A letter to a friend - he screening of her short film was a huge success last night, but she shared with me her feelings of "not having something that was i thought "good enough" - and that she is ever so aware of how being 'hard on herself' can be a 'not such a good thing..."
my response...
Oh, I all too well know the feeling/state of mind of being "hard on oneself". I feel that it might be the key as to why I'm so "stuck" lately.
Sure, setting impossibly high standards for myself has allowed me to push through some times of being "sluggish and sitting on my ass/lazy" periods in my life, when being my own drill sergeant was a necessary evil to get things done, but for the most part, when I'm feeling vulnerable and very self conscious about who i am, where I'm going and who i am becoming/what i'm doing, mental self flagellation in the name of "progress" can lead to emotional/psychological welts that are long lasting. The scars being a more detrimental result than the idea behind the punishment...
the saying is true - we are our own worst enemy, and I could totally identify with your pre-screening jitters last night - wanting to make sure everything was perfect, wondering if there was not something "more that could have not been done" to the final product.... it's so hard to let go of knowing that when "a film is 'in the can'", little can be changed at that point, and the moment of letting go can be a bittersweet experience.
When i screened my student film for the first time to 500 people, i was so freaked out that i was sure projectile vomit was inevitable, i took a breath, congratulated myself on months of hard work, and allowed myself and the film to finally 'breathe'.
Take the time to bask in the afterglow of the exhale - yesterday was a huge success, and as a filmmaker myself, i could see that every ounce of hours of sweat, anger, frustration and horror, happiness, excitement and love for your project that you experienced was worth it. At least it was for me :-) Thank you for sharing your cinematic/animation baby !!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Phenomenal!
This just blows my mind out of the water.
This director is simply the most visually stimulating creative visionary I have seen in decades.
I am awestruck, and you should be as well...
This director is simply the most visually stimulating creative visionary I have seen in decades.
I am awestruck, and you should be as well...
Saturday, November 20, 2010
when it rains, the sky opens up and pours battery acid from the heavens...
WTF?
Along with all the crap today (5 apartments, either beautiful and out of reach price wise or affordable but bona-fide shit holes), i got an email from a dear friend. One of her parents has a brain tumor.
With age, they had become not well, and many had feared the worst from their other ailments compounded, but not this.
And i feel helpless as she is on the other side of the ocean.
If I only had even two pennies to rub together, i would be there in a split second.
Time to glue on some fake feathers and make some wings.
Life is getting overwhelming no matter where we are...
Along with all the crap today (5 apartments, either beautiful and out of reach price wise or affordable but bona-fide shit holes), i got an email from a dear friend. One of her parents has a brain tumor.
With age, they had become not well, and many had feared the worst from their other ailments compounded, but not this.
And i feel helpless as she is on the other side of the ocean.
If I only had even two pennies to rub together, i would be there in a split second.
Time to glue on some fake feathers and make some wings.
Life is getting overwhelming no matter where we are...
Thursday, November 18, 2010
home, not so sweet home...
Nothing can shake anybody more to the core than losing a home. A place to live, sleep, find comfort, feel safe. Without all those things, every day living seems a little less bearable.
This past Tuesday, E and I found out that we are basically being kicked out of our apartment. The landlords have decided to re-appropriate our apartment and make it their own. They own just under half a dozen properties/apartment blocks. That's more than a dozen units. Why they singled us out is, upon speculation and processes of elimination of various facts/factors is that we have been at our place for the past 10 years. Our rent is cheaper compared to the other units. They "move in" for a few months, make some half assed repairs and then re-rent it for almost double what we are paying for it.
We were served the papers by a bailiff on Monday night. A day after my huge meltdown chez mom. Fatigue, chronic pain, the inability to live a normal life due to this pain, and the onset of winter (the horrible in between stages of grey/lifeless landscapes and pretty snow covered wonderland) all began to erode away my spirit. This was the straw that broke my back.
I almost went into shock.
Why?
Why now?
We had been battling noisy downstairs neighbors for some time. Four teenagers from France - pompous, arrogant, and selfish, they run around the place at all hours of the night. Basically treating the apartment like a dormitory. We had to call the cops twice. Parties almost every night. They have quieted down, but just enough so we can't call the cops because four teenagers sitting around a kitchen table laughing their asses off at 3am doesn't warrant police intervention.
E is miserable. His company have come to a screeching halt and he worries about the future of his position. I do too. And it shows. We both look beaten down and weary. The love is there, but with weary hearts and minds, our patience is almost nil. We are supposed to be on the same page, but the tension is tearing our souls down. Exhaustion is an understatement
We are going to fight this eviction. The grounds for them giving us the boot is "well, you're place was the cheapest and we need a place to live". Bastards. Just last week, they gave us the pablum of song and dances, telling us they were going to break the lease of the kids below us because we weren't the only ones who complained about the noise and that they were to be served papers on Monday. But joke was on us. We were the ones who got the papers.
Stupid fucken bastards.
Be careful whom you trust from France.
Of the dozen or so people I have met from that country, only one was sincere and nice, and not the backstabbing, arrogant, snide, and sneaky frenchmen I knew. And this man was the exception to the rule for the only reason I believe to be was that he was a Buddhist.
And so the task begins, picking up, looking for a new home. After 10 years, a forced move from a place we called "home sweet home" will not be our home anymore.
Sad strange days indeed...
This past Tuesday, E and I found out that we are basically being kicked out of our apartment. The landlords have decided to re-appropriate our apartment and make it their own. They own just under half a dozen properties/apartment blocks. That's more than a dozen units. Why they singled us out is, upon speculation and processes of elimination of various facts/factors is that we have been at our place for the past 10 years. Our rent is cheaper compared to the other units. They "move in" for a few months, make some half assed repairs and then re-rent it for almost double what we are paying for it.
We were served the papers by a bailiff on Monday night. A day after my huge meltdown chez mom. Fatigue, chronic pain, the inability to live a normal life due to this pain, and the onset of winter (the horrible in between stages of grey/lifeless landscapes and pretty snow covered wonderland) all began to erode away my spirit. This was the straw that broke my back.
I almost went into shock.
Why?
Why now?
We had been battling noisy downstairs neighbors for some time. Four teenagers from France - pompous, arrogant, and selfish, they run around the place at all hours of the night. Basically treating the apartment like a dormitory. We had to call the cops twice. Parties almost every night. They have quieted down, but just enough so we can't call the cops because four teenagers sitting around a kitchen table laughing their asses off at 3am doesn't warrant police intervention.
E is miserable. His company have come to a screeching halt and he worries about the future of his position. I do too. And it shows. We both look beaten down and weary. The love is there, but with weary hearts and minds, our patience is almost nil. We are supposed to be on the same page, but the tension is tearing our souls down. Exhaustion is an understatement
We are going to fight this eviction. The grounds for them giving us the boot is "well, you're place was the cheapest and we need a place to live". Bastards. Just last week, they gave us the pablum of song and dances, telling us they were going to break the lease of the kids below us because we weren't the only ones who complained about the noise and that they were to be served papers on Monday. But joke was on us. We were the ones who got the papers.
Stupid fucken bastards.
Be careful whom you trust from France.
Of the dozen or so people I have met from that country, only one was sincere and nice, and not the backstabbing, arrogant, snide, and sneaky frenchmen I knew. And this man was the exception to the rule for the only reason I believe to be was that he was a Buddhist.
