The Uncomfortable Life
Ernest Hemingway used to write on a typewriter
that was perched on top of a chest of drawers.
He wrote standing up.
As a young man I wrote poems by candlelight
in the dark bars of Chicago’s Old Town. The wax
on my portable Remington spoke of a quest for truth,
a sense of existential drift.
The poems were sparse; it was my mind that wandered.
60 years later, I write travel pieces.
I try to stay uncomfortable.
I look for an edge by writing outside in cold weather.
Sometimes I write in a nearby cafe,
sitting near the busy window that faces Route 66.
Now, it’s the words that wander.
A typewriter, a candle in the dark, the traffic on 66…
Look for an edge. Nod to your discomfort. Stay alive.