Once again, I have nothing of consequence to say. It is a shortage of intellectual propellant; a bone-dry tank missing even the smell of fuel. There have been signs the tank was running dry. Incomplete thoughts turning to whisps of vapor. Getting lost in mindless observation of an absent image. Words passing through ear canals without stopping to be understood. A sense of detachment about issues that once mattered, but now seem superfluous. Clear skies appearing grey and muddy and irrelevant.
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Another visit to the oncology center is on for this morning—labs and a chat with the oncologist’s APRN. Whether I am strong-armed into more intravenous magnesium, IV fluids, and assorted other injections remains to be seen. I might pressure the nurse to give me her idea of my prognosis, given all the patients she has seen come and go over the years. But I might not; mi novia probably would consider such pressure a form of bullying; unfair and uncalled for.
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I emerged from a dream as I was waking this morning. I had just returned from what seemed to me to be a sketchy business trip to New York. My briefcase was overstuffed with papers, including a large-format, green bar computer printout that had been produced by a dot-matrix printer. Also in my briefcase was a handgun, which I had somehow been able to carry on my flight. The remainder of the dream consisted of irrational scenes and conversations and situation. Those scenes and conversations and situations did not matter then and they do not matter now. Just nonessential experiences layered between unnecessary observations.
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Sleep increasingly appeals to me. Around the clock. It replaces unsuccessful attempts at creative thought and makes unnecessary attempts to feign interest. My words here seem to represent a mind that’s negative, glum, disappointed. They do not; they simply lack the metaphoric ignition that can create a bonfire of frenzied energy. At least I’m hungry; there’s that.
