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Saturday, November 6, 2010

From the New Yorker, August 1993

The true self is aggressive, rude, dirty, disorderly, sexual; the false self, which mothers and society instruct us to assume, is neat, clean, tidy, polite, content to cut a chaste rosebud with a pair of silver-plated scissors. "One day I shall manage without her." None of us can manage without some of the hard white stuff of social convention around us, the carapace that protects as well as hides out instinctual core. In "The Bell Jar" Plath closely observes the mental disintegration of her auto-biographical heroine, Esther Greenwood, noting that she hasn't washed her hair or changed her clothes in three weeks. "The reason I hadn't...was becauses it seemed so silly," Esther says. "It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash it again the next. It made me tired just to think of it. I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it." Soon after this, Esther tries to kill herself (as Plath had tried) by crawling under the breezeway of her mother's house and swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. When Alaverez was struck by the smell of Plath's hair on Christmas Eve, 1962, Plath was evidently once again in a condition of wanting to do everything once and for all and be through with it. Opposing the priestess with the long, feral hair was the ultra-clean American girl of Dorothea Krook's description. In "the Journals." Plath's writing is laid out on a kind of grid of "clean" and "dirty" lines of self-representation. On the clean side, she obsessively sets down the baths and showers she takes, the times she washes her hair, the laundry she does, her housecleanings and tidyings;; once she even describes the scrubbing of a pot. On the dirty side, she writes of the clogged pores of her skin, her sinuses full of mucus, her menstrual blood, her throwings up. In an extraordinary passage, written while she was an undergraduate at Smith, Plath presages the precisely observing, perversely transgressing poet of "Ariel " as she celebrates "the illicit sensuous delight I get from picking my nose."

Friday, November 5, 2010

On Sex, love and relationships...

My life is nothing if not complicated. I was forced out of a relationship due to an "Unfortunate Incident." It all turned out for the best, it was a toxic, unhealthy place to live, and I have escaped it. Barely. It was a relationship based mainly on sex. While it was the best I have ever had, that is simply not enough. I prefer the cerebral. I could not stand the way she laughed (think fingernails and chalkboards), she couldn't spell for shit and had poor handwriting. I was constantly picking up after, and she was so scatterbrained I had to manage to keep her shit together, as well as mine. All in all, she was crazy as a fucking loon, as evidenced by her texts to me tonight, about how I ruined her life. It takes two, really. I lost my driver's license, must serve four years probation, and pay over $3000 in costs and fees. A slap on the wrist, really, compared to what I was facing.

I am still in love with my ex-wife, constantly turning to her for advice and instruction. It is not a role she is not comfortable with continuing. I rely upon her too much, for she is the Muse of History. Spend twenty years of your life with someone, and you tend to become dependent. I cannot continue to use her even as a sounding board.

Who I am is all I have left, all I have is empty pockets now. I have driven away so many people due to my manic antics, even I am not laughing. I spend my days banging on the computer, reading books (trashy novels, mainly), painting and writing. I have been so lonely.

However, just because one is lonely does not mean a relationship is what is needed. What I need to do is focus on my mental health, on becoming well enough to become involved with someone again. We are meant to be with others. I do not believe in the "soul mate" theory, that there is just one person we are destined to be with. Just doing the math in my head tells me there should be at least 10 000 people (male or female) who would be compatible with me. It is a big planet, I just gotta find them. I have been looking North, as of late. There seems to be a certain Canadian who, intellectually at least, could find it in her heart to love me.

I have a Muse, the chief muse, who I have been in a relationship of sorts for the past three years. She is my intellectual, aesthetic, and esoteric match. I have never met anyone that holds a candle to her. Unfortunately, she is in a serious relationship. He can provide for her things I never will. But she still needs me. I don't know if it is an ego thing, or what, but she needs me. As I watched her masturbate the other night, I started crying, because I need something more. I don't mind sex, but that is not the determining factor in my happiness.