And so the task begins, picking up, looking for a new home. After 10 years, a forced move from a place we called "home sweet home" will not be our home anymore.
Sad strange days indeed...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
art with purpose
We all feel the need to find purpose in our lives.
I have been struggling with this for many decades.
Thought i found meaning, but it was fleeting.
Am still searching but it seems more and more elusive as time goes by.
I wish I were able to create art that impacted the world like this brilliant man.
Jason DeCaries Taylor, underwater magician
I have been struggling with this for many decades.
Thought i found meaning, but it was fleeting.
Am still searching but it seems more and more elusive as time goes by.
I wish I were able to create art that impacted the world like this brilliant man.
Jason DeCaries Taylor, underwater magician
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
car pool tunnel syndrome...
I had to laugh - the last episode of Modern Family, Gloria misunderstands American Phrases, like - "it scared the bejesus out of me" as "it scared the baby Jesus out of me", and "carpal tunnel syndrome" as you guess it, "car pool tunnel syndrome". So in typing this, i am aggravating my carpool tunnel syndrome as my fancy pancy blue velcro wrist immobilizer is currently in the wash (gawd. I have shweaty wrists...)
Last update - Action Theater Acting Improv class.
The practice of Action Theater incorporates the disciplined exploration of embodied exercises that lead to increased skills of strong, clear, spontaneous, and artful communication.
Action Theater addresses and expands the vocabularies of expression including: movement, vocalization, and speech. Action Theater is a tool to examines one's perceptive and responsive process, bringing awareness to and thereby disempowering distracting thoughts of self obsessions, fears, judgments and analysis.
My Lord, that was a gift from the heavens.
Four hours of mostly physical improv a day, for a week. I swear - four pounds must have been screamed/danced/twirled/laughed/shimmied off in those five days.
incredible experience.
I never realized how difficult improv could be, but having done it myself for the first time many years ago when I was literally, thrown into a movie role (because the director didn't have the foresight to cast an extra character, so in between my loading up film stock into the movie cameras, my part was born! I won't tell you what part I played but you can see it for yourself - Draghoula - check it out..), one of the main actresses, right off the plane from L.A was floored to hear that it was my first gig. "You're a goddam natural!"
And so it began...
but this improv class was nothing like I had ever experienced.
Ruth Zaporah is a world renowned artist and her "action theater" has pioneered the teaching of Improvisational performance. She gives only a few workshops a year, and this one happened to be in Canada. I was on a gallery/dance studio's mailing list and one day, the message floated into my inbox.
To tell you the truth, I have no clue how this gallery/dance studio got my email address. Perhaps it was just one of those divine intervention/synchronous/it was meant to be moments. Whatever it was, I am so very thankful for because this class literally changed my life...
I'm quite pooped - spent the evening with mom in the hospital keeping her company in the emergency, and am still reeling from the toxic curry meltdown I had from the incredible food poisoning from Saturday night's meal @ an Indian restaurant, but will have to revisit this "acting theater workshop" experience in greater detail while it's fresh in my head and in my body.
Odd thing to say, but it really was a whole body transformational experience; it made me realize how deeply connected we are to these bones and casing of flesh - and that how by being aware of this connection, being able to stay present in the moment and allow the body to speak and not let the mind edit/hinder/manipulate while watching helplessly as it moves into the driver's seat, beautiful things can happen.
Check it out
It's been a week and I'm going through improv withdrawal.
I'm going to miss acting out what it means to be a rock and a pile of mud...
back soon with more details/insights.
Last update - Action Theater Acting Improv class.
The practice of Action Theater incorporates the disciplined exploration of embodied exercises that lead to increased skills of strong, clear, spontaneous, and artful communication.
Action Theater addresses and expands the vocabularies of expression including: movement, vocalization, and speech. Action Theater is a tool to examines one's perceptive and responsive process, bringing awareness to and thereby disempowering distracting thoughts of self obsessions, fears, judgments and analysis.
My Lord, that was a gift from the heavens.
Four hours of mostly physical improv a day, for a week. I swear - four pounds must have been screamed/danced/twirled/laughed/shimmied off in those five days.
incredible experience.
I never realized how difficult improv could be, but having done it myself for the first time many years ago when I was literally, thrown into a movie role (because the director didn't have the foresight to cast an extra character, so in between my loading up film stock into the movie cameras, my part was born! I won't tell you what part I played but you can see it for yourself - Draghoula - check it out..), one of the main actresses, right off the plane from L.A was floored to hear that it was my first gig. "You're a goddam natural!"
And so it began...
but this improv class was nothing like I had ever experienced.
Ruth Zaporah is a world renowned artist and her "action theater" has pioneered the teaching of Improvisational performance. She gives only a few workshops a year, and this one happened to be in Canada. I was on a gallery/dance studio's mailing list and one day, the message floated into my inbox.
To tell you the truth, I have no clue how this gallery/dance studio got my email address. Perhaps it was just one of those divine intervention/synchronous/it was meant to be moments. Whatever it was, I am so very thankful for because this class literally changed my life...
I'm quite pooped - spent the evening with mom in the hospital keeping her company in the emergency, and am still reeling from the toxic curry meltdown I had from the incredible food poisoning from Saturday night's meal @ an Indian restaurant, but will have to revisit this "acting theater workshop" experience in greater detail while it's fresh in my head and in my body.
Odd thing to say, but it really was a whole body transformational experience; it made me realize how deeply connected we are to these bones and casing of flesh - and that how by being aware of this connection, being able to stay present in the moment and allow the body to speak and not let the mind edit/hinder/manipulate while watching helplessly as it moves into the driver's seat, beautiful things can happen.
Check it out
It's been a week and I'm going through improv withdrawal.
I'm going to miss acting out what it means to be a rock and a pile of mud...
back soon with more details/insights.
Friday, October 22, 2010
everything and nothing
Have been busy, have been quiet.
have been hyper, have been tired
achy and euphoric, melancholy and mindful
everything and nothing
all at once, nothing at all...
have been hyper, have been tired
achy and euphoric, melancholy and mindful
everything and nothing
all at once, nothing at all...
Sunday, October 17, 2010
amen
I'm not a hugely religious person, and I've had my issues with the Catholic church for many reasons, but faith is something personal. Over the past few years, it has been shaken and put to the test, but there always seemed to be great comfort when I would go to St. Joseph's Oratory, and then pause at the crypt of Brother Andre.
I remember going there as a child, awestruck by the immensity of the chapel. The poetic and delicately ornate archways, the sun beaming through the stained glass in the ceiling and from the iconic windows. The smell of incense and the burning candles, which were, literally - a sea of glowing light, and the hundreds of canes and crutches hanging from the walls of people whom he had cured over the years.
A humble man, small and frail in stature who had such an incredible presence.
Returning as an adult, there was peace and serenity in the quiet halls. Being surrounded by warmth and love just made me feel safe.
And now, Canada will have its first canonized saint. I'd stay up until 4am to watch the mass from the vatican, but after several days without sleep, i will try go to bed, and try to dream of watching this pious soul watching from above, with a smile on his face...
From the Montreal Gazette, Saturday October 16th, 2010
— The praises of a once penniless, sickly and illiterate porter were literally sung here Saturday to honour the man who is on the cusp of becoming the first Canadian-born male saint.
