letter from ernest hemingway to his friend on february 22, 1953 (from the latest issue of Harper's):
"Dear Gianfranco:
Just after I finished writing you and was putting the letter in the envelope Mary came down from the Torre and said, "Something terrible has happened to Willie." I went out and found Willie with both his right legs broken: one at the hip, the other below the knee. A car must have run him over or somebody hit him with a club. He had come all the way home on two feet of one side. It was a multiple compound fracture with much dirt in the wound and fragments protruding. But he purred and seemed sure that I could fix it.
I had Rene get a bowl of milk for him and Rene held him and caressed him and Willie was drinking the milk while I shot him through the head. I don't think he could have suffered and the nerves had been crushed so his legs had not begun to really hurt. Monstruo wished to shoot him for me, but I could not delegate the responsibility or leave chance of Will knowing anybody was killing him.
Afterwards I was crying when a Cadillac came to the door with a worse psycho than that big one I had to hit. With him and his keeper, I still had the rifle and I explained to them that they had come at a bad time and to please understand and go away. But the rich Cadillac psycho said, "We have come at a most interesting time. Just in time to see the great Hemingway cry because he killed a cat."
They were inside the house and so I locked both the doors and sent their chauffeur away. The one said, "You have a gun. There is always someone with a gun."
So I gave him the gun (cocked) and then he started to make compliments. So I took his horned-rim spectacles off and took the gun away from him and put it away in Mary's room. Then I humiliated him as he should be humiliated, omit details, and then the awful thing happened. He thanked me and his keeper thanked me and said that was what he needed and what he came for. What sort of people are these?
He was a rich boy, officer in the 11th Airbourne Div., which never jumped in combat (not their fault); they would have made the assault in Japan if we had not used the atomic bomb and I suppose never got over it.
Certainly missed you. Miss Uncle Willie. Have had to shoot people but never someone I knew and loved for eleven years. Not anyone that purred with two broken legs."
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Saturday, June 30, 2012
"June 14, 2006
He says I am a jealous mess. I guess I am jealous - territorial? But I really don't think I am a jealous mess. I think I'm a mess, yes. But I was hurt , so sharply, that I don't know if I can recover from it. I think it will be one of those things that stick with me for all of my life. She and him have inflicted this torture into my heart forever. If I will ever get over this I don't see how I will be able to get through my parents' death, or anything else that is actually worth fighting for. I like things but as only places and ideals and visions. Being in small town New York is wonderful but even as I am psychically here, during actual time, I still know it isn't real and none of it is as wonderful as I see it. I guess the cynicism I maintain has started to push any perception of real beauty to the middle of my mind. I don't see how anything real can stay consistently beautiful. I am only beautiful when I am alone and cannot see myself. Nature and sky are always beautiful but your voice always interrupts it, whether you are there or not. It's a piercing, sharp voice."
He says I am a jealous mess. I guess I am jealous - territorial? But I really don't think I am a jealous mess. I think I'm a mess, yes. But I was hurt , so sharply, that I don't know if I can recover from it. I think it will be one of those things that stick with me for all of my life. She and him have inflicted this torture into my heart forever. If I will ever get over this I don't see how I will be able to get through my parents' death, or anything else that is actually worth fighting for. I like things but as only places and ideals and visions. Being in small town New York is wonderful but even as I am psychically here, during actual time, I still know it isn't real and none of it is as wonderful as I see it. I guess the cynicism I maintain has started to push any perception of real beauty to the middle of my mind. I don't see how anything real can stay consistently beautiful. I am only beautiful when I am alone and cannot see myself. Nature and sky are always beautiful but your voice always interrupts it, whether you are there or not. It's a piercing, sharp voice."