I need someone who understands me. I have taken on the role of many women's best non-gay, gay boyfriend. I don't mind it, it gives me a sense of accomplishment, to be that knight in tarnished armour, tilting at windmills, coming to the aid of damsels in distress. But what about me? Who will hold me when I need to cry, who will whisper words of encouragement that I my lame ego so desperately needs? I am not that strong. I don't want to be "Crazy Andrew" anymore. I am tired of being the laughing stock of my friend circles. I don't want to be anyone's fucking role model. I am weary. I know I am not long for this world, and I don't want to die alone. That scares me more than anything.

So, for now, I will disconnect from all of the unhealthy relationships I seem to get entangled with. So long, facebook. So long, Durga. So long, (ex-)wife. I am going on a journey that I must travel alone. I don't have a light to show me the way, nor a map to guide me. It is the ultimate fear trip. But I have to do it, for myself. For others. But mainly, for me.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Many of you have heard of Rufus Wainwright, but how many have you heard of his much-talented older sister, Martha? She penned this song for her father....
"Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole"

Poetry is no place for a heart that's a whore
And I'm young & I'm strong
But I feel old & tired
Overfired

And I've been poked & stoked
It's all smoke, there's no more fire
Only desire
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are

You say my time here has been some sort of joke
That I've been messing around
Some sort of incubating period
For when I really come around
I'm cracking up
And you have no idea

No idea how it feels to be on your own
In your own home
with the fucking phone
And the mother of gloom
In your bedroom
Standing over your head
With her hand in your head
With her hand in your head

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I'm all right for you
When all I wanted was to be good
To do everything in truth
To do everything in truth

Oh I wish I wish I wish I was born a man
So I could learn how to stand up for myself
Like those guys with guitars
I've been watching in bars
Who've been stamping their feet to a different beat
To a different beat
To a different beat

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I'm all right for you
When all I wanted was to be good
To do everything in truth
To do everything in truth

You bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody mother fucking asshole
Oh you bloody...

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I'm all right for you
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are
For you, whoever you are

I didn't write this, but this is good, about Hope.

‎"Is it possible to find hope again?" I asked.
She simply said, "Yes."
"And I will hold hope for you
Until you are able to find it again yourself."
I was in the midst of the days
Of bone-weary, aching darkness
Almost certain I would never see
The colors or feel the lightness.
There were days of stubborn solitude
And nights spent on the ward
Where the chemical gods
Tried to make me whole.
If only it was that easy...
Quiet in the safe room with her
Gave way to tenuous moments
Of finding the emotions within
And letting them be felt on the outside.
Trust was built and tears flowed
As fears and secrets were unbound.
With chemicals and spoken words
We began to forge a path towards wholeness
With my guide still holding onto the hope
That my heart and mind were slowly taking back.
It started with a little understanding
Then came a little compassion.
Protecting and nurturing the child within
To find love for the woman I was becoming.
No more labels, no more self-deprecation.
No more seeing myself
Through the eyes of others
Or walking a path not of my choosing.
Am I completely whole yet? No
But, as I always hope to be,
I am a beautiful original work in progress
And in this authenticity
I find that I am good enough.

My first introduction to Rilke...I am such a dolt...

THE NINTH DUINO ELEGY by Rainer Maria Rilke

by Aimee Louise Lund on Thursday, November 4, 2010 at 7:24am
Since this short span might well be lived as lives the laurel, deeper in its green than all other green surrounding, leaves, edged by wavelets, smiling like the breeze - then why, destiny overcome, must we still be human and long for further fate?

Not because happiness exists, that apparent advantage which barely presages loss. Not out of curiosity, nor as an exercise of such a heart as likewise in the laurel lies...But because to be here means so very much. Because this fleeting sphere appears to need us-in some strange way concerns us: we...most fleeting of all. Once and once only for each thing-then no more. For us as well. Once. Then no more... ever. But to have been as one, though but the once, with this world, never can be undone.