Led by the Pontifical French Seminary choir, more than 1,000 pilgrims sang the hymn Frere Andre as a large black-and-white portrait of the lay brother was carried to the altar of Sant’Andrea della Valle, an ornate 17th-century church dedicated to Saint Andrew the Apostle.
It was standing-room-only at the prayer vigil on the eve of the big day. On Sunday, Brother Andre, will become the first male Catholic saint born in Canada during a ceremony in St. Peter’s Square.
“Simple, pauvre, humble frere, coeur d’apetre / Pour le royaume. Simple, pauvre, frere Andre / Dans ta priere prends les notres,” they sang as the portrait was placed on an easel, and immediately illuminated by the flashes of dozens of cameras.The prayer vigil was led by Andre Richard, Archbishop of Moncton and a member of the Congregation of Holy Cross, the order Alfred Bessette joined in 1870 when he took the name Brother Andre.
At the event, the man to be known as Saint Andre Bessette was remembered as a compassionate man who stood out because of his inspiring life story and his unique way of helping people in pain. Having lost both parents by age 12, Bessette was separated from his brothers and sisters and sent to live with family members. He tried unsuccessfully to make it on his own, drifting from job to job in Quebec before moving to New England, Gerard Dionne, a Holy Cross brother, told the crowd.
After returning to Quebec when he was in his early 20s, Bessette settled in St. Cesaire, Que., southeast of Montreal, where local priest Rev. Andre Provencal inspired him to devote himself to Saint Joseph, foster father of Jesus Christ.
Bessette spent so much time praying to Saint Joseph, local children mocked him as “le fou de St. Joseph,” Dionne said. Provencal recommended him to the Congregation of Holy Cross, which ran College Notre Dame in Cote des Neiges. “I’m sending you a saint,” Provencal said in his recommendation letter, Dionne noted.
Though wary because of Bessette’s poor health, the congregation took him in. Bessette became Brother Andre. He was given the lowly job of taking care of the school’s reception area. For years, he dreamt of building a small chapel dedicated to Saint Joseph, across from College Notre Dame, on Mount Royal.
“Brother Andre placed a statue of St. Joseph on his windowsill, with the face turned toward the mountain,” Dionne said. “When people asked why, his answer was quite simple: Saint Joseph wants to have a chapel on the mountain where he can be honoured and prayed to.” That chapel would be built in 1904 and then expanded a few years later. Untold numbers of people came to seek help from Brother Andre, who would tell them to rub oil that had burned in front of a statue of Saint Joseph on their bodies, and seek Saint Joseph’s help in prayer.
He became known as the Miracle Man of Montreal, with thousands of people attributing to him miraculous recoveries from everything from physical infirmities to tuberculosis to cancer.
Eventually, construction began on a grand building to replace Brother Andre’s simple chapel. But the worldwide economic depression of the 1920s stalled the project, leaving his superiors unable to gather the money to finish it.
A few weeks before his death in 1937, Brother Andre invited his superiors, who were unsure of how to proceed, to put their confidence in Saint Joseph, Dionne said. “In middle of winter, they held a procession and placed a statue of Saint Joseph in the vast interior” of the roofless oratory. “Just one year later, when Brother Andre was no longer in this world,” Dionne said, “we were able to finish this immense building, which became Saint Joseph’s Oratory, the biggest sanctuary in the world dedicated to Saint Joseph, visited by two million people every year.”
In a closing prayer, Rev. Richard Warner, the Rome-based superior general of the Congregation of Holy Cross, noted Brother Andre’s commitment to the poor and the afflicted and asked God to help others to follow in Andre’s footsteps.
“Through (Brother Andre’s) intercession, help us to follow his example of prayer and love and so come to share with him in your glory,” Warner said. As they streamed out of Sant’Andrea della Valle, whose dome is the second largest in Rome, surpassed only by Saint Peter’s Basilica, pilgrims reflected on the man they came to celebrate. “He was a humble man who helped the neediest in our world and he deserves to be honoured,” said Montreal resident Mary Vincelli. “This world needs role models and he’s one of the best.”
For Jacques Gilbert, also of Montreal, the prayer vigil was a bit of deja vu. He attended a similar event at Sant’Andrea della Valle in 1982, when Pope John Paul II beatified Brother Andre. “I didn’t want to miss the actual canonization,” said Gilbert, 78. “It’s not every day you see a saint made.’
I remember going there as a child, awestruck by the immensity of the chapel. The poetic and delicately ornate archways, the sun beaming through the stained glass in the ceiling and from the iconic windows. The smell of incense and the burning candles, which were, literally - a sea of glowing light, and the hundreds of canes and crutches hanging from the walls of people whom he had cured over the years.
A humble man, small and frail in stature who had such an incredible presence.
Returning as an adult, there was peace and serenity in the quiet halls. Being surrounded by warmth and love just made me feel safe.
And now, Canada will have its first canonized saint. I'd stay up until 4am to watch the mass from the vatican, but after several days without sleep, i will try go to bed, and try to dream of watching this pious soul watching from above, with a smile on his face...
From the Montreal Gazette, Saturday October 16th, 2010
— The praises of a once penniless, sickly and illiterate porter were literally sung here Saturday to honour the man who is on the cusp of becoming the first Canadian-born male saint.
Led by the Pontifical French Seminary choir, more than 1,000 pilgrims sang the hymn Frere Andre as a large black-and-white portrait of the lay brother was carried to the altar of Sant’Andrea della Valle, an ornate 17th-century church dedicated to Saint Andrew the Apostle.
It was standing-room-only at the prayer vigil on the eve of the big day. On Sunday, Brother Andre, will become the first male Catholic saint born in Canada during a ceremony in St. Peter’s Square.
“Simple, pauvre, humble frere, coeur d’apetre / Pour le royaume. Simple, pauvre, frere Andre / Dans ta priere prends les notres,” they sang as the portrait was placed on an easel, and immediately illuminated by the flashes of dozens of cameras.The prayer vigil was led by Andre Richard, Archbishop of Moncton and a member of the Congregation of Holy Cross, the order Alfred Bessette joined in 1870 when he took the name Brother Andre.
At the event, the man to be known as Saint Andre Bessette was remembered as a compassionate man who stood out because of his inspiring life story and his unique way of helping people in pain. Having lost both parents by age 12, Bessette was separated from his brothers and sisters and sent to live with family members. He tried unsuccessfully to make it on his own, drifting from job to job in Quebec before moving to New England, Gerard Dionne, a Holy Cross brother, told the crowd.
After returning to Quebec when he was in his early 20s, Bessette settled in St. Cesaire, Que., southeast of Montreal, where local priest Rev. Andre Provencal inspired him to devote himself to Saint Joseph, foster father of Jesus Christ.
Bessette spent so much time praying to Saint Joseph, local children mocked him as “le fou de St. Joseph,” Dionne said. Provencal recommended him to the Congregation of Holy Cross, which ran College Notre Dame in Cote des Neiges. “I’m sending you a saint,” Provencal said in his recommendation letter, Dionne noted.
Though wary because of Bessette’s poor health, the congregation took him in. Bessette became Brother Andre. He was given the lowly job of taking care of the school’s reception area. For years, he dreamt of building a small chapel dedicated to Saint Joseph, across from College Notre Dame, on Mount Royal.
