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!
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)