So we persevere, attempting to resolve it and contain it in our grasp, in overfilled eyes and within our voiceless heart; attempting to be it, as a gift - for whom? For ourselves, forever! But what can we abscond with? We cannot take our insight with us into the other realm, no matter how painfully gathered. (Canst We?) Nor anything which happened. Not one thing; neither suffering nor the heaviness of our lot. Not the hard earned lore of love, nor that which is beyond speaking. What can these things matter, later, underneath the stars? Better these things remain unsaid. When the rambler returns from the mountain to the vale, he carries no esoteric clump of soil, but some hard won word, pure and simple: a blossom of gentian, yellow and blue. Could it not be that we are here to say: house, bridge, cistern, gate, pitcher, flowering tree, window-or at most: monolith... skyscraper? But to say them in a way they, themselves, never knew themselves to be? Is not the undeclared intent of Earth, in urging lovers on, to make creation thrill to the rhythms of their rapture? Threshold. What do lovers care if, splinter by ancient splinter, they shred the lintels of their own front doors? As well they as the many before and the multitude to come...it was ever so.

Here is the home and the time of the tellable! Speak out and testify.This time is the time when the things we love are dying and the things we do not love are rushing to replace them, shadows cast by shadows: things willingly restrained by temporary confines but ready to spew forth as outer change of form decrees. Between its hammer blows the heart survives - as does, between the teeth, the tongue: in spite of all, the fount of praise.

Exalt no ineffable, rather a known world unto the angel. What do your splendors  signify to him? You are an ingénue in the sphere of feeling he inhabits. So show him a common thing, the crafting of which has been passed down from age to age until our hands are, themselves,shaped to the making of it and our eyes to its beholding. Speak of objects! His eyes will grow wide, as did yours at the twister of the ropes in Rome or the pot-spinner by the Nile. Show him creature joy, without blame, entirely our own; how grief's bitter wail can live as song or transcend the utmost eloquence of violin in service of sorrow.These things that live upon the gesture of farewell know full well when they are praised: dwindling away, they demand rescue! And, that, through us - the most dwindling of all! They desire that we change them, whole, within our invisible hearts; transform them endlessly, Ah!...into ourselves. Whomever we are to be.

Earth, is this your will? An invisible resurrection within ourselves? Is it your desire one day to vanish? Earth! Invisible! What do you demand but transformation? Beloved Earth, I will! Further spring times are not required to win me - On my word, a single May is too heady for my blood. I have been your tongue - tied subject lo, these many years. Ever you spoke true and your holiest idea is Death, our constant friend.

Look, I live!
On what?
Neither childhood nor future
grows less...
prodigious springs
of being swell within my heart.


 ·  · Share
  • 2 people like this.
    • Wm. Andrew Turman Thank you, dearest, for tagging me on this. I don't know whether this is a man or woman---I am so dumb! Forgive my ignorance...now I have to google the name. I HAVE heard of this person, just never knew enough about him/her. You have proved my ignorance, yet again. Or to put a positive spin on it, broadened my horizons...
      3 hours ago · 
    • Aimee Louise Lund broadened yer horizons my dear Wm, Rainer is a man, a poet extraodinaire IMHO, his Duino elegies being his best work IMO.
      3 hours ago · 
    • Robert Chrysler Wm Andrew, you idiot! how could you not be aware who Rainer Maria Rilke is??? one of the all-time greatest...
      about an hour ago · 
    • Aimee Louise Lund Hey, easy now R; there are many greats that even me and you have yet to discover.
      Wm is not an idiot.
      Manners please?!
      about an hour ago · 
    • Robert Chrysler he is so an idiot...just ask him...
      about an hour ago · 
    • Robert Chrysler and Letters To a Young Poet is also a great work, aimee...have my own reasons for liking that one in particular...
      about an hour ago ·  ·  1 person
    • Aimee Louise Lund well in his comment there at the beginning he calls himself Dumb and Ignorant, I feel this to be sufficient, no need to rub his ego in the mud....
      about an hour ago · 
    • Wm. Andrew Turman Doh! Dopey me...
      45 minutes ago · 

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Second chances....