“Brother Andre placed a statue of St. Joseph on his windowsill, with the face turned toward the mountain,” Dionne said. “When people asked why, his answer was quite simple: Saint Joseph wants to have a chapel on the mountain where he can be honoured and prayed to.” That chapel would be built in 1904 and then expanded a few years later. Untold numbers of people came to seek help from Brother Andre, who would tell them to rub oil that had burned in front of a statue of Saint Joseph on their bodies, and seek Saint Joseph’s help in prayer.
He became known as the Miracle Man of Montreal, with thousands of people attributing to him miraculous recoveries from everything from physical infirmities to tuberculosis to cancer.
Eventually, construction began on a grand building to replace Brother Andre’s simple chapel. But the worldwide economic depression of the 1920s stalled the project, leaving his superiors unable to gather the money to finish it.
A few weeks before his death in 1937, Brother Andre invited his superiors, who were unsure of how to proceed, to put their confidence in Saint Joseph, Dionne said. “In middle of winter, they held a procession and placed a statue of Saint Joseph in the vast interior” of the roofless oratory. “Just one year later, when Brother Andre was no longer in this world,” Dionne said, “we were able to finish this immense building, which became Saint Joseph’s Oratory, the biggest sanctuary in the world dedicated to Saint Joseph, visited by two million people every year.”
In a closing prayer, Rev. Richard Warner, the Rome-based superior general of the Congregation of Holy Cross, noted Brother Andre’s commitment to the poor and the afflicted and asked God to help others to follow in Andre’s footsteps.
“Through (Brother Andre’s) intercession, help us to follow his example of prayer and love and so come to share with him in your glory,” Warner said. As they streamed out of Sant’Andrea della Valle, whose dome is the second largest in Rome, surpassed only by Saint Peter’s Basilica, pilgrims reflected on the man they came to celebrate. “He was a humble man who helped the neediest in our world and he deserves to be honoured,” said Montreal resident Mary Vincelli. “This world needs role models and he’s one of the best.”
For Jacques Gilbert, also of Montreal, the prayer vigil was a bit of deja vu. He attended a similar event at Sant’Andrea della Valle in 1982, when Pope John Paul II beatified Brother Andre. “I didn’t want to miss the actual canonization,” said Gilbert, 78. “It’s not every day you see a saint made.’
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
wired and fried
Oh so many photos.
Transfered about 20 cds to my HD tonight.
So many photos. Boggles the mind.
And duplicates - enough to make my head spin.
but i'm in a ocd mood. Had to get it all done.
4:30am and i'm still wide awake.
Did a whole hour in the pool today - stopping only for about a minute or so every so often. Still not happy with my results.
Damn you Russian coach in my head!!
So you would think i would be exhausted by now.
Nope.
but must sleep.
Swim class 2mrw.
Need grounding.
Wired and fried.
(peugh. Just rubbed my nose. That smell of chlorine is brutal. How the hell do i get that off me?!?!)
Saw cbt phd student today.
she's wonderful.
"don't worry, I'm confident that together we will get you the help you need."
Needed to hear that.
She gave me a questionnaire.
Gawd. I never realized how ocd/self sabotaging i really am.
but making the moves to change that.
Looking forward to going back into the darkroom again.
Oh what saving grace to be able to take photos so organically again....
Ativan take me away!
Transfered about 20 cds to my HD tonight.
So many photos. Boggles the mind.
And duplicates - enough to make my head spin.
but i'm in a ocd mood. Had to get it all done.
4:30am and i'm still wide awake.
Did a whole hour in the pool today - stopping only for about a minute or so every so often. Still not happy with my results.
Damn you Russian coach in my head!!
So you would think i would be exhausted by now.
Nope.
but must sleep.
Swim class 2mrw.
Need grounding.
Wired and fried.
(peugh. Just rubbed my nose. That smell of chlorine is brutal. How the hell do i get that off me?!?!)
Saw cbt phd student today.
she's wonderful.
"don't worry, I'm confident that together we will get you the help you need."
Needed to hear that.
She gave me a questionnaire.
Gawd. I never realized how ocd/self sabotaging i really am.
but making the moves to change that.
Looking forward to going back into the darkroom again.
Oh what saving grace to be able to take photos so organically again....
Ativan take me away!
Monday, September 27, 2010
black eye from a dog
no, i did not fall down the stairs
no, i didn't walk into a door either.
And a big no - to my husband beating me.
I got a black eye from a dog last night.
Was at a friend's party and his husky seemed quite zen, walking from room to room, foraging for food, until near the end of the night, i guess he was getting irritated. I went to pet him and he turned around and snapped at my face, his muzzle and one tooth narrowly missed my eye. I have a cut there now, and a black eye.
Lovely.
Mom: "You might get rabies! Make sure he had his shots!!"
oi vey.
So ice, and lots of hydrogen peroxide. This story is one for the record books...
no, i didn't walk into a door either.
And a big no - to my husband beating me.
I got a black eye from a dog last night.
Was at a friend's party and his husky seemed quite zen, walking from room to room, foraging for food, until near the end of the night, i guess he was getting irritated. I went to pet him and he turned around and snapped at my face, his muzzle and one tooth narrowly missed my eye. I have a cut there now, and a black eye.
Lovely.
Mom: "You might get rabies! Make sure he had his shots!!"
oi vey.
So ice, and lots of hydrogen peroxide. This story is one for the record books...
Saturday, September 25, 2010
rationalize the irrational
had an awesome day today.
Swam for an hour. 45 minutes no stop. 40 laps. Not bad for somebody who has not exercised in eons...
It felt good - to be buoyant. Body moving effortlessly through the water. Arms displacing fluid, the sound of my own breath breaking the pace.
Got new swim fins. Cute little things. Look like stubbed flipper toes. Not too long that it will kick the person behind you in the head, but enough to make waves that mimic a small hurricane throughout the pool.
I moved effortlessly because i was not afraid of the water, where i was going, what i was doing. I saw the bottom and it was not too far away from reach.
I have this irrational fear of deep pools.
Deep oceans don't bother me as much - perhaps it's the turquoise that is calming to me. When i was in cuba, i would go snorkeling for miles by myself, without a fear in the world. Floating effortlessly, the water calm and undersea life watching me watch them. And the salt water, no matter how hard I tried, I could not stay down long enough to get very close to anything. Skimming the surface.
But pools on the other hand, are my nemeses.
There is something that scares the shit out of me when it comes to looking into a deep pool. Perhaps because the blue is so very intense. So very deep. Perhaps it harks back to the first time i learned how to swim. We were literally thrown in the deep end of the pool. I hyperventilated as i tried to dog paddle, making me even more exhausted that much faster. My little arms and legs moving furiously - trying to keep me afloat - to keep me from sinking to my watery grave.
The teachers would have never let this happen, but it's a chore to tame a monkey mind - let alone the rabid monkey mind of a 7 year old.
And that fear stuck with me for a long time.
And was revisited last week @ my swim class.
The deep end drops off to 12 feet from a 5 feet base. Just like that - deep.
I had a panic attack the first time i swam it. What was i afraid of? I don't know. Even 35 years later, it still haunts me.
I can swim. Swim quite well actually. But when i'm stressed, i sink like a stone. Working against the waves instead of with them is a recipe for near disaster.
C'mon guys - 20 laps in less than 15 minutes.
I almost cried.
This is only the 2nd intermediate swim class! It's not the Olympics!!
