Same as it ever was

“...consciousness, it seemed, was a succession of separate particles, being carried along on the surface of the deep and steady unconscious flow of life, of time itself, and in fainting, the particles of consciousness simply stopped, and the rest flowed on, until they were restored: but this was the stoppage, the entire disappearance of that deeper flow which left the particles of consciousness suspended,piling up, ready any instant to shatter with nothing to support them.” (pg 51 The Recognitions Gaddis)

Parts flowing on while others stop.

I wake up not knowing what day it is every day. I spend my first few moments after the alarm going off remembering yesterday. In those memories, I figure out where I am in the week, and in turn what today is. And what I need to do. Fridays are my off days now. My anchor for the rest of the week. If I work a Friday, (as I did on Black Friday), my off-ness continues until the next week. A state of daze.

World tilted. Askew. Paranoia.

The sun setting at 3 isn't helping either. Nor the rain earlier in the week.

Or the hereditary bipolar disposition.

So I turn to the Vitamin D. And the Omega 3s. Doing this dance again. Perhaps having another spin around the Effexor XR and Lamitcal come the new year.

It happens like this: my skin feels not my own. What I see out my eyes is not my sight. Things seem hyper-real to the point of the surreal. This is not my beautiful wife.

Same as it ever was.

And during a mixed state, I'm aware of all of this, me and not me happening simultaneously. Two different states of mind. A north and a south. But more of a left and a right. East West. But not ying yang.

I'm more atonal than harmonious these days.

I'm the minor second. The tritone. Over and over and over again. Little kid on piano. Keyboard. With the mom with the headache, screaming. CANT YOU JUST BE QUIET.

I'm both.

Hyperawareness. Hypersensitivity. Either I want Jack to hold me, or I get scared from any friendly touch. Personal space expands to the room. Do not enter without permission. This gets hard when it's a tiny apartment.

My word for next year is “better”.

If only because the alternative is too scary to contemplate.

Connections

I write this while listening to something called SolarBeat that Suzie introduced to me via a lj post and a twitter account.

And I made this little talisman of sorts. To keep in my wallet. To make me smile when I need to. All because a friend Kurt told me about this wonderful lady and her 37 days.

The best part?

I feel creative again.

Oh it's fall all right

Sitting in his (our) kitchen because there is no room for a desk of my own. Drinking coffee, postponing finishing Zero History.

It's a cold rainy day.

He's sleeping still. And will probably continue to.

And I won't wake him.

Our (his) space.

For the first time in five years, I feel like I can be home.

It's not perfect. And not totally comfortable (no desk, not enough bookshelf space), but it's closer than anything I've had the past five years.

My space being reworked into our space.

The words coming back again.

Ruling planets going back around the proper way.

Thankyou

THANKYOU

Thank you.

Present Tense

Trying to breathe is hard.

I'd rather turn to liquids and sleep.

Instead of turning on others.

Screaming over broken glass in hotel parking lots.

(And it all comes back to words and punches thrown years ago)

Retreating.

Backing up.

Reboot.

Graveyards or Beaches

It's chilly today. And I miss the sound of wind chimes.

From this angle on the front porch that no one uses, next to the front door no one uses, I'm hidden.

The clover in the front yard.

The busy road.

The stone wall that is older than my grandparents made with the same type of stone of the front porch.

Using the wifi in the house that I still don't feel too comfortable in.

(doubting I will feel comfortable anywhere anymore...)

There's a dead leaf sharing my space.

Out of the corner of my eye it looks like a mouse when the wind blows.

There's a heavy duty plastic mailbox that is overgrown with purple flowers.

It looks like a very bad Easter hat that old ladies used to wear.

(And I keep giving and giving and giving and giving, and giving, and I still feel guilty over taking anything.)

(Perhaps I should reread Ayn Rand again)

(David Markson too. God Rest His Soul. (even if one doesn't believe, it's still the thought that counts.))

The choices between beds nowadays isn't a choice.

And to be honest, J. would have both beaches and graveyards if he could.

And I'd have the water.

And mornings to myself.

And quite Sundays while everything sleeps.

And fresh air, even though it's chilly.

Mistaken for Strangers

To deny the past is to deny the future. A man does not make his destiny: he accepts it or denies it. If the rowan's roots are shallow, it bears no crown.

– The Farthest Shore Ursula K. Le Guin

I've been cleaning, going through my old books. My old journals. My old highschool year books.

My ten year reunion is this year. In a few months. And I've been worried about how I stack up against my peers. According to facebook, some are doctors. Others teach music. They have succeeded in their fields of excellence.

And I read through those comments left behind ten long, long, years ago. Promises to “always keep in touch.” and phone numbers to places that don't exist anymore.