Rarely in life are we given second chances, much less third, or fourths. I am lucky that way I guess. I always find a way to weasel out of the predicaments I find myself in, usually of my own making. I had what I will call, an "Unfortunate Incident," which warrants no further explanation at this time. It was the worst wake up call I have ever had in my life. I had the opportunity to do some real soul searching. Needless, to say, I did not like what I saw. I lived in a world of shit. So, I decided to make a real move, the only one I could afford to, and move back in with my folks. It is only temporary; my father is retiring, and they are going to move to Tennessee soon. At least I am finally "Being of Use" again, taking care of those who took care of me. It gets me back closer to D.C., my favorite city in the states, and gives me time for some real navel-gazing. Where do I go from here? Anybody's guess, really. There is only one way to go, which is up. I started some new mental health treatment, and there is a Tibetan Meditation Center not far from here. I want to get back involved in my son's life, after almost a year apart. I have a lot of work to do, which is sort of funny, because that is not something I am used to doing. I have the will now, however, and as Nietzsche said:


Suppose, finally, we succeeded in explaining our entire instinctive life as the development and ramification of one basic form of the will--namely, of the will to power, as my proposition has it... then one would have gained the right to determineall efficient force univocally as--will to power. The world viewed from inside... it would be "will to power" and nothing else.
from Beyond Good and Evil
S

Monday, November 1, 2010

Unfinished scholarly article on Wm. S. Burroughs as an Absurdist


Consideration of  William S. Burroughs, thought of as the elder statesman of the Beat Generation, and his seminal work, “Naked Lunch,” has lead me to see him as a prime example of the Absurdist movement. Elected to the Academy of Arts and Letters in 1975, Burroughs was a writer, artist, and spoken word performer. He rarely held a job, but worked as an exterminator, blah blah blah

Burroughs wrote  the novels “Naked Lunch,” “Queer,” “Junkie,” and “Wild Boys,” among others. These were based primarily on his experiences as a homosexual drug abuser. He was addicted to heroin for the last 50 years of his life, and his drug use had a profound influence on his writings. Detailing what it was like to be addicted to “junk,” Burroughs took his audience to places they had never been.  He opened up a dark underworld of male prostitution,  auto-erotic experience, and was often censored for his writings. The last obscenity trial in the United States, Massachusettes v. XXXX, 1965, involved the publication of “Naked Lunch.”

“Naked Lunch” is a collection of ten chapters, intended to be read in random order by the audience; it is not a linear novel. It details the exploits of XXXXX, and spills sordid tales about homosexuality, heroin addiction and auto-erotic asphyxiation. I doubt my mother would have bought it for me had she read the blurb on Amazon.com!
Absurdism, at its very heart, is a philosophy stating that the efforts of humanity to find meaning in the universe ultimately fail (and are hence absurd) because no such meaning exists. Absurdism is very close to the philosophies of existentialism and nihilism and has its  origins in the writings of Kierkegaard, and Camus.  According to Camus, one’s freedom and the opportunity to give life meaning lies in the recognition of absurdity. If the absurd experience is truly the realization that the universe is fundamentally devoid of absolutes, then we as individuals are truly free. For Camus, the beauty which people encounter in life makes it worth living. People  may create meaning in their own lives, which may not be the objective meaning of life, but can still provide something for which to strive. However, he insisted that one must always maintain an ironic distance between this invented meaning and the knowledge of the absurd, lest the ficticious meaning take place of the absurd.
In fiction, absurdism centers on the behavior of absurd characters, situations or subjects. While a great deal of absurdist fiction is humorous in nature, the hallmark of the genre is not humor but rather the study of human behavior  under circumstances that are highly unusual. Absurdist fiction posits little judgment about characters or their actions; that is left to the reader. Absurdist works traditionally lack a plot structure (rising action, climax, falling action). Also, the “moral” of the story is not explicit, and the characters are often ambiguous in nature. Because absurdist fiction is non-conformist, many readers struggle when exposed to it.

“Naked Lunch” is Burroughs most famous work, and is not very accessible. It is a difficult read. The experiences related in it are not comfortable. It highlights a sub-culture not many people participate in.  Some of the behaviors described are despicable, and often illegal.   