So i paddled through, only making it to 12 in 18 minutes. And even that was pushing it. I was exhausted.
But why then, today, was i able to do 40 laps in less than 45 minutes?
There was no fear.
I swam with ease.
i was one with the movement and water.
This pool slowly drops off to 7 feet. Slowly.
I did not panic, i did not dread.
The daylight shone through the skylights, and i felt refreshed.
My swim classes on the other hand - 8 - 9pm.
Dark dark and deep..
But it's all about endurance.
i know that once i feel comfortable on my own turf, within my own pre-defined set of known variables that i will feel comfortable anywhere else uncertainty may strike.
And tonight, a joyous meeting with friends.
Play pushing through. Getting down the bones of the essence of the work. Bbby will help me but it will always remain my "baby". And I know he understands that and I'm happy he does.
This is a writing match made in heaven.
This play is going to go places.
The sky and is the limit.
I move effortlessly because i am not afraid of these waters, where i am going, what i am doing. I see the distance and it is not too far away from reach...
Swam for an hour. 45 minutes no stop. 40 laps. Not bad for somebody who has not exercised in eons...
It felt good - to be buoyant. Body moving effortlessly through the water. Arms displacing fluid, the sound of my own breath breaking the pace.
Got new swim fins. Cute little things. Look like stubbed flipper toes. Not too long that it will kick the person behind you in the head, but enough to make waves that mimic a small hurricane throughout the pool.
I moved effortlessly because i was not afraid of the water, where i was going, what i was doing. I saw the bottom and it was not too far away from reach.
I have this irrational fear of deep pools.
Deep oceans don't bother me as much - perhaps it's the turquoise that is calming to me. When i was in cuba, i would go snorkeling for miles by myself, without a fear in the world. Floating effortlessly, the water calm and undersea life watching me watch them. And the salt water, no matter how hard I tried, I could not stay down long enough to get very close to anything. Skimming the surface.
But pools on the other hand, are my nemeses.
There is something that scares the shit out of me when it comes to looking into a deep pool. Perhaps because the blue is so very intense. So very deep. Perhaps it harks back to the first time i learned how to swim. We were literally thrown in the deep end of the pool. I hyperventilated as i tried to dog paddle, making me even more exhausted that much faster. My little arms and legs moving furiously - trying to keep me afloat - to keep me from sinking to my watery grave.
The teachers would have never let this happen, but it's a chore to tame a monkey mind - let alone the rabid monkey mind of a 7 year old.
And that fear stuck with me for a long time.
And was revisited last week @ my swim class.
The deep end drops off to 12 feet from a 5 feet base. Just like that - deep.
I had a panic attack the first time i swam it. What was i afraid of? I don't know. Even 35 years later, it still haunts me.
I can swim. Swim quite well actually. But when i'm stressed, i sink like a stone. Working against the waves instead of with them is a recipe for near disaster.
C'mon guys - 20 laps in less than 15 minutes.
I almost cried.
This is only the 2nd intermediate swim class! It's not the Olympics!!
So i paddled through, only making it to 12 in 18 minutes. And even that was pushing it. I was exhausted.
But why then, today, was i able to do 40 laps in less than 45 minutes?
There was no fear.
I swam with ease.
i was one with the movement and water.
This pool slowly drops off to 7 feet. Slowly.
I did not panic, i did not dread.
The daylight shone through the skylights, and i felt refreshed.
My swim classes on the other hand - 8 - 9pm.
Dark dark and deep..
But it's all about endurance.
i know that once i feel comfortable on my own turf, within my own pre-defined set of known variables that i will feel comfortable anywhere else uncertainty may strike.
And tonight, a joyous meeting with friends.
Play pushing through. Getting down the bones of the essence of the work. Bbby will help me but it will always remain my "baby". And I know he understands that and I'm happy he does.
This is a writing match made in heaven.
This play is going to go places.
The sky and is the limit.
I move effortlessly because i am not afraid of these waters, where i am going, what i am doing. I see the distance and it is not too far away from reach...
Thursday, September 23, 2010
ebay-atosis-itis
Yikes. I'm turning into Fred Flintsone over here...
ebay-alatosis-itis
I shunned M when she got an airbrush spray tan in a box thing from the shopping network, cause I'm not far behind. But at least I'm being sensible with my addiction. A photographer can never have enough light stands, diffusers, gels, lenses, camera bags, batteries, filters...
ebay-alatosis-itis
I shunned M when she got an airbrush spray tan in a box thing from the shopping network, cause I'm not far behind. But at least I'm being sensible with my addiction. A photographer can never have enough light stands, diffusers, gels, lenses, camera bags, batteries, filters...
Monday, September 20, 2010
sign sign everywhere a sign...
out of the blue, a friend of a friend forwards this to me.
She didn't see my last posts. She does not know me or the monumental changes that are taking place in my life right now.
Yet this message keeps on repeating itself in one way, shape, or form with incredible urgency.
Think I have to listen, understand and act...
THE 3 C's OF LIFE..............CHOICES----CHANCES----
She didn't see my last posts. She does not know me or the monumental changes that are taking place in my life right now.
Yet this message keeps on repeating itself in one way, shape, or form with incredible urgency.
Think I have to listen, understand and act...
THE 3 C's OF LIFE..............CHOICES----CHANCES----
La Haine - still haunts...
After last night's ranting and stirrings of cinematic inspiration, i felt a need to push through my own jagged creative blocks because i know that on the other side, the pain will be worth it...
I was completley "bouleverse" (damn you mac keyboard - I can't find an accent aigu when in need it!) because the writing in La Haine was so exquisite, perspicacious, and the depth to which the characters were fleshed out made me think of the astute complexities of Becket or Williams, and how, essentially, the whole film could have been a stage play (albeit the logistics of gunfire would have created many a bleeding eardrum for the audience members...). The testament to the strength of Kassovitz's written word as well as the power of a well rounded actor reciting that eloquent and prosaic prose, spurned me into moving forward with turning my play into something that would surpass my own dreams and expectations.
I met with D - a truly beautiful soul, delightful photographer, prolific writer, and society conscious documentary film maker. We talked for hours at a local cafe about everything under the sun, stars and moon. We 'get each other' and as an artist, there is no greater comfort in knowing that somebody out there "gets you" and your vision.
I told him about this play that had been pushing through my (un and) consciousness. Something so prevalent in every waking and sleeping moment - it was as if the letters from the sentences in my mind were falling from my pores when I stopped moving. Complete scenes, monologues, ideas for stage direction, fast and furious - so quick i could not write them down. But brilliant ideas.
"I know this play will make people nervous, angry, laugh, become sick to their stomach, weep, and rise to their feet. I see it. I feel it. This project is bigger than me. I have only notes on paper, but a dream in my heart and head. Mark my words, this is gonna be huge."
And with that - D began to work with me. Brainstorming. Fast and furious in his excitement. He saw my vision with his own eyes. It was fucken brilliant.
And all this brings be back to a summer day in 1995 - "Le Festival Des Films Du Monde - Montreal". Taking my seat in The Imperial, the year before, still fresh in my memory, i sat down to watch a young man's film from France that would change the trajectory of my creative life.
And all this brings be back to a summer day in 1995 - "Le Festival Des Films Du Monde - Montreal". Taking my seat in The Imperial, the year before, still fresh in my memory, i sat down to watch a young man's film from France that would change the trajectory of my creative life.