"July 2, 2006
When I was a little girl, I used to think that the further I put my face down in the water in the bathtub, I would dive into another world where everyone would be mermaids. And as I transcend from the bathtub into the other world, I would also morph into the other world, I would also morph into a beautiful mermaid. I am surprised I didn't somehow drown myself, from the times I tried, desperately yearning to create a magical bathtub. I would always pretend anyway. I used to be very good at pretending. I was never bored. I wish I could remember all the names of my imaginary friends. And all the games I would play with Leo [my teddy bear]. So many games I used to make up, and tell my friends. Erin ---- and I used to play the Ireland game, because we both thought we were Irish. So in grade five I made up a story of two Irish people trying to make enough money so they could go to New York. We would speak in (terrible) Irish accents and play it all day in my backyard. Then there was the ice game with Andrea -----. The best, and one of my favourite memories of my childhood is leprechauns, with -----. Hours and hours we would spend in my backyard, using my old tree house as a base, pretending to be leprechauns. We even wrote a little book with all the secrets and codes written down, and we buried it somewhere. Now my way of pretending is to run as fast as I can away from my problems and real life. I am really good at avoiding reality until the very last second. That's what I'm good at: pretending."
When I was a little girl, I used to think that the further I put my face down in the water in the bathtub, I would dive into another world where everyone would be mermaids. And as I transcend from the bathtub into the other world, I would also morph into the other world, I would also morph into a beautiful mermaid. I am surprised I didn't somehow drown myself, from the times I tried, desperately yearning to create a magical bathtub. I would always pretend anyway. I used to be very good at pretending. I was never bored. I wish I could remember all the names of my imaginary friends. And all the games I would play with Leo [my teddy bear]. So many games I used to make up, and tell my friends. Erin ---- and I used to play the Ireland game, because we both thought we were Irish. So in grade five I made up a story of two Irish people trying to make enough money so they could go to New York. We would speak in (terrible) Irish accents and play it all day in my backyard. Then there was the ice game with Andrea -----. The best, and one of my favourite memories of my childhood is leprechauns, with -----. Hours and hours we would spend in my backyard, using my old tree house as a base, pretending to be leprechauns. We even wrote a little book with all the secrets and codes written down, and we buried it somewhere. Now my way of pretending is to run as fast as I can away from my problems and real life. I am really good at avoiding reality until the very last second. That's what I'm good at: pretending."
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
old journal fragments; past lives
" November 13, 2008
I am in bed trying to fall asleep and I just heard a plane passing over above me in the sky and I had the strangest feeling of peace and happiness. Just for a little under a minute. I don't know why, really. Hearing planes fly by overhead brings me to other places in life I guess. Lying in bed in Toronto, even my room on Riverside Drive. You can only really hear planes fly by when you're only listening to yourself or silence. It also reminds me of my backyard in London in the fall, or the summer. Lying on the deck in the dead of summer, with Dudley asleep by the door. It is one of those universally familiar noises. It is always the same noise, wherever and whenever you are. It is such a peaceful noise. For some reason I imagined that plane flying through the navy blue French skies on its way across the ocean back to North America. I guess because that is where I would like to be right now. I can hear another one! It sounds like air and silence and beautiful sleep. I don't know but I feel flooded with fragments of memories of blinding sunlight from the summer sky in London, winter in St. John's. You only hear it when you stop listening. I feel so calm knowing home is so close."
I am in bed trying to fall asleep and I just heard a plane passing over above me in the sky and I had the strangest feeling of peace and happiness. Just for a little under a minute. I don't know why, really. Hearing planes fly by overhead brings me to other places in life I guess. Lying in bed in Toronto, even my room on Riverside Drive. You can only really hear planes fly by when you're only listening to yourself or silence. It also reminds me of my backyard in London in the fall, or the summer. Lying on the deck in the dead of summer, with Dudley asleep by the door. It is one of those universally familiar noises. It is always the same noise, wherever and whenever you are. It is such a peaceful noise. For some reason I imagined that plane flying through the navy blue French skies on its way across the ocean back to North America. I guess because that is where I would like to be right now. I can hear another one! It sounds like air and silence and beautiful sleep. I don't know but I feel flooded with fragments of memories of blinding sunlight from the summer sky in London, winter in St. John's. You only hear it when you stop listening. I feel so calm knowing home is so close."
Friday, May 18, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
someone's alone in the city tonight
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