"Being of Use"


Yesterday I came to a realization that was initially hard to accept: I may never return to teaching full-time. I have degrees in Social Studies, German, and Secondary Education. I have a Master’s degree in Education of the Exceptional Child, specializing in Behavioral and Emotional Disorders. For ten years, I was able to hold it together enough to work with children ranging in ages from three to twenty-one. Then something happened.
            Despite my best efforts, despite the help my wife gave me, my mental illness took over my life. I have been without a job for 6 ½ years. After 18 months of separation from my wife and developmentally disabled son, a time period that saw me IN the hospital more than OUT of it, a time of lost dreams, shattered goals, a time spent wandering, squandering, I feel as if I am finally gaining a toehold on reality. I applied for a job as a custodian through Goodwill Industries, an organization devoted to helping people with disabilities find gainful employment. The interviews went well, and soon I will be cleaning toilets with the same zeal and enthusiasm I once brought to the classroom. Why? It is because I see it as a stepping-stone to a normal life, after many years of being unemployed, and spending some quality time in mental institutions.
The last hospitalization I had was definitely the best one I have had in a long time. I had the best doctor the facility had to offer; the psych-techs were, although tough at times, very good, and more importantly, the mix of patients was what I needed to survive a difficult time period in my life. I made some lasting friendships, with people whose diagnoses I despised prior to this admission, with people whose behaviors even I considered bizarre, with people whose stories were so dissimilar to mine, I first thought I couldn’t relate to them. I was able to open up in groups, something I hate, and instead of being rejected, my story was embraced.
Know this, I think group therapy is for pussies. When manic, I usually turn it into my own personal show, using the captive audience as practice for my stand-up comedy routines. This time, however, I was able to listen and relate to others. They accepted what I had to offer and it was evident that they shared similar experiences. Make no mistake, I often wrested control of the group from the psychologist, but this time I was able to draw upon my experience as a teacher and facilitate the discussion into something productive.  I was able to draw others into the conversation, others who had not planned on sharing, make some sense of continuity, tie it up into a neat package with a bow on top. After the last group therapy session I participated in, other patients came up to me and described how much more meaningful this particular session was, that it was the best group therapy session so far.
That is what I do. I have a dominant personality, and can gauge the sensibilities of whatever room I am in, and take it over, for better or for worse. I am a social empath, an emotional sponge, and often, to my own detriment, feed on the pain and anger of others. I am a sensitive artist; that is what I do. Unless I have an outlet to get rid of this pain, through my painting and writing, I can become sicker.  That is what started happening near the end of my last stay. The ward was getting over-crowded, and I was getting daily panic attacks because of my social anxieties. Hallways where we were constantly bumping into one another, long lines for the doctor and medications, groups where we had to tote stacks of chairs into the room so that everyone could fit, all contributed to my tension.  I had a nice run at the hospital; it was time to leave.
I was not well yet. My wife could tell you that. She would not allow me a visit with my son unless it was supervised. I scheduled an emergency meeting with my psychiatrist and he recommended bumping up my medications, from the minimum dosage to the maximum. My wife still felt uncomfortable with letting me visit my son alone. That weekend, I ended up talking down from suicide a friend I had made in the hospital. With the help of his wife, he made it back into a hospital. I drove the three hours to visit with him his second day back in the “joint.”
