Sobriety and Suicide

Hemingway struggled throughout his life, burying hurts, insecurities, uncertainty in his drinking. In this sense, he is like so many people today who run from something by sinking into something else. It isn't a pretty human habit, to be sure. This is where I pity my mentor.

Why do so many artists drink? Isn't it because when they open up a vein and spew the bloody pulse down on paper, it's then hard to stop the flow of emotion? I don't think too many people are able to remain fully open AND sane, unless they've achieved guru or saint status. It seems to be so tricky for humans, this opening of the heart. Most can only do it at times, and even then at the risk of peril.

Let's recall that back in his day, people didn't have all of the convenient diagnoses (depression, bipolar depression, anxiety disorder, et al.) on which to hang their drunken bodies or their DUI tickets. Medications for imbalance were still decades away. So people drank or took pills or overindulged in some sensory something, all while oddly seeking some release from the sensory and the everyday. Spirit was all around, all the time, but humans have trained their logical minds not to see, hear, or take comfort in anything that isn't entirely tangible.

Even today, this is a major pitfall for the bipedal creature.

These days biographers tend to recognize the history of suicide and drinking in Hemingway's family, granting him some small forgiveness for the genetic basis. Regardless of why, he was what he was; he suffered and caused suffering, too, like most. He paid a sizable price for being a genuis and an original thinker.

As a cat, I can spare him some judgment for those self-punishing mistakes. Can't you?

On writing and booze, from A Moveable Feast

"The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and . . . sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink. . . . After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day." -- Ernest Hemingway

Sex, Sex, Sex

Could old Hemingway help it if he liked sex? Does that automatically deserve more criticism?

Well, I can see why he moved to France.

This topic of sex is one of the touchiest in the U.S. of A, and I'm trying to wrap my beautiful head (and mind!) around this problem. First off, didn't God make us to want to have sex? Was he wrong to do so?

I know, I know -- it's how, when, who, and how often that makes it all complicated, but let's just remember that we are all animals. . . and, well, men ARE a little different than the ladies. We know we're "dogs" in this regard, but that IS how God made US. But I repeat myself.

It's all back to the Puritan discomfort with pleasure, isn't it?

I'm harping on those Puritans again, but we're all still in recovery thanks to their bad seamanship!

I'm not sure what the future holds for me, but I'm ready to try the French lifestyle, just to see how it does feel to relax some of these rules and judgment. Think about it. Just how good might it feel?!? Unfortunately, I can only know in my dreams -- but if I were human, I'd be working on my French!

"If you are lucky enough to live in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast." Ernest Hemingway to a friend in 1950