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!

Sunday in a Black Sweater ... trying to decided if I go all out or stay inside.

Hell Boxes and Handbaskets

What it feels like ...
a monster tumor,
a kind of malignancy,
as if someone
has gnawed my bones,
splitting through to red marrow,
feasting on my insides,
a hunger beyond my reach,
defying me, stealing my might
spitting the acid mess
of woulda-shoulda-couldas
back into my open wound.

Worse yet ...
the wound is me,
but does not become me,
hard-scarring assault on my being,
burning worse than fire,
cryo'd, shards of skeleton,
me-mulch, like broken china,
pieces to small to repair,
dust that burns my eyes,
stinging my tongue,
burning past my throat,
gut rot, hemorrhaging free.

I am choking ...
I cannot breathe,
unable to draw life
betwixt-between broken ribs,
pithy meat gone acid-burn,
useless feed for my blood,
what's left of what has been let,
circulating in bloodless cold hell,
as I feel the curse now
acutely aware, chronically burdened
by a cure hurting worse
than the original disease.

I am left ...
reeling from strong medicine,
side- and after-effects rotting me,
occasional bouts of overdose,
for quick and certain relief,
in order to clear all margins,
the inner mending painstaking,
a deathlike, anemic winter,
hurting to the healing bone,
until finding the strength
I unlay blame, kill the shame,
reweaving heart to soul again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hell•box
n. Printing
A receptacle for broken or discarded type. The trough that runs between the aisle of the heavy metal carts into which dead pages are thrown. In the old-time printing world, this was a place for "discarded type," a recycling bin for "broken type."
"Hellboxes" are also used by soldiers, with the box holding the detonation switch for the wired explosives at the other end of the long fuse line.


hand·bas·ket Function: noun: a small portable basket -- usually used in the phrase to hell in a handbasket denoting rapid and utter ruination .... or not! :)

Becoming Me

The 21st century finds me,
staring down the electric range,
so not Plath-able,
even with miles of duct tape.
A garage full of boxes,
of unpacked books,
what would Sexton do with that?
No place to park after dark,
which leaves me, leaving me,
out in the open,
an empty husk,
no one the wiser,
to my undoing,
my coming undone
becoming me.

Filling in the Blanks in Blank's Apartment

Filling in the Blanks in Blank's Apartment

On the floor of the bedroom is a futon couch/bed on a low-lying wooden folding frame. The futon lies perpetually flat, its folding abilities an implied, and not yet performance art. I have yet to see this bed act like a couch.

A growing pile of screws and washers rest under the futon frame, hence its inability to return to lounge-upright from perpetual bed status. Of the two cats in the apartment, the white cat, pink-eared and blue-eyed, playfully bats this hardware about on a regular basis. The black cat drools a lot.

I read once in an entertainment article that the comedic actor Chevy Chase (famous for his falls on Saturday Night Live) slipped, fell and injured himself in his bedroom one night. He had stepped and then skated on a magazine left at the carpeted bedside. For all his staged falls on SNL, he was unable to right himself at home, and after a bout of magazine-boarding he suffered injuries.

I'm pretty sure this is the reason that Blank keeps his “Victoria's Secret” catalogs and “Legs!!!” magazines under the futon. Though his futon frame rides very nearly to the ground, and a person has to roll out of it rather than disembarking from a sitting, to standing to walking position, Blank keeps the magazines out of sight, but close in mind, to prevent household accidents. And, I suppose, within reach for “other stuff.”

Against the wall, and above the futon and frame, attached to nothing but memories of another bed, stands the remains of a waterbed headboard. It is of the mirrored and shelved variety. You could say it was a gift, the truth of the matter being; previous tenants left it behind.

If Blank feels like delving into someone's thoughts, besides his own, he has a jar of pennies on the headboard in order to pay for incoming calls for conversation. A jar of quarters rests next to the jar of pennies, on the outside chance that the bedding might one day be offered an all-expense-paid trip to the Laundromat.

The entire time Blank and I have been seeing each other, both the penny and quarter jar have gone up in value. From time to time, I have even donated to the cause, silver and copper, leaking from the pockets of my jeans on more than one occasion. No pennies have been dispensed for thoughts, and the sheets very well could travel to the Laundromat on their own power, followed by Blank's dirty jeans.

Time, not money, is what we spend in this room. There are wide waste and profit margins. It's a good thing math makes me sleepy, or thoughts like this would keep me up at night.

