The Way to Know Life ....

The way to know life is to love many things ... Van Gogh (on a fridge magnet I found at an art fair today) ...








And I guess for me of late (or considering my last blog entry) the way to know life also includes loving as many things as you hate about yourself, trying to keep some kind of equal measure and balance for criminy sakes!

What is it they say … you can’t know the depth of love unless you also know a little bit about the depth of hate. Otherwise, how are you measuring the depth? What are you comparing it to?!?!?

That being said … Hate, lament and irritation over a lengthy row of a mood or mind frame, can be frustrating. Debilitating, etc. etc.

On the flip side of the same psychobabble coin ... trying to ignore the obvious fact that you ARE in the thick of a lengthy row of a mood or mind frame without lamenting about it and/or becoming irritated can be equally as frustrating. Debilitating, etc. etc.

I’ve been in the midst of a moodiness within the cycle of my overall usual bodacious moodfulness which I should be regularly accustomed to. And yet, I fight it TOOTH.AND.NAIL!!!!

You’d think I’d just get with the program within my self, instead of tiring myself out over the half of it.

I know to expect it, the ongoing storm after what seems like less and less calm.

But my math over this is skewed. I give far more credit to the storm and forget to check the correct number of boxes for the same amount of calm.

There is some equality to it, if I’d only look at it more mathematically.

But like Barbie says, "Math is hard!"

However, as I'm reworking the math of this, I'm finding that bipolarity, by whatever cause, for whatever reason, is far better than being schizophrenic, for one thing?!?!?!

Imagine having to manage all “those people” and all “their moods” and feelings, why don’t I!

I’d far rather be stuck with the ebb and flow of a more predictable inner tide calendar when I think about it that way.

For crying out loud! I should quit crying out loud!

A more predictable tide calendar comes with it the fact that, eventually, the tide will reverse itself, and it’s not too much to hope for, and you don’t even have to ask, because it will turn, and you’ll look up and the moon that was full the last time you remember looking at it will now be a sharp crescent slicing into the night sky.

'Kind of like Zoro’s hash mark, only this one is a crescent, a big giant “C” for “calm!”

And you’ll swear to yourself (just like you always do) that you only looked away for a minute … I mean, wasn’t the moon just full a minute ago?!?!?! Wasn't it a big giant gaping O' of a maw in the sky?!?!?!? … somewhere around the time the skin on my hands split and I grew claws and started yelling inside myself, howling ever deeper, ripping into my core, “NOT THIS SHIT AGAIN! FUCK ME!” … even though I know this shit happens right on somewhat of a “regular schedule.”

Really, seriously, bellyaching is, well, it’s a useless exercise that JUST MAKES YOUR BELLY ACHE!!!

It was true, I really had stopped breathing (again!!!!) in order to start teething on the things I CANNOT CHANGE about what goes on inside my self.

I’m only just saying, and now I’d like to report …

Last night, I saw the crescent moon.

My feet were bare.

My hair was loose.

I was in pj pants and a T-shirt.

Stars dot and dashed at the night's canvas.

The sky was the Midnight (cloudless) Blue of a mega-box of Crayolas (the one with the built-in sharpener ... score!)

I felt less Brick Red anger on the inside.

My cheeks were flushed Carnation.

The deck below my feet was a perfect Burnt Sienna, lovingly hand-honed and polished cedar ... sturdy ground to stand on.

Our dog licked my bare toes.

Mark smoked a cigarette.

We had a conversation, the silly small talk of a weekend, a real weekend.

Our dog licked Mark’s toes.

Our fickle dog went back to my toes.

The crickets sang.

The frogs croaked along.

A doe lay out in the tall grass waiting for us to re-dim the outer lights.

A tiny rabbit played a private game of “Statue” next to the eaves trough.

Our dog kept licking my toes. [animals are safe in our garden/don’t know why they even stop and/or stutter]

We talked about "turning in early" and even though I felt like I had just woken up from a long winter’s nap, I was ready for some real sleep.

I felt my chin to be sure of such things, that there was no sign of such a long harrowing passage of time, where everything stood still in my right of terror.

I found no trace of a Rip Van Winkle-ish beard. [thank gods and goddesses, you know, ‘cause even I have my vain moments and don’t want to be making a 1-800 call to have my chin waxed!]

I had not been inside my nightmare for that long.

I felt my skull and deemed its contents less pumpkin pie filling-ish, it's outer shell less Headless Horseman-like!

I listened for my heart and found a more regular rhythm.

I had made it down the Yellow Fucked up Brick Road, to Oz and I was back again!

In.my.barefeet!

Mark went inside.

I turned to follow, making a “kiss-kissing” my lips so the silly dog would tag along behind.

The little rabbit relaxed.

The doe let out her breath.

And I made a mental note to savor and feel satisfied rather than lamenting over the fact that moods like the moon and the tides, repeat themselves so I better watch out for “the next time.”

