Stand Still Like The Hummingbird by Henry Miller
We’ve all been there. (I hope.) The moment where text is before you and you’re not sure what will come of it. So you read on and before you know it, what you read starts to drift off the edge of something and it all becomes a Dali painting. Happened to me all the time in school. All that industrial learning krapp that they put before my mind. You know how they say you have to find your voice? A voice for singing or preaching or forging steel? One also has to find his voice when it comes to writing–or as in my case–worst-writing. But I want to expand on that. Not only does one have to find his voice so that birds may sing but he also must do it in order to fill the mind. What voice will fill the mind? Finding the stuff that my mind wants me to read is just like finding a voice to sew the seeds of nevermore but not quite like Elvis sang. Which means that it would take a long time before I would find the voice required to make my mind (want to) read. But when I found her she was as grand as the repetitiveness of most forms of intercourse. Ah, desire. But leaving procreation aside. Henry Miller is the man. And this particular work of his proves that. A book of essays about life and what Henry thinks. And speaking of repetitiveness. I always foundHenry’s thick novels to be somewhat repetitive. That is not a criticism, I love them for it. They are brilliant but somehow similar. And on the seventh day he made it good. Nomatter. Henry’s cynical take on money from the essay “Money and How It Gets That Way” is wonderful. It should be required reading for bankers and politicians. Now there’s the ticket. Solve the world’s problem by making them read (study) Henry Miller.
Rant (and read) on.