I
read once that Hemingway, when he sat down for the day to work on his novels,
began the first sentence from a place of truth. If not, then the whole day
was simply a loss. I am no Hemingway nor do I pretend to be, but I’ve
always remembered what he articulated in terms of his writing because I’ve
felt life is much the same. If we don’t start out our day as a truth,
then what is the point? If the words we speak and the language we use to describe
who we are and our actions are not truth, then is it trashed? This past Thursday
was the third application of the “bad stuff” that sweet someting.
Since then life has been a simple action from day into the next. I concentrate
on holding food in my stomach and not loosing it to the toilet bowl. And today
is the first day I have been out of bed and walking tender asking for my legs
to hold me strong. Last night I had funny dreams that I was writing essays
of my experiences, and each and every essay seemed to come from a place of
amazing truth. Of course I can’t remember the words or the language,
but at the time it seemed to be one long run-on sentence, fluid and abundant.
The words were easily pouring out, and the descriptions of what I was experiencing
somehow seemed more than I could every articulate here to you now. And maybe
that is the point. That even in the fog of chemo chemicals and shifting consciousness,
even then I dream of truths? Or perhaps I desire to dream of truth as I know
best? I am not sure what that means, to be always cupping the edge of some
unknown reality – waiting patiently for the end of these drugs cursing
my veins, looking for some nook and cranny to bury its tender head exhausted,
and hopefully – with the truth of all my being - all alone.