There’s something to be said for holding one’s place (and I suppose appreciating it too) no matter what span of time you are going through.

I mean, how ever would it be possible for me to love and really appreciate my “on time” if I didn’t have an equal part of hateful "off time" to appreciate and compare it to?

Without the one, I can’t fully be the other, or something like that.

Something like me.

Me. (how ever "not simple" that is)

Some Twisted Shit on the Stripper Bipolar Pole!

Because I couldn't sleep last night, and/or because I wouldn't let myself sleep since geeeeeeeeeGod and Goddesses, we all know when I'm depressed or otherwise brain-whipped, I love to sleep ----------- but still last night just like every night this week, sleep was not allowed until I was so tired, and it was so near sunrise that I thought my head was going to explode --- and that's why I was up watching yet another late night alternative flick on the telly and relating to every f'ing character in the flick until the cows left home this morning!

I'm totally schizoid when I watch movies and if they are "coming of [any] age" flicks the likes of which I watched last night and there is all kinds of angsty sexual tension and experimentation, liquor and drugs, sore butt-fucked holes, loose teeth and strained jaw bones, and a character at the end who kills their self because they "just got tired of being around," and then another character who is "left behind" plus a smattering of other characters all around the edges, well ALL THE BETTER for me to sink my bipolar teeth into my dear!

Top that under with the docudrama I watched before the actual fabulous alternative flick, the poetry I read before that, part of a book I perused, some artwork I did before that, a little night swimming and net surfing, AND some stuff I wrote ALL BY MYSELF!!!!! but will swear has NOTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH MY F'D UP SELF, and you fully well know that "morning" didn't really find me till around one p.m. today, because falling asleep at 4:30 a.m., I had to try to get as many hours as possible before beginning the very real parts of every one of my remaining days on this planet!

Lately, I have a blistering bad relationship with the very real parts of every one of my days. I'm this amazingly productive, stable and yet wholly distorted and overwhelmed wench of a shit bitch!

So in order to counter-attack that feeling I start the days late, and then I run them into way-past-midnight-and-on-into-fucking dawn ground!!!!!

Every [late ass] morning when I peel my eyes open, and try to look into the light, I keep telling myself today will feel different, because I know stuff like this does pass, finally, at some point before the whole cycle begins again. Somewhere in there, I usually get some real rest.

It has, however, not passed quite yet and so ... I have this f'd up thing going on where I think I can "sleep off the funk" by sleeping well into the next day, as if by sleeping past the start of a day and well into that same day, I can sneak past my true, heavily guarded hairy daylight FEELINGS ABOUT THINGS!

And this is how I've found myself this week in one twisted cluster fuck of a mess where, if I could, I would PUNCH MY OWN EYES OUT FOR BREAKFAST!

And I'm warning you right now, this blog will be followed at some point by a blog, from the other end of the tunnel, which will feature me in a pressed apron, waxing and waning poetically on how I just alphabetized my entire pantry closet and then mosaic-tiled the entire roof of our house with alternating bits of broken purple and black glass!

I know, I make myself sick too, don't even get me started ...

scrawlllllllllllll ............................

When I die (and I'm not planning my death, I am only just saying), I always wonder what will become of my many notebooks, scraps of paper, stuff on hard-drives, backups, and stuff that I never backed up at all, and thought I ripped up, burned and or folded and mutilated already!

I mean, seriously, if someone races into your domain before your body is cold, you know they are going straight to anything that even looks like a diary or a "clue to you"-ish! kind of thing.

Everyone will be all like, Finally!!!!! we can find out what made her tick!

Here, you take this stack. Everybody START READING!

Well, I'd like to direct the careful eye further.

I have "other notebooks." These do not include the journals and the like one might seek out at first investigative glance.

These "other notebooks" I have kept one on my desk in varying shapes and forms, FOREVER (including the time when I worked out of the house).

I have kept them always, and in all ways (gridded pads, recycled paper pads, notebooks, legal pads, etc.)

This is where I jot down shit that I can't forget that I'm working on, and or shit that I don't want to forget that has nothing to do with what I'm working on.

Some of the stuff actually comes off these pads onto "master lists" for various clients and work types over the year, since I am no longer "just a medical transcriptionist" and have worked in many, many, MANY other areas, some of which if I told you what I worked on, well, I'd have to kill you.

But I'm just saying ...

I do not throw these notebooks or writing pads away, because no matter what, if I'm looking for a lost piece of information that is not otherwise filed away regarding work or some such other, I can reach for the exact pad or notebook where I last jotted that information.

It's like photographic memory gone wild, but it works.

Seriously, I can go, "Oh, crap shit, just a sec, that's on the purple-recycled-paper-stapled-together pad that I used at ... and about upteen pages in on the right side in red felt tip is exactly what I need."

And IT WILL BE THERE! Mark.my.words!

I have the same memory for my journals and any other writing or course work that I've done over the years, but I assure you, all those items are scheduled to ignite when I die, SO DON'T EVEN GO LOOKING!

