on a diet of its long -nosed choice. Do you get my drift? The fish apparently did! Diet via bite 'aint a good thing.There was no need for that tragic event. Thus the fish in a sense of scaled down thought proportional process, then would have taken on the mantel, in at least small minded idealist writer's cog...of representative approach. A pointy nosed sardine in a goldfish sardine bowl. Although trapped by circumstance (aren't we all?) the old fellow could have retired not with tedious skeletal remains to be agonized over. A sort of free willy incarceration if you like of a fish quite happy to eat it's arse off and when threatened, use its prong to stab its onlookers in same, after leaping out of the water thinking the multi-colored plastic buttons thrown at it by kids "duh"- were fish herring 'smarties.' Why indeed then did Hem kill the noble creature one has to ask oneself of the tired old man? When plastic smartie extraction though annoying...would have allowed the creature to have a half decent life in the swim of things.
Why the tragic death? Media dates, television interviews could have been engineered in the script? And yes GPS fish finders were available and heavy leather gloves plus a hyperdermic needle (tonnes of them floating round back when) to sedate the poor thing. The old man see, could have been at home on the pension watching pay tv on tap, which was available also. Great shows like the evergreen 'Old Man and the Sea.' Bruce Willis in 'Die Hard fish one.' 'A beautiful flakey mind' starring Russell Crowbar. At a pinch Crowbar had to be used as a back up because Russell genuine was facing up to 'The Gladiator' and an adversary roughly ten times his size, who, even on a bad day could have knocked Russell out with a belch. And a scaled down thumb prod.
Writers, don't agonize. Your fish ideas won't flake, just go off on a different tangent completely. Commonly known as insanity. Don't ring me and tell me you're stuck in the mud of "duh" you all have that capacity and God given talent to write rubbish. Bin there done that? Hey! Hey! got an idea! Ummm, forget about the fishy smell...
"She had finished on the net, sprinkling confetti love and goodwill because that's the way she was born...knew no other way. Had no time for herself... forcefully,deliberately, abstained from serving her own wants for her own reasons. A no go Joe shield. She closed the lid on her laptop. Picked up the lidless pen from the floor. Grimaced at the smudge. To hell with it. Sighed. Rubbed her pretty face with a tired slim hand. Hunkered down in her 'little girl' fetus like position in her bed.. The ritual kicked in. She turned on her back. Placed quivering hands behind her delicate neck. His words as always,the same. Not begging, passion doesn't beg, it creates its own heart path. Tethered, restrained. But there. She had walked the path and been distracted by grievance she bravely crushed with her overwhelming reserve of courage. She couldn't sleep. Would she, did she, have the courage to see him? "I love you" and she knew he meant it. Felt it. But despite the noiseless sound of loneliness aching in the background lurking in the private library forest of neat uniform easy to manage dreams...she avoided the shapeless fear. He asked her to ring. The creature smiled. She thought she heard it speak but loneliness hasn't that capacity. Just the feeling of loss. Tightly strung.
The phone rang. She ignored it pulled the blanket over her head like she did as a child when something annoyed her. A cultured voice spoke softly,something in her stirred. Was it...him? The message sent a thrill through her. "Hello my goodness, i'm not selling you anything...but a first glass solar powered roof install...she threw the blankets back, picked up, slammed the phone down. It rang again. Was it him? "hello..." "Yes my goodness madame i know it's very very late...but the sun is our greatest friend...i will sing you "little ray of sunshine and hot plenty water if you buy now madame." "No thanks but thanks for calling..." She shivered. Got back into bed. Placed her hands behind her head. The creature slumbered. Best not to wake it. The young Indian on the desk missed. Fired again. His dying words were "she sounded so kind...kind of lonely...the kind of loneliness a solar panel seller can feel...goodbye world." He died with his aggravating headset on.
Moral of the story? These people have hearts of solar power too. If you're very polite and you only get one or two shots...they'll go away...eventually. She slept, thought she felt his hand. He said he'd look after her forever. Said he'd come round any day, all she had to do was ring. He'd be right over to screw her solar panel personally. It was too late. Even though it was only a bloody flesh wound. He was sacked for being bloody late the next day. A bleeding nuisance. She lay there thinking about bloody nuisances. What would the next day bring? Don't tell me you guys get writer's blog block...maybe you just need a warm solar shower,meteorite type. Now there's something to write about! A hem. Goodnight Ms.
Be different. Stand out in peak hour traffic. Dare to run across freeways when you run out of petrol. And you find the missus took your credit card. Doesn't that give you the shits? Honestly if some women had another bed they'd be lonely. Or was that brain? "duh" They're cute though. Hard to work out, but if you ring for a solar panel with free screws...:>)