The Sun also Rises

I wanted to speak about my growth but refrained at the last second. Words are shallow feet threading this half-imagined landscape. It pleases me, No, it is humbling enough to muse with my everyday existence; hurting enough to close an eye to what I perceive as an insult to a capacity that seems to be getting harder to realize: failure and the lack of motivation to recall what motivated me to write in the first place. But posting these grumblings are sure enough evidence that I cling to some form of Hope, to some hazy Dream. (Notice the capital letters <--- at the last sentence. They may be elevated forms of respect to the 13 year old child within me).
It excites me, it enlightens me, this post that is. This could be the beginning of something mobile, though far from eloquent, I find it gratifying that Our Good Lord does lift my spirits and whisper (as if) --it ain't over son, until I tell it so.
I wanted to steal this wonderful moments where my hands seem to find, spot on the letters by which these surprising algorithm of words take form. But more fulfilling is the thought that from time to time I'm still invited in this zone, this literary nirvana, this fluid reception of impertinent ideas banging together, but, with unabashed uniformity: this is mojo, clunking, noise, beauty. I am invited for I do not hold the key for freedom entry, but still, it is a joy to behold. Ah, I wonder if I'd be invited more often than not.

My fascination with literature is only balanced with my lack of grammatical command. And when I point to literature, I may be disillusioned, (or wrogfully understood), to speak of Poe with such regard higher than that I have for a biological father. My limited knowledge of Poe's life only brought more to my adoration of his dizzying prosical godliness, to his screaming ironies, to his vexed world painted in gray and gray gloom. I love reading and re-reading his otherworldy poetry, getting lost in his verses, and understanding so little of his stories' story, but leaning to be swoon away with his flow which is his alone for all eternity. So Poe introduced me to such contemporary story-teller monsters such as the young Brite, the venerable Burn, the lowly-disguised-genius Mc Grath, and to that other american literary god, Hemmingway.

Is this a pattern then, is this a path? I fascinate to the level of spurts they include in thier writings, but where does it come from? Is it from birth? From good learning? Is is from the heart? From the soul?

I may never get the answer today, or in the near future.

In the meantime, I could not wait to lay my eyes on "The Sun also Rises", and study Sir Ernest's flow, which, again, his alone for all eternity.