Above is a photo of one of the pages in one of these "other notebooks" that I've been keeping most of this summer. And it's a cool notebook too. The cover is this spongey purple stuff with holes in it like swiss cheese! I know, couldn't you just die and go to notebook heaven, already?!?!?!
And this is the final flipped page at the end of my work week where you will find such lovely items as:

-NEXT UP!!! ... written in red indelible so i don't forget to get something to someone three hours ago.-bisoprolol?-the speaker's name is alan-

-TOGAF-49.00 ... don't know if that was minute or dollars, i must say, but in another respect i also know exactly what it means!
and if you flip through this notebook of treasures, it also holds deep thoughts and "return to this" items such as:

-frogmore stew-moveable feast-OMG ... which is not oh, my god, if you must know ... dig deeper-historical review process-suitcase stuff-Jk stuff-looks like fridge poetry, but then again it isn't [huh?]

-eggs, oil, vanilla, sug ... flour ... will cling to the sauce pan, done

-2 rum, one gin, one brandy, 2 limes, a little grenadine

-[a whole slew of latin phrases ]

-nuts optional

-cutaneous metastases ... i know, yuck!

-brown beef, celery ... remove, drain ...

-crush or flush ??!?!?!??!

-you are out of ginger!

-house closing date and the words FINALLY!!!!

-lichen simplex chronicus ... yeah, i know, double yuck!

-get *all* the keys!

-coming, no need for lunch (yikes?!?!?!)

-tuesday-deadline

-do billing and invoicing

-groomer!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-drag chicken plant ... okay, this last one i don't think i'll be coming back

for it, because even i'm not sure what it means! and i can't remember the last time i "dragged a chicken plant," can you?

but if i was not me,and i was the first one down the stairs to my office after i died, and wasn't even cold in the grave yet, i'd go for these notebooks instead of the piles of journals, writing, disks and otherwise.
i swear, all the secrets lie in these scattered wicked pages that are open on my actual desk top right next to my cup of coffee every day of every week for the last 20+ years ... i am not kidding you.

and if that doesn't talk you into it how about this (which I'm sure is two subjects at once, but still very, very interesting in many respects) and i give you:

-8 hours english to english, turnover time 7 days, beach cardigan, activx control, yogurt!

tell me i'm not a spy for the fbi, why don't ya!

Kind of Tagged and made myself be it!

This was on Candy Tothill's blog. She's the one who essentially "tagged and cajoled" me to start this blog. So of course, it would only make sense that I would "steal" the prompts from a piece she wrote called "I Realise."

So, I again have Candy to thank. Her piece was remarkable, made me think, and caused me to reflect on some things I "put to bed" this summer. Fall is a time of renewal for me, and I've been looking forward to that. However, closing off summer and putting white linens over the furniture in the summer house, is always good. Anything leftover will keep until I open those doors again.

Thanks a bunch for the prompt, Candy. And you can find her "I've Come to Realise" here http://insidecandy.co.za/


I've come to realize:

Beauty is ... a bitch of a beast.
I’ll never stop ... holding on to “stuff,” pent up stuff, am working on consolidating.
Laughter is ... the cure.
Crying is ... the other cure.
My bra size ... fluctuates.
My job is ... the bomb!
When I’m driving ... I should stop doing the other –ing, word … speeding.
I need ... a manicure.
I have lost ... my will to un-live … well, almost.
I hate it when I trip or run into things.
Drinking is ... another sort of cure.
Money ... cures nothing.
Certain people ... think they are the cure, but ultimately make you sick inside yourself.
I will always ... love hard, and at all costs. Money means, nothing, remember.
Honesty is ... brutal; brutal honesty doesn’t have to be bad.
My mom ... married my dad.
When I woke up this morning ... I was in my own bed.
Last night before I went to sleep ... I thought back a few dark nights.
Right now ... I’m thinking about a letter I need to write.
My dad is ... waiting for that letter.
Today ... is, and should not be lived as if.

Tonight ... I hope I finally have time to cut wildflowers under the last of the moon.
Tomorrow ... holds promise.
I really want ... to find the right words.
Keeping quiet ... is too easy.
Life is ... easier with Fritos and diet Pepsi.
This weekend ... spells s-o-l-i-t-u-d-e.
My friends hate ... when my weekends spell solitude.
This year ... dunno, can it be my year?!!?!?
My exes are ... a part of the “me” I have left behind, though "she" catches up to me sometimes.
Maybe I should ... quit staying up so late.
I love ... staying up late.
I don’t understand ... 1962-1980, but thrive in spite of this.
My past is ... part of the day before yesterday and the day before that.
Parties are ... okay unless I’m in “solitude mode,” and in that case I’m a f’ing faker!
I’m terrified ... that people know when I’m faking it [at parties].
Photographs ... mark my words and are my words when my words fail.
My life is ... not over yet.

Again, thank you Candy!