I couldn’t go back to the hospital, as my wife and one of my best friends suggested. I had things to take care of, responsibilities and obligations, stuff I could not do chained up somewhere. I took refuge in my apartment, cutting myself off from the rest of the world like I normally do, communicating through the internet and telephone. I figured if I took my medications as prescribed, stuck to my sleep schedule, tried to eat well and toughed it out, I would be better served. I was right this time.
I am not totally well. I know that. I am trying hard, and that is what matters. My stamina is not very high. Sometimes all I can handle is one or two meetings a day before I become emotionally drained, exhausted.  I am learning to recognize my limitations. My work as a janitor is scheduled to be 15-20 hours a week. One of my father’s favorite expressions, “How do you eat an elephant---a bite at a time!” is becoming real to me.  As a person with Bipolar Disorder, I have to be ever-vigilant about my mental health. I need to learn my limitations. I have to set boundaries, even if that disappoints some people. Nothing is more important to me than staying well.
Here are the simple keys to staying well: staying on the proper mix of medications and taking them as prescribed, keeping a proper sleep schedule, eating healthy, getting some exercise and relying upon your support system. Nothing else matters. A student doctor said something to me the last time I was in the hospital for electroshock therapy, something I resented at the time: “The medications can only do so much; the ECT can only do so much. A lot of it must come from you.” You see, there is no magic bullet, no simple cure for this illness. This is something I must deal with for the rest of my life; I will always experience highs and lows. But, as my wife says, I can control how I contribute to those manias and depressions.  It is my choice whether or not I put on that pot of coffee and stay up all night long, smoking cigarettes, painting and writing. This is usually a “push,” something that forces my body into at least a hypo-mania. Don’t let anyone tell you different, sleep deprivation is a drug, and for a junky like me, that is dangerous.
I was called into the office of Wendy Stewart, Executive Director of Cambria County’s chapter of NAMI, the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill. She said she had an opportunity for me. She said that she was willing to pay to send me to a facilitator’s training, to learn how to run a support group for individuals with Bipolar Disorder. Drawing upon my strengths as a natural-born teacher and as someone with a great deal of experience with the mental health system, she thinks I would be perfect for this kind of position. I agree.
I read a book once that had a phrase that changed my life and gave it meaning. It talked about “being of use.” That has become my life’s mission, to be of use, somehow. I used to think it was being a teacher. I come from a teaching family. Several of my relatives are teachers, in one way or another.  I now think my mission is different. Because of my illness, I cannot subject myself to a lot of stress. Perhaps I have a different calling, I realized.  Perhaps that mission involves telling others my story, sharing my experiences and using the vast knowledge of the mental health system I have gained the hard way to give others hope.
Hope is a central theme in my artwork. If nothing else, I have optimism and hope that I can one day have as normal life as possible. It may be different than the reality I had planned. My dreams must be adapted, changed. But that is okay. Rarely does anything turn out as we planned. There is even an adage, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans!” I can accept the fact that I may never have a classroom to call my own, in the traditional sense. Most of what I have learned has been outside of school, on my own, in the “real” world. If I can help others with the knowledge I have gained about surviving the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder, I will consider myself, “being of use.”

