for hemingway

I've been caught in a lovely flow of reading all about Hemingway, his dirty love affairs in paris and his clean prose in 'the sun also rises' and everything in between... I can feel the way my words have been shaped by his. it's almost as if we were on a first name basis. so this is for you, Ernest.

 

Interesting people were everywhere just then. The California lost ones and the Midwestern dreamers and the gentle souls from the South who talked through honey all thick and sweet and slow. On any given night, you could see a fantastically functional jam-grass band, most likely at the Lazy Dog, most likely covering a Ween song just to make sure we all hadn't forgotten, after several cold whiskey sodas, that our tongues were splayed cleverly against our cheeks. Nearly anyone might feel like a musician walking the late streets of Pearl then because the sound brought it out in you, and the shadows alongside the buildings, and the creek path which seemed to want to break your heart, and the long thing women in flowey white and torn denim, smoking and setting aside their bags to dance. We could walk into any bar and feel the wonderful chaos of it all, ordering fireball to warm my heart and Jameson and ginger to cool his soul until we were beautifully blurred and happy to be there together.