And as I type this, I know that these new projects - this play, this conceptual photo shoot will mark a new chapter in my life. Or perhaps it is the new book. A new journey, a new life altogether...
Sunday, September 19, 2010
some regrets are regretful
I saw a brilliant film, for the 2nd time, with new eyes, and it was as brilliant today as it was back in 1995 when it saw it for the first time at the Montreal World Film Festival.
La Haine by Mathieu Kassovitz.
Seeing that film on the big screen is a must - because the power of the image is lost on a small screen (not entirely, the characters and writing are simply phenomenal), but this was a film that was instrumental in influencing my reasons to be a filmmaker.
I can remember when it came out and I saw it here at the WWF. People were still reeling from their raging erection over Resevoir Dogs and i could not understand why. Taratino made over the top, in-your-face-violence sexy. Critics hailed him as a genius. When La Haine came out, I told everybody and their dog to RUN and see this film.
"If you think smart ass is the best thing since sliced bread, then you will see that this young man is the best thing since the electricity!"
was my pre-amble and would quickly pique the interest of the testosterone mongers.
"And if you think Resevoir Dogs was raw, then you will walk out of this film with shit stains in your pants. Kassovitz does not make violence sexy. He makes it real. Yes, the film's atmosphere is fuled with fear, hate, and agression, it's also filled with a small glimmer of hope. Any act of aggression is primitive, but this is the thinking man's aggression - a double edged sword which can be used for change or destruction. And in this film, it's both."
People listened up until about the last line and then yelled out in a sophomoric grunt: "But Resevoir Dogs fucken Rocks man!"
Perhaps that is why La Haine never really "took off" in America. People were wrapped up in the sexualization, the glamourization of killing and maiming people. Power equals sex appeal. Sex appeal equals power. And Resevoir Dogs was all about that - it was an gangster genre regurgitated in an Armani suit and spit back out at the public in technicolor and dolby sound.
European films were always my preference. And this film solidified my belief that despite the US's hatred of the French, les Francais were head and shoulders above the intellectual and spiritual evolutionary ladder of middle America...
I'm too tired to go into all the details right now, because if i didn't edit myself, i could go on for hours, so i will edit...
I was called to be an extra in the movie Gothica and had auditioned for one of the bit parts, but was cast as a mental patient/inmate at a woman's prison. (The irony was not lost on me, and had a hoot telling my friends this story: "they could not have picked a better person to play a mental patient - HELLO!!")
Working with Halle Berry, and Robert Downy Jr (who actually shares my birthday - how geeky of me to know this..) was something i was looking forward to as they are both actors who are beyond talented, but I almost fainted when I found out after the fact that Mathieu was directing it. Working on the same set as him. What in God's name were the chances?!?!
it gets better...
I ran into him at one of the main film production houses before the show began. A complete chance meeting. We walked by each other and smiled - and both looked back at the same time. He must have been wondering why I was dragging my chin on the floor as he approached and then passed me.
I felt as if i was 14 and had just seen one of the Beatles in person, nearly fainting when i got outside of the building.
The first day on the set, (I had just highlighted my hair, making it even more flaming red than it already was) I whispered to all the girls about my meeting and that this quiet and sweet director was perhaps one of the most prolific young european directors of our generation.
And then he walked onto the set.
Nobody knew of this film i was raving about, let alone the director.
He walked past us, a group of 20 women, smiled, and then, i guess he remembered me from our chance meeting a few days before (with my flaming red hair and falling jaw), looked right at me, and said "Hello".
I could hear the gasps behind me, and one of my friends grabbed my arm so hard, i was convinced that she was about to rip it off.
"YOU KNOW HIM!? HOW DO YOU KNOW HIM?!"
20 women began to buzz around me like angry hornets.
I explained my story. They were all star-stuck, but not as much as i was....
Here i was in the presence of a director who changed my views on filmmaking forever and I could not even bring myself to thank him for making that film, let alone tell him how much i admired his work not only as a director, but an actor.
I froze.
And the first shot of the filming, the camera pans past the women in the prison yard. Placing people is key. No matter what you think, every little thing in a shot is there for a reason. Everything.
Every body.
Chatty hens we were, and as they prepped the shot, MK looked over to my direction, talked with his assistant director, who then came up to me and asked me to move to the forefront of the shot. I guess he wanted my flaming red hair to punctuate the scene. (I was in fact, the only red head in the whole movie, oddly enough), so i knew this was not a mistake or whim. Red stands out against a grey background, with everybody in grey, looking grey (literally, we were all made to look pasty and ill).
My knees knocked as he yelled action.
We were on the set for 2 weeks, and not once did I say anything more than "bonjour". How i wanted so desperately to tell him: "thank you for that film. It changed my life. What an honor to be working with you...". I didn't say a peep.
And to top it off, I was rushed to the hospital due to an extreme case of food poisoning hours before the "famous Hale Berry naked in the shower scene". I had been picked to be one of the chosen few women to run around on set without any clothes.
Go figure.
I think had i been given the chance to be naked in front of him and the whole camera/sound crew, it would have been so easy to sit down and talk about anything after that experience. I mean, being naked in public can actually grow you a set of balls, and at that time, so desperately needed...
2010 a few hours ago...
5 years after Gothica was made, i saw La Haine again tonight, 15 years after the first time i saw it at the world film festival's exclusive premiere engagement.
And I have the deepest pangs of regret for not telling him how much i loved that film when i could have, actually had...
Criterion collection has made that film part of their repertoire. Jodie Foster even does a short intro about the film. Everybody knows who he is now, and what the film is.
I think that any praise at this point, would not mean as much as it would have back in 2005 when not even Hollywood knew who he really was, (but at the time of the release of that film, Europe had already been singing his praises) and his film, an obscure cinematic gem was still yet undiscovered here on the other side of the ocean. Yet that film still endures. I just found out that he is working on another film, which i have no doubt, will be true to his vision, and touch people once again.
Deep regret.
I feel so sad that i'm sick to my stomach.
Odd isn't it.
This regretful regret.
Perhaps because I am a filmmaker myself, an artist who lives their work even more passionate than their day to day lives, because i know that knowing that your work has touched somebody's life so deeply is such a deeply humbling experience, and the fact that i missed that window of opportunity while i had more than several wide open spaces to literally, walk right up to him tears me up inside.
J'ai perdu mon courage...
I never got to thank him for inspiring me. For being so brave to take such a bold stance on a subject that was so personal to him. For standing tall in the face of his critics because he believed so unflinchingly in the movie he wanted to make. I never got to say: "your film changed my life...:
That moment is gone forever.
Unless, i can find his agent...
Dare I retell my story at the risk of sounding like a complete geekazoid?
I don't know, but something is telling me: "what's the worst that can happen? it's not like he even lives in my country that I will ever see him again..." and that: "hey, he might actually appreciate your sincere gesture of appreciation."
I dunno
but i do know that my time on this planet is short, and that going for 3 days without more than 4 hours of sleep is making me a bit manic, and there are times when i was manic and did things that i regretted, but life experience and battle scars have made me a little more savvy and attuned to my intuition when it nudges me. I don't want to live a life of regrets any more.
I've made a promise to myself.
Stay true to your hopes, dreams, and live life to the fullest.
Take chances. Take as many as you can.