21 questions with Wm. Andrew Turman


Please explain what just happened.

I am not sure, the cats were playing with it when I walked in. Is it dead?
What is your earliest memory?
My mother reading a book to me, when my dad was stationed in Viet Nam.
If you weren’t an artist, what profession would you choose?
Politician---except I wouldn’t sell my soul to the highest bidder. I wouldn’t last very long, so I would be living on the sreets again soon.
Please describe the current contents of your refrigerator.
Crusty bread, sugar-free jello, and milk. I am a bachelor, so if it doesn’t come from the drive-thru window or out of the microwave, I don’t eat it.

What verb best describes you?
Burn.

What would you say to yourself if you could go back in time and have a conversation with yourself at age thirteen?
I would tell myself to not give up and go along with the herd mentality. There were a helluva lot of things they didn’t tell me when I signed on with this outfit, but I have not compromised myself yet!

What are the steps you take to regain your composure?
Breathe…and imagine them naked and fornicating. I think fornicating is the answer to every problem we face. If everyone were getting laid, the world would be a better place.
Define “success”.
Not compromising yourself in the face of adversity. I came up with this catchy little phrase over coffee, cigarettes and facebook this morning:
"Be authentic and pure in all that you do; the consequences are not great, when your aim is true...."
From what or whom do you derive your greatest inspiration?
I have a stable of Muses to give me inspiration, from which to derive inspiration for my art, but the true inspiration for my writing is Hope. Hope in a better tomorrow, with a dash of snarkiness. That is what inspires me
What change do you want to be in the world?
I know that my work will be lost in the translation, but I would like to make things easier for those who have mental health issues, to let them know there is Hope.  Some people have real problems---I am just crazy and lazy!
Are you pro- or anti-emoticon? Please explain.
Anti-. Hey, I am all for brevity, but the whole emoticon issue is too cutesy for me.
How are you six degrees from Kevin Bacon?
I haven’t a clue…we both like pork?
What makes you feel most guilty?
The fact that I have lost everything I held most dear to my manic antics. Who I am is all I have left.  It is okay when I am depressed, I just take to the bed and leave everyone alone. When I get manic, I tend to get cacophonistic and get into peoples’ faces. I can be so outré sometimes. I have hurt the ones I love the most, and have paid the price.
Please list three things you never leave home without.
1. Keys, for one, because I have to drive everywhere
2. Cigarettes. I must have cigarettes.
3. My MacBook Pro. My whole life is on there. From my music and my art, to my schedule and social connectedness. I love connecting to the internet for free in public places. I feel like such a rebel..

What is the worst piece of advice you’ve ever gotten?
I do not dwell on “worst” issues. Not me. The BEST advice I ever got was from my father, when a friend unintentionally committed suicide. He gave me five words---“Be safe and be strong.” That has become my mantra.
What is the best advice you’ve ever given to someone else?
That there is hope to be found, in every situation, that is my best advice, especially to those with mental health issues. That shines through in everything I do, from my art to my poems, from my work as an advocate for mental health issues to my stand-up comedy routine.
What do you consider the harshest kind of betrayal?
Turning one’s child against a parent. I am not some kinda scary monster. A maniac, yes, but I am no demon. This I have experienced first hand, and it hurts. I finally had to move, just to live my life.

Of all the game shows that have graced our TV screens throughout history, which one would you want to be a contestant on and why?
Jeopardy, because I am such a snob and so shallow. I know a lot of random facts due to my love of knowledge. I would kick your ass!
What do you want to know?
Why? Do you have the answers? I want to find out for myself, first-hand.
What would you like your Last Words to be?
“FUCK!!!”
Please explain what will happen.
There will be dancing and feasting in Jeruselum next year. That is all I know. I am gonna make it, through this year, if it kills me.

I used to be there for you---a poem for my son, the Boy, Harper


I was there the night you were born,
At home, your mother standing at the doorway.
She caught you in her arms.
I was there for the 13 days you were in the neonatal intensive care unit.
Your first  sounds, your first words, your first steps.
I was there for you (not like now).
I decided that I would be a better father if I studied Special Education
Instead of  being a third grade teacher like I had wanted.
I was there for you when you went to Head Start.
I was the disabilities coordinator, making plans for kids like you.
Your Mother and I went to court, suing the school that did not want to teach you.
We won, of course.
So you went to school with your friends, your “normal” peers.
I was there for you (not like now) when you learned to ride a bike without training wheels.
The proudest moment of my life was when you finally pulled away from my steady hands and started that “Spiral of Death,” an ever-tightening circle until you finally crashed and cried. I had tears, too, but of joy.
When we got word that you won third place in a state-wide essay contest about inclusion, I was there for you (not like now).
I was there when you had your many meltdowns, to soothe and calm you the best I could.
When I lost my job, I was there for you even more. I was there for you when you were not in school.  I fed you, bathed you, clothed you. I was there,  in your bed, when you fell asleep, all night in case you needed something, and there when you woke up.
I was there to take you to your drum lesson, and to Starbucks  if you were good.
I was there for you (not like now).
I was there for you when you were sick, when you needed to go to the doctor.
I was there for all of your best birthday parties.
I was there for Christmases.
I was there to teach you how to swim.
I was there for you (not like now).
I do not know why I left you the day after Christmas, 2007.
I just did.
You have seen me at my best, but also at my worst.
For four months, at the end of last year, the only reason I got out of bed was so that I could call you every night. I only left my apartment when I was allowed to see you. I only ate when  we went out together.
I am so proud of you. You have accomplished much. For most of it, I was there for you (not like now).
It has been almost three months since I last saw you, or was allowed to talk to you on the phone.
Life has changed greatly for me, and for you, over the past two years.
Your Mother and I are no longer married.
I moved, several times, but now I live an hour away from your house.
But I still think of you every day. The sparkle in your eyes, the tousled hair, the crooked smile. I miss taking a nap with you. I miss reading to you. I miss you.
I was there for you (not like now).
I cannot wait for the day that I get to hold you in my arms again. Kiss your shining face, take you by the hand the way I do.
People change, life changes. It is what it is.
Know that I am better now, better than ever, and that I will see you as soon as possible. Know that I miss you and love you.
I will be there for you (not like now).

