In celebration and kick off to summer, I proposed and answered my own Hemingway challenge, and came up…short. That’s okay. I know a Hemingway I’ll never be, but I do reserve the right to return and amend if I ever feel the need to put my size six feet in a pair of big shoes!
My version reads:
That desiring something I cannot yet determine its sincerity but knowing the level of the desire is a genuine wanting from those unknown or unconnected who dismiss the option to comment on liking the subject nor scrutinizing what’s before in order to know its value, yet you know truly its inherent affirmation and absolute originality cannot continue to regenerate on an island of isolation, when, in the darkness, you are alone with the ebb and tide of technology lapping at your fingertips, to distract or enhance, to inspire or to procrastinate, and know that the Mistress of Fame which you desire and flirt with has courted many before and after you, on screen and before screen, enticing you to answer her calls beyond the limits of your island, becoming susceptible to the undertow of trends versus the beauty of truth and originality, and those who have cohabitated with her, have basked in her brief suntan, which proudly and initially glows, burns uncomfortably between bed sheets, distractingly peels over time, leaving you marked and lonely, unconfident and unsure about protocol, and an unmentioned fear of being stood up for your next date with her, the pressure, the disappointment, the disclosure rationalized, resurrecting the sweetness of her scent, the dampness of her skin, with newly injected adrenaline to approach with confidence and pour the five-minute wine of wisdom into everyone’s hour glass, half full or half empty, the purists, the Buddhists, the non-believers, the activists, the passive aggressors, the likers and non commentators who will leave you swaying in the shadows of your mistress for yet another ride of fame.