Will work on an email, polish it up, sound uber intelligent and coherent, and then take a breath, take a chance, and press "Send" to Mr. Mathieu one day soon.
La Haine by Mathieu Kassovitz.
Seeing that film on the big screen is a must - because the power of the image is lost on a small screen (not entirely, the characters and writing are simply phenomenal), but this was a film that was instrumental in influencing my reasons to be a filmmaker.
I can remember when it came out and I saw it here at the WWF. People were still reeling from their raging erection over Resevoir Dogs and i could not understand why. Taratino made over the top, in-your-face-violence sexy. Critics hailed him as a genius. When La Haine came out, I told everybody and their dog to RUN and see this film.
"If you think smart ass is the best thing since sliced bread, then you will see that this young man is the best thing since the electricity!"
was my pre-amble and would quickly pique the interest of the testosterone mongers.
"And if you think Resevoir Dogs was raw, then you will walk out of this film with shit stains in your pants. Kassovitz does not make violence sexy. He makes it real. Yes, the film's atmosphere is fuled with fear, hate, and agression, it's also filled with a small glimmer of hope. Any act of aggression is primitive, but this is the thinking man's aggression - a double edged sword which can be used for change or destruction. And in this film, it's both."
People listened up until about the last line and then yelled out in a sophomoric grunt: "But Resevoir Dogs fucken Rocks man!"
Perhaps that is why La Haine never really "took off" in America. People were wrapped up in the sexualization, the glamourization of killing and maiming people. Power equals sex appeal. Sex appeal equals power. And Resevoir Dogs was all about that - it was an gangster genre regurgitated in an Armani suit and spit back out at the public in technicolor and dolby sound.
European films were always my preference. And this film solidified my belief that despite the US's hatred of the French, les Francais were head and shoulders above the intellectual and spiritual evolutionary ladder of middle America...
I'm too tired to go into all the details right now, because if i didn't edit myself, i could go on for hours, so i will edit...
I was called to be an extra in the movie Gothica and had auditioned for one of the bit parts, but was cast as a mental patient/inmate at a woman's prison. (The irony was not lost on me, and had a hoot telling my friends this story: "they could not have picked a better person to play a mental patient - HELLO!!")
Working with Halle Berry, and Robert Downy Jr (who actually shares my birthday - how geeky of me to know this..) was something i was looking forward to as they are both actors who are beyond talented, but I almost fainted when I found out after the fact that Mathieu was directing it. Working on the same set as him. What in God's name were the chances?!?!
it gets better...
I ran into him at one of the main film production houses before the show began. A complete chance meeting. We walked by each other and smiled - and both looked back at the same time. He must have been wondering why I was dragging my chin on the floor as he approached and then passed me.
I felt as if i was 14 and had just seen one of the Beatles in person, nearly fainting when i got outside of the building.
The first day on the set, (I had just highlighted my hair, making it even more flaming red than it already was) I whispered to all the girls about my meeting and that this quiet and sweet director was perhaps one of the most prolific young european directors of our generation.
And then he walked onto the set.
Nobody knew of this film i was raving about, let alone the director.
He walked past us, a group of 20 women, smiled, and then, i guess he remembered me from our chance meeting a few days before (with my flaming red hair and falling jaw), looked right at me, and said "Hello".
I could hear the gasps behind me, and one of my friends grabbed my arm so hard, i was convinced that she was about to rip it off.
"YOU KNOW HIM!? HOW DO YOU KNOW HIM?!"
20 women began to buzz around me like angry hornets.
I explained my story. They were all star-stuck, but not as much as i was....
Here i was in the presence of a director who changed my views on filmmaking forever and I could not even bring myself to thank him for making that film, let alone tell him how much i admired his work not only as a director, but an actor.
I froze.
And the first shot of the filming, the camera pans past the women in the prison yard. Placing people is key. No matter what you think, every little thing in a shot is there for a reason. Everything.
Every body.
Chatty hens we were, and as they prepped the shot, MK looked over to my direction, talked with his assistant director, who then came up to me and asked me to move to the forefront of the shot. I guess he wanted my flaming red hair to punctuate the scene. (I was in fact, the only red head in the whole movie, oddly enough), so i knew this was not a mistake or whim. Red stands out against a grey background, with everybody in grey, looking grey (literally, we were all made to look pasty and ill).
My knees knocked as he yelled action.
We were on the set for 2 weeks, and not once did I say anything more than "bonjour". How i wanted so desperately to tell him: "thank you for that film. It changed my life. What an honor to be working with you...". I didn't say a peep.
And to top it off, I was rushed to the hospital due to an extreme case of food poisoning hours before the "famous Hale Berry naked in the shower scene". I had been picked to be one of the chosen few women to run around on set without any clothes.
Go figure.
I think had i been given the chance to be naked in front of him and the whole camera/sound crew, it would have been so easy to sit down and talk about anything after that experience. I mean, being naked in public can actually grow you a set of balls, and at that time, so desperately needed...
2010 a few hours ago...
5 years after Gothica was made, i saw La Haine again tonight, 15 years after the first time i saw it at the world film festival's exclusive premiere engagement.
And I have the deepest pangs of regret for not telling him how much i loved that film when i could have, actually had...
Criterion collection has made that film part of their repertoire. Jodie Foster even does a short intro about the film. Everybody knows who he is now, and what the film is.
I think that any praise at this point, would not mean as much as it would have back in 2005 when not even Hollywood knew who he really was, (but at the time of the release of that film, Europe had already been singing his praises) and his film, an obscure cinematic gem was still yet undiscovered here on the other side of the ocean. Yet that film still endures. I just found out that he is working on another film, which i have no doubt, will be true to his vision, and touch people once again.
Deep regret.
I feel so sad that i'm sick to my stomach.
Odd isn't it.
This regretful regret.
Perhaps because I am a filmmaker myself, an artist who lives their work even more passionate than their day to day lives, because i know that knowing that your work has touched somebody's life so deeply is such a deeply humbling experience, and the fact that i missed that window of opportunity while i had more than several wide open spaces to literally, walk right up to him tears me up inside.
J'ai perdu mon courage...
I never got to thank him for inspiring me. For being so brave to take such a bold stance on a subject that was so personal to him. For standing tall in the face of his critics because he believed so unflinchingly in the movie he wanted to make. I never got to say: "your film changed my life...:
That moment is gone forever.
Unless, i can find his agent...
Dare I retell my story at the risk of sounding like a complete geekazoid?
I don't know, but something is telling me: "what's the worst that can happen? it's not like he even lives in my country that I will ever see him again..." and that: "hey, he might actually appreciate your sincere gesture of appreciation."
I dunno
but i do know that my time on this planet is short, and that going for 3 days without more than 4 hours of sleep is making me a bit manic, and there are times when i was manic and did things that i regretted, but life experience and battle scars have made me a little more savvy and attuned to my intuition when it nudges me. I don't want to live a life of regrets any more.
I've made a promise to myself.
Stay true to your hopes, dreams, and live life to the fullest.
Take chances. Take as many as you can.
Will work on an email, polish it up, sound uber intelligent and coherent, and then take a breath, take a chance, and press "Send" to Mr. Mathieu one day soon.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
ocd for u and me
Saw a doc today.
out of the university - will be part of a study program.
psychiatrists in training.