Living with a terminal mental illness...


"This illness will be the death of me yet!" That is something I am fond of saying when I refer to my particular mental illness, Bipolar Disorder. The reverse is also true: "This illness will be the life of me!" It is not easy to be Bipolar. I struggle daily with pain, despair and loneliness that you can only imagine. I also experience joy, insight and creativity that you, a person without a mental disorder, cannot begin to fathom.
It has not been easy. I have been hospitalized at least 50 times over the past 25 years.  I have tried just about every medication on the market. I have gone through almost every psychotherapy approach imaginable. I have endured 45 electroshock treatments. But I have found only one thing that has really helped me in my journey: determination and grit.
It is not easy to navigate the mental health system to get what one needs. I tire of constantly demanding what I think might keep me well. But know this: I now want to be well. I don't want to be mentally ill. It takes constant vigilance on my part to keep a toehold in this world, to keep from drifting into my own version of reality, which is quite different from yours.
I have not worked in the past 6 1/2 years. I have a Master's degree in Special Education. Just this past week, I had a job opportunity to become a janitor, and the interview went well! I will pour my heart and soul into the work of cleaning toilets, just as I did into working with a classroom full of students. Why? Because it is a stepping-stone to a life of fulfillment.
The keys to staying well, I have found, can be simple: take my medications, stay on a sleep schedule, eat right and exercise. I also have my painting and writing that allow me to take my pain and joy and express them in an acceptable manner.
I have a long journey, without a map, without companionship, without much light. It is hard, but I choose to go on, because I am basically an optimist, and I have no choice but to continue. I will not let my illness stand in the way of being human and successful. I want as normal a life as possible.
I have lost friends and family to my illness. Who I am is all I have left. Some relationships are beyond repair, some will eventually return. It isn't easy being me, but it isn't easy being around me, either. I lose all rational thought when I am sick. I know that I will always have this illness; it won't magically disappear. I must simply cope as best as I can and rely on a support system, those who have agreed to prop me up when I need the help.
Funny thing about the human spirit. It holds out hope in the face of insurmountable circumstances. Hope is a constant theme in my art. Hope is what I hold closest to my heart. I will survive, and one day, be happy. Normal happy.

"I am mentally ill...I am supposed to act out!" ---12 Monkeys, film by Terry Gilliam

I have recovered my life, finally after trying out 6 different hospitals in 7 days, spending 2 1/2 weeks in prison after what I term, the "Unfortunate Incident," and yet another 1 1/2 weeks in yet another asylum. After said "Incident" I was evicted from my residence and homeless until taken in by my nearly retired parents. I moved states, yet still have my driver's license suspended and will be serving probation for the next four years. Needless to say, life is quite different now, slower. I am glad to finally "be of use," even if it is only for doing the most menial of tasks. Nothing like taking care of those who took care of you.

Got the book "Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears," by Pema Chadron. A skant 99 pages, but brimming FULL of wisdom. She is like the sane little old grandmother I never had. Buddhism is the only thing that I have found to help with my mental illness, other than the highly addictive benzodiazipines. There are trade-offs in life, I guess.

This is the first post of what, hopefully, will be many. I need to collect the thoughts that keep bouncing in my head and make some money. I am confident that my many ramblings will eventually, spontaneously, form into a cohesive whole, one that is marketable and EVERYTHING! Yeah, yeah.....