“Ars est Celare Artem”
Over the last couple of weeks Henry wondering, mulling over the “why” of writing. His work short of august, not getting there, Henry a voice in the crowd not heard, apolitical to boot.
Henry at Wa Wa Coffee Shop... thinking, wondering if the great writers had a burning passion to get the word out.
Hemingway looking at a blank page, giving up and offing himself, his writing kept him going like junk, when it died he died.
Henry out of juice too, dragging the g-d damn thing around like a fat wife or herpes.
He knew what it was to be powerless over something and to live in pain, it was the kind of stuff that accompanied you in old age, like a shadow you couldn’t shake, or that fat wife with herpes.
Henry wanted to get a story out, always the same, g-d knows why? The junk's itch, an irritation that had to be scratched and dealt with from time to time.
Take the award winners, the lionized and lauded, Henry secretly hating them — jealous and envious.
Henry beyond having had enough of it, beyond not caring about it, between the cracks somewhere, only occasionally coming up for air and not liking what he saw.
Wondering if you could call his stories, “Stories”? It wasn’t story telling, more a process of waste management.
The biggest service Henry could do for his readers was to keep it short and sweet.
“Ars est celare artem”
True art is to conceal art— and so it goes, maybe Henry was on to something after all.