Thursday, February 19, 2004

One true sentence a day. Hemingway must write one true sentence a day, the truest he ever knew. And the day will be done. And he will be able to write again.

I on the contrary have lost the ability to distinguish the true from the want-it-to-be-true. And this from one who prides herself on her objectivity, pragmatism, clarity and will-call-bluff-and-scoff-in-face countenance. And yes I know the truth. Lie I cannot. But the truth I will not tell. Because I can only live on the precipice of reality, the gap that permits the fine balance. Jump I will not and fall I dare not.

I am going to curl into bed and cover myself like a corpse. And I was thinking of other worse days and scarier circumstances. When I couldn't see and wasn't sure if I would be able to. When people around me had patience, warmth and soft voices.
Today I was thinking of her...conversations, alcohol, music...road trips, cooking, shopping and cleaning...haggling, choosing, lying and stealing...I miss you gurl.

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