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.
I am very very very frustrated. It seems to be one of those things-will-not-go-your-way weeks. And I hate it. Hate it from the bottom of my monologic, underlined, control-freak existence. I hate it. I did say that before, didn't I? Well, I'm saying it again. Hate it. And I'm bored and annoyed with coping. All I want to do right now is kick up my heels and throw them at somebody. The way the trends are going, I'll probably miss by a mile.

A wise friend once lent me a tale. He said that the biggest mistake I could ever make was to make somebody else's story my story. I am what I am and it has nothing to do with what anybody else is. But the problem is that I want what I want and it has everything to do with what somebody else doesn't. It is not as bubble-trapped as I would like it to be. I crave to be Tolstoy and should ideally want to be Dostoevsky, but all I can ever be is folklore, street-rabble and shadow play. These polyphonic voices are bursting my eardrums and threatening my sanity.

Is a craving an addiction? Is an addiction a vice? Is a vice simply the 'other' to a virtue? Will you buy me a ticket to the asylum?