(510-110)

It is possible for a writer to make, or remake at least, for a reader, the primary pleasure of eating,or drinking, or looking on, or sex. Novels have their obligatory tour-de-force, the green-flecked gold omelette aux fines herbes, melting into buttery formlessness and tasting of summer, or the creamy human haunch, firm and warm, curved back to reveal a hot hollow, a crisping hair or two, the glimpsed sex. They do not habitually elaborate on the equally intense pleasure of reading. There are obvious reasons for this, the most obvious being the regressive nature of the pleasure, a mise-en-abime even, where words draw attention to the power and delight of words, and so ad infinitum, thus making the imagination experience something papery and dry, narcissistic and yet disagreeably distanced, without the immediacy of sexual moisture or the scented garnet glow of good burgundy. ~ Possession A.S. Byatt

(458)

They were children of a time and culture that mistrusted love, "in love," romantic love, romance in toto, and which nevertheless in revenge proliferated sexual language, linguistic sexuality, analysis, dissection, deconstruction, exposure. They were theoretically knowing: they knew about phallocracy and penisneid, punctuation, puncturing and penetration, about polymorphous and polysemous perversity, orality, good and bad breasts, clitoral tumescence, vesicle persecution, the fluids, the solids, the metaphors for these, the systems of desire and damage, infantile greed and oppression and transgression, the iconography of the cervix and the imagery of the expanding and contracting Body, desired, attacked, consumed, feared. ~ Possession by A.S. Byatt

(61)

"Young girls are sad. THey like to be; it makes them feel strong."

--Poseession by A. S. Byatt

I would name another cat after him

Accept the truth: my grandfather is dying.

Yes, yes, you can say "well, we all are." But, you aren't moving to a hospice facility, and you know where you are, who your loved ones are.

And writing seems so empty.
I can't express this feeling, you just know it. If you've watched a very sick loved one fall apart, you just know. It's not an experience you can tie up in words.

It's a tightness of the chest.
The tears you hold back so the rest of the family doesn't all burst into tears.
It's the feel of the bottom of the tissue box.
The taste of cold coffee and vending machine snacks at 930pm.

It was the feeling in February when he was in the hospital the last time, right before his birthday and I silently made a prayer, "please don't let him die before he can read that stupid Jean Auel book he's been asking about since I've worked at a bookstore." And it's the knowing that even though he got the book, he's been too sick to read very far. And you know he never will.

It's that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach when he asks for you, and about some books, and you have no idea what he's talking about.


It's watching your aunts and mother cry.
(which hurts more in a way)



So, Tristan Allen is keeping me company. Along with Bach. And the cloudy April sky.
It's a small comfort.

Words of Wisdom

DAILY PRACTICE: Push hard to get better, become smarter, grow your devotion to the truth, fuel your commitment to beauty, refine your emotional intelligence, hone your dreams, negotiate with your shadow, cure your ignorance, shed your pettiness, heighten your drive to look for the best in people, and soften your heart -- even as you always accept yourself for exactly who you are with all of your so-called imperfections. -- pg 5 Pronoia is the Antidote for Paranoia Rob Brezsny


Read and repeat multiple times a day.

Welcome to the Dollhouse

I've begun to question who I am.

Personally, I blame my marathon viewing of the only two seasons of Dollhouse.

But there's more.

In the course of a few weeks last year, I had my boss bring up my bipolarness in a closed door reprimand meeting; my boyfriend's best friend explain away why I was angry as being bipolar instead of being angry at the situation at hand; and my boyfriend's therapist (whom I have never met) tell my boyfriend that I'm not bipolar.

I've rebuilt my life back in 2004 when I was diagnosed. I felt whole. The missing piece was finally there. I could explain myself to people and more importantly, to myself. Hi, I'm Kelly. I'm bipolar. It's who I was. It's who I am. It made me get help and come to terms with aspects of my personality that I didn't want to. It made me better.

Fastforward to 2010/2011: I've been off any pysch-meds for going on two years. I take my vitamin D and a multi-vitamin and for the most part, I'm fine. But I still swing, my stress levels rise like a flash flood and the dam breaks.

I asked Jack yesterday if he ever felt like he needed a vacation from life. And he responded with asking if our relationship was working out.

And it all makes me wonder what's in my head and what's not. And should I just go with my reality of things because, well, I can't have another.

And as long as I'm breathing, that's good right? And where do I go from here? And is this all exacerbated because I have a small fever?

And I can't get the Dollhouse theme out of my head.

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.