I'm not who I was, but I'm very much a product of those years.

All the bleeding (both actual and metaphorical)

All the bad choices.

All the hatred and presumed love.

All the cries for help that fell on deaf ears.

All the cries for help I didn't know I was screaming.

If I could go back in time, I know things would be different. That I would have gotten help earlier. That I would have been diagnosed with being bipolar. That skeletons in my parents' closets would come out sooner. I would have learned how to be whole earlier.

But I wouldn't be who I am.

I wouldn't have learned the hard way that love can hurt more than anything.

That it can burn.

That it could throw another person down a flight of stairs.

I wouldn't know how to pick up my own pieces.

I wouldn't know how broken I truly was.

And if I did when I was sixteen, seventeen? What? I would have gone to the hospital and rumors would have spread that I was crazy. Other kids wouldn't understand. The teachers might, but... stigma.

I wouldn't be the same, for better or for worse.

I wouldn't be strong enough to know how strong I am.

Or that love doesn't mean black eyes or bruised thighs.

That love is having someone tell you a bedtime story over the phone,

or rubbing your head until you fall asleep.

Ten years is a very long time.

But I don't regret it. I don't deny it. It's there.

Here's to the future.

Step Back and Breathe

I read in a book that the objectivity of thought can be expressed using the verb "to think" in the impersonal third person: saying not "I think" but "it thinks" as we say "it rains." There is thought in the universe -- this is the constant from which we must set out every time.

Will I ever be able to say, "Today it writes," just like "Today it rains," "Today it is windy"? Only when it will come natural to me to use the verb "write" in the impersonal form will I be able to hope that through me is expressed something less limited that the personality of a individual.

And for the verb "to read"? Will we be able to say, "Today it reads" as we say "Today it rains"? If you think about it, reading is a necessarily individual act, far more that writing. If we assume that writing manages to go beyond the limitations of the author, it will continue to have a meaning only when it is read by a single person and passes through his mental circuits. Only the ability to be read by a given individual proves that what is written shares in the power of writing, a power based on something that goes beyond the individual. The universe will express itself as long as somebody will be able to say, "I read, therefore it writes."

If on a Winter's Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino

Throw away the mantle

Awake from your uncertain hesitation

No way to describe or equate the feeling

No end to what is at your command

A million thoughts run through you

Concentric circles, ever greater

But you have always known

That this is not who you are

To your questions there'll be answers

VNV Nation - "Perpetual"

Rebirth

[...] in the sense that it is a totality that includes not only what is physically around us but also what is below, or inside, or around or before or after, and founds it and/or justifies it.

But in that case, if we are talking about everything that can be spoken of, we need to include the possible too.

Umberto Eco on trying to define "being" from chapter one of Kant and the Platypus

Spending the day in the Franklin Institute and visiting the King Tut exhibit, I felt like a child again. Awed by how much I don't know. I could breathe there. The quietness. The history. The gods and goddesses that I don't worship directly. But even after thousands of years they still have power in their stare. I felt something stir. The air heavy with possibility again.

Isis wasn't represented, but I said my little thank you prayer anyways.

A necklace called my name in the gift shop. A scarab within an ankh.

Ankh = life
Scarab = to become, to transform

In tarot, the Death card signifies change. In the various readings that people have done for me over this pass week, this card has come up too many times to be coincidence. Change. Death + Rebirth. Transforming and becoming Life. Healing those deep wounds from too many years not speaking up.

I am not a negation.

Eco's "being" includes the possible. I am a possible. I am. I am trying to be. I am here, right now.

Four women, a Greek Chorus:

First Woman

I no longer live in the beginning.

Second Woman

I've lost the beginning.

Third Woman

I'm in the middle,
Knowing.

Third and Fourth Women

Neither the end
Nor the beginning.

First Woman

I'm in the middle.

Second Woman

Coming from the beginning.

Third and Fourth Women

And going towards the end.

(and later:)

First Woman

Open.
Close.
Separate movements.
Stretched-out fingers.
Nails into skin.
One to open.
One to close.
Separate
Motions.
No matter how I try,
These movements
Are not one.
There is a stop between open
And close, and between close
And open.
No effort
Makes these two movements
One.
Close.
Open.
Close.

-- The Serpent A ceremony written by Jean-Claude Van Itallie

Two movements. Two. Separate. Entities. Duality. Yet not conflicting. Or so conflicting that it has become their identity. Their being necessitates them to be contrary. To be at odds. And this is accepted.

I am still trying to accept my own dualities. To take them as a whole and become. To take that next step and live. To change, but not to forget, but to incorporate. Build on top of my deaths to create my lives.