Across the bedroom, is a white-painted dresser of no particular design quality. It is the remains of Blank's parents' apartment days, a nonplus piece they no longer wanted among their modern day décor. It is too perfect for Blank's needs and was exactly the right price --FREE! The delivery of this piece was free as well, and a matching bookcase was thrown into the bargain.

My first time in Blank's apartment, I fought the urge to judge the man by the cover of his books, but old habits die hard. Book curiosity got the best of me and I spied the shelves for clues, as I spy them again now, months later, thinking perhaps I missed something. This man is still yet a boy.

The shelves have not changed much in the months that I have known Blank, other than a thin film of dust. What remains on the shelves is a hardcover book on how to pick up women, a few books that were required reading for college, including Leaves of Grass and a copy of Plath. Blank calls them his “sure to get laid” volumes.

Filling in any remaining spaces are Blank's books on C++ programming. There are also several cling photo albums filled with pictures of Blank's parents, his subdivided land/ranch-house only child upbringing, family vacations and a few college photos. He has an enormous assortment of pictures of his cats.

I believe I've failed to mention the window in the bedroom. I look at it now, turning away from what I'm not finding on these shelves. The window is expansive, commanding the entire wall, with a wide ledge, perfect for sitting, plant or person. It is only three floors up; however, a useless exercise if a person were to jump. I suppose this is why I have stayed put, until now.

The sun squints behind the dusty blinds, as if to scrutinize me. What business do I have here? Just how much longer am I going to hang around? What do I think I will find here?

I turn my face from this interrogation and continue my mental tour of this all too familiar place.

All or most of the furniture Blank owns is in this room. It could for, all intents and purposes, be considered the main room in this very small apartment. It is the room, in fact, we use the most.

The outlying rooms include the entrance hall, which opens into the living room, which opens into the kitchen, which spills into the hallway, which runs right by the bathroom, and here you are, right back in the bedroom!

The room we use the most.

Affordable apartment living is in a circle, if you are a nearly 30-something man living in a trendy part of the city. Trendy is the polite way of saying, this apartment is beyond all pretenses and not worth the rent for such an image.

The living room in Blank's apartment also doubles as a dining room. When I first came to Blank's place, there were four chairs surrounding what remains now to be now just the table, a bike, a computer desk, a desk chair, a stereo system and a tower of CDs. The TV had wheels and had already been shoved into the bedroom.

Blank has no couch. He owns no dish towels. The dishes and glasses in his kitchen cupboards are circa 1980s, things his mother couldn't sell at rummage sales over the years. The refrigerator contains mostly clear liquids with Aquafina bottled water and a bottle of vodka. What is not transparent, is white --eggs, a box of baking soda and the walls of the fridge.

The kitchen chairs have long since been moved to an alternate location --the Dumpster. Blank has pushed the glass-topped kitchen table against the wall of his living/dining area, just under one of the only two pictures on the wall, a repo print, a Lichtenstein. This afforded some space for Blank's recliner, yet another hand-me-down, lacking a price tag of any kind, and kindly dropped off by his parents.

The chair reminds me of the dry heaves in its absence of color. Vomit, in this case, would probably be a step up, for this less than beige chair.

The nausea hits me now, that feeling of over-eating, but yet still hungry in some odd way, and I begin to actively leave this apartment, in search of, I don't know what.

Blank has so often pointed out that I never leave anything behind after I spend a night or a weekend. My leave-taking, this time, is no different. I require no boxes, not even a small carry-on. On prior departures, admittedly, I combed the place and removed all evidence of any activity. Forensic relationship experts would find few clues that I existed here.

My tour of this apartment appears to be over. I leave, where I came in, shutting the door behind me.

I intend to begin again.


________________________________________
*My hope is that this piece reigns as "slice of life" observation and does not come off as a judgmental and/or autobiographical in nature, although we all know that readers tend to consider, dollars to doughnuts, if that darn writer might not just be penning all about themselves, or someone they new --no matter what they write!

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott advises, if you are being horribly judgmental and/or biographical, you might consider changing the characteristics of a person slightly so they are less than clearly identified and less likely to sue or slash your tires. She has also joked, if you are writing about a past lover, you should give him a smaller than normal penis. She stated that no man in his right mind would sue you for defamation of character, if he had to go in a court room and say, "See, that's all about me, every last detail!" --- including the nearly microscopic member!

While I like Lamott's advice on how to reweave the patterns of a life observed, I chose to leave the size and nature of sex organs out of this one, unless of course you read between the lines, which I hope I do. -And if that's the case, you will find more than one person in this piece … mirror, mirror on this apartment wall. -A