Pick a point in time.
That's the trick about filling in the blanks in my past. A past, no doubt, that gets further away with each passing day. Documenting what's happening today has turned out to be surprisingly easy. It takes a little dedication, obviously, and some decision-making, but there is nothing to remember.
Anything can spur the thought process: a newspaper article, some meal, conversations with a co-worker, the smell of fresh-cut grass in the afternoon, popular movies or music or television, daily interactions with my daughters.
Had I the foresight, thirteen years ago, or the energy, I might well have been able to find enough details in the every day of hospital life to generate this story then. Even if I wasn't able to apply more than a decade of perspective, at least I'd have the details. On this summer day in 1990, Cindy had the day off, my fever spiked again, when I opened the curtains I watched the rain drizzle down the glass, I tried to get in my sit-ups and push-ups but was too tired to get out of bed to do anything other than use the bathroom once or twice, vomiting after apple juice again, all bored and exhausted and restless at the same time.
Whatever. There would be specifics. They would be written down, or recorded on tape, and it would be a simple matter to connect the dots. As it stands, it's a much more difficult task than I'd ever imagined, and not just because of the growing number of years between now and then.
Or maybe it's just that the causes the memories to crowd at the barriers I've erected for them. When I open that tiny door in my brain, a sliver of light into the darkness, hoping to call out for just one (end-of-summer demoral addiction withdrawal symptoms, please) so many others, related and unrelated crowd to the front.
I've got my fucking nose right up next to this Seurat, this unbelievable collection of multi-colored dots, and even though I know that time has afforded me the luxury of standing back, of seeing the completed work, I know that I need to still need to build it one tiny dot at a time. Specifics. Which dot, where? Red? Blue? Purple?
And so I continue to effectively procrastinate the past. Fiddle away, writing about writing, meta masturbation, while the story itself continues to shout at me from behind closed doors.
Comments (3)
Why not write the story in pieces? It doesn't have to be written as A follows B, leading to C. Why not put A and B and C in a pile and let the details accumulate until you have a whole? I'm not suggesting that you write and write and write and then organize what you have written, but instead that you allow the gaps to stand. Let the form of the work represent some of the amnesia that you're suffering. It could be an interesting look at memory and its malfunctions as well as leukemia.
Posted on July 6, 2003 11:28
Thanks much for the thoughts, Lisa. You are absolutely correct.
The story should evolve in pieces -- and not necessarily linear ones at that. This is part of the reason I originally thought that using MovableType would help me get it written down.
As I reflect on the challenges, I think that I see two main hurdles to overcome. The first I'll address later today with a disclaimer; knowing that this is a true story, I've been way too uptight about telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That hampers the writing. As I wade through the distortions caused by the years, I want to be very precise, very accurate, almost to a fault. I need to remember the adage: "never let the truth get in the way of a good story."
Second, and more difficult, personally, to deal with, is the fact that I've been doing software development for the better part of the last decade. There is structure. There are rules. You don't jump to Point C before setting down the foundations in Points A & B. The program won't run otherwise.
I simply (?) need to set aside the LogicBoy costume. Although it helps me out nine-to-five, it's not at all appropriate here.
Posted on July 7, 2003 10:40
you could also ask the people who were with you to blog or write comments about their memories. there are definitely things I do not remember from when I was very very ill. But my sisters do. My parents do. My doctors, my husband, my friends. They all have bits & pieces of my story held for me.
Posted on September 2, 2003 23:01