Doctor: "I run a tight ship. Everybody goes through rigorous training, and all meetings are reviewed with the supervisors who then give their notes on the following meetings with you. Don't worry. You will be getting the help that you need..."
She was so very nice.
i felt like she really understood me.
"I know this can't be easy, it impacts your life, keeps you from moving forward. We will be here to help you, help you find answers..."
They had a bipolar expert, PhD, MD on staff, but he is on sabbatical.
"But that's alright. We will find you a match - as close to perfect as we can..."
Huge sigh of relief.
I was on a waiting list since March 2010 for one other hospital.
"We will call you in July for an appointment for an assessment"
September rolls around. I call.
"It won't be before the end of October, but that does not guarantee you will get into the CBT clinic. Just so you know..."
Thank you. Not...
So at the other end of the city, my weekly commute will take almost an hour, but if i can be seen by somebody who cares, and perhaps, out of my misery and fucked up state of mind, will be able to care for somebody else who they will come across in their future practice who will have an equally fucked up state of mind, then all of this is a blessing.
Last night - restless. Bed bugs in my brain. Syphoning the logic out of every logical though, so that all was left was a infected irrational thought, poisoned, and throbbing, infected and disgusting.
Today, the sun alternating with the grey clouds kept me on my toes. Will it rain? Shall I dash for cover?
Oh, nope. The sun is coming out again.
Run into the light, bask in the warmth.
Walking out of the old world campus, tall turn of the century buildings standing like wise old professors over this young new pupil, head filled with glorious and grandiose ideas, silently guiding her along the path of self discovery and enlightenment.
***
I have my first swim lesson 2mrw.
Not so much a lesson as a perfection of techniques.
Want to feel efficient in the water again - a time when my strokes were effortless, poetic and fluid.
Looking forward to finding my equilibrium again, in the water and on land as well...
out of the university - will be part of a study program.
psychiatrists in training.
Doctor: "I run a tight ship. Everybody goes through rigorous training, and all meetings are reviewed with the supervisors who then give their notes on the following meetings with you. Don't worry. You will be getting the help that you need..."
She was so very nice.
i felt like she really understood me.
"I know this can't be easy, it impacts your life, keeps you from moving forward. We will be here to help you, help you find answers..."
They had a bipolar expert, PhD, MD on staff, but he is on sabbatical.
"But that's alright. We will find you a match - as close to perfect as we can..."
Huge sigh of relief.
I was on a waiting list since March 2010 for one other hospital.
"We will call you in July for an appointment for an assessment"
September rolls around. I call.
"It won't be before the end of October, but that does not guarantee you will get into the CBT clinic. Just so you know..."
Thank you. Not...
So at the other end of the city, my weekly commute will take almost an hour, but if i can be seen by somebody who cares, and perhaps, out of my misery and fucked up state of mind, will be able to care for somebody else who they will come across in their future practice who will have an equally fucked up state of mind, then all of this is a blessing.
Last night - restless. Bed bugs in my brain. Syphoning the logic out of every logical though, so that all was left was a infected irrational thought, poisoned, and throbbing, infected and disgusting.
Today, the sun alternating with the grey clouds kept me on my toes. Will it rain? Shall I dash for cover?
Oh, nope. The sun is coming out again.
Run into the light, bask in the warmth.
Walking out of the old world campus, tall turn of the century buildings standing like wise old professors over this young new pupil, head filled with glorious and grandiose ideas, silently guiding her along the path of self discovery and enlightenment.
***
I have my first swim lesson 2mrw.
Not so much a lesson as a perfection of techniques.
Want to feel efficient in the water again - a time when my strokes were effortless, poetic and fluid.
Looking forward to finding my equilibrium again, in the water and on land as well...
Thursday, September 09, 2010
tail end of a dream
I was in my house, but the whole layout was reversed.
I was preparing to receive people but was not looking forward to it. Worried that doors to my rooms would be open, things moved, private things examined.
I had to take the cats and put them in one of the rooms as well. Those poor things get so stressed out. Kineko pulls at the fur on his paw (they now look like two tree stumps) and Zoe, well she just gets miserable, sulks and hides.
The way to get their attention effortlessly is to open a can of cat food. No matter where they are, they will come running. And that's what I did. The can was smaller than normal, and the food, chunky and brown, looking almost like beef stew. Or was it really?
I picked up the dome litter box and was distraught because clumps of shit and pee that were hanging off the sides flew like frisbees across the room. My room.
Scavenger hunt later.
I heard chanting, a communal rumble. Outside was a sea of people, as far as the eye could see. Standing beneath my balcony who were all attending some political party rally. Would ALL these people be walking through my house as it had now been designated as "a refueling stop"?!
The organizer, a very tall svelte man in his 30's was at the craft table, making some coffee, orchestrating commands to people across the room. Worker bees hovering over mindless details.
"are all those people coming into my house?"
"is that a problem?"
"what the hell do you think?!"
"they will be respectful. I'll make sure of it. Just put a piece of paper with an 'x' on it so that they will no not to enter".
as if that's going to stop them...
So as I furiously x-ed pages and pages of blank paper, tacking them on the wall with a ream of scotch tape, the sea began to seep into my hallway.
"I can't just leave here, so I think i'll hire somebody to watch the doors. A full time security guard".
And as the air became more and more congested with sweaty bodies and noise, i felt weak and helpless. My house was being invaded by a heard of human elephants and all I could do was curl up into a ball, play dead and hope I would not get trampled to death...
I was preparing to receive people but was not looking forward to it. Worried that doors to my rooms would be open, things moved, private things examined.
I had to take the cats and put them in one of the rooms as well. Those poor things get so stressed out. Kineko pulls at the fur on his paw (they now look like two tree stumps) and Zoe, well she just gets miserable, sulks and hides.
The way to get their attention effortlessly is to open a can of cat food. No matter where they are, they will come running. And that's what I did. The can was smaller than normal, and the food, chunky and brown, looking almost like beef stew. Or was it really?
I picked up the dome litter box and was distraught because clumps of shit and pee that were hanging off the sides flew like frisbees across the room. My room.
Scavenger hunt later.
I heard chanting, a communal rumble. Outside was a sea of people, as far as the eye could see. Standing beneath my balcony who were all attending some political party rally. Would ALL these people be walking through my house as it had now been designated as "a refueling stop"?!
The organizer, a very tall svelte man in his 30's was at the craft table, making some coffee, orchestrating commands to people across the room. Worker bees hovering over mindless details.
"are all those people coming into my house?"
"is that a problem?"
"what the hell do you think?!"
"they will be respectful. I'll make sure of it. Just put a piece of paper with an 'x' on it so that they will no not to enter".
as if that's going to stop them...
So as I furiously x-ed pages and pages of blank paper, tacking them on the wall with a ream of scotch tape, the sea began to seep into my hallway.
"I can't just leave here, so I think i'll hire somebody to watch the doors. A full time security guard".
And as the air became more and more congested with sweaty bodies and noise, i felt weak and helpless. My house was being invaded by a heard of human elephants and all I could do was curl up into a ball, play dead and hope I would not get trampled to death...
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
summer camp
omg.
what an absolutely disturbing dream...
admits the serenity and lush greenery of the country side, a property over looking a pristine lake was a prison. A mental spiritual prison that had my mother and I locked into a lost without a key.
From what I can remember (the feeling of dread, anguish, fear are still with me), mom and I were on this retreