A smathering of random jibber jabber #2

Since the first one went so well, here is #2.

Last night went to two house parties (it seems like tiss the season for renovations). I never understand why most parties always end up in the kitchen. Why is that? No matter how small or how large the kitchens are, people are sucked in by some mysterious invisible gigantic shop-vac. Sure, the fridge is there - easy access to all things food, but does it go deeper than that? Could it be our instincts to gather and share in a communal space that is implicitly inviting? What do you think of when you think of a kitchen? Food? Good smelling food? Family dinners during the holidays? I dunno. Help me out here guys... At both parties, the hub of activity was in the kitchen. Party #2 (Hi chicklet!) and the hosts with the mosts had the most AMAZING kitchen on the planet this side of Emeril's (BANG) house. Two islands, state of the art everything, cooking space enough to fix a whole head of cattle in - unbelievable. And on the 'islands' were party guests, hanging in the kitchen. A mystery. I wonder if I brought my fridge and stove into my front room for my next house party, would the masses follow the metal?

I came across this seemingly random document as I was cleaning out my computer files (can you say PROCRASTINATION?? I am getting a little terrified of that play!! I now hide under my desk when I open a new document window for it...). It's pretty heavy duty and is from a while ago, but I thought I would add it here. Sometimes my life is a little like a dramatic Sienfeld episode. Sometimes it's not as easy to laugh at the absurd as it is to cry.


7/19/04 9:57 PM

Just when I thought things were bad enough…

Today, during lunch at the Graduate house (a cool hideaway from the humidity) over California salad with Balsamic vinegar, I confessed to my mother that life is getting a little harder every day. I confessed to her that what I thought was gone forever (or at least what was once manageable) is coming back again, chipping away at the last tendons of my strength, sanity, sense of self.

I am getting so tired mom. Tired like when I was just starting the breakdown. Each day, I can hear my voice amplified as if I were watching a film: Getting up in the morning, having to face the day was unbearable, so difficult. It took so much strength, strength that I had reserved for being able to breathe. I’m left with nothing but a shell of skin and bones too heavy to drag around with me all day. My head weighs too much, especially when I am swimming in my own self doubt and sinking into the depths of my own neurosis.

I never wanted to feel this weak again. I always hoped that I would not have to face the day that my body became my lead casket, and existence a chore.


Getting up in the morning, this morning, I watched that tiny thread of hope I had woven into my tapestry of hope, unravel before my eyes. One hoop chain takes with it another, and another. A tangled disjointed mess of what once a tapestry of beauty, which is now, not even decipherable by me – the mad woman. It is an ancient and cryptic genetic mutation only those who see ghosts can understand. I hang tightly on to hope. Perhaps sweet music can be heard in this visual chaos.

Everyday, I drag myself out of bed, in the hopes, in the hope that maybe today I will find a way to get better, that there will be some new drug, there will be some new discovery, some new chemical cocktail in the already fully stocked pharmaceutical bar of false hopes, that maybe, this time, today, I might be able to take a normal breath, a normal step without falling on my face in exhaustion.

I try to begin something, anything. I try to recuperate abandoned efforts of projects delayed and forgotten, but quickly realize that my despondency over the amount of work it will take to ‘get back on track’ outweighs my will to live. I must choose economic over ergonomic and abandon once again my dreams - put on hold indefinitely, and each time, I mourn the little death, one less star in the universe.


My shrink calls me and says abruptly that he can’t see me anymore – “I think you’re better off being seen at the clinic, it’s better that I make a clean break – you just have so many things wrong with you, not just the depression – what if I’m on vacation? Well, technically, right now I’m on vacation… You know, my heart won’t be in it and I’ll feel like I’ll be doing you a favor if I stick around…”
He went on and on. All I could do is listen and feel the tears stream from my disbelieving eyes.

How can you just dump me like this – after promising to help me?
You gave me hope, and now, you just yank it away like you never said it…

Are you doctors not bound by some ethical code? Fuck – bikers keep a more solid code of ethics when it comes to their ‘rules of the road’ than are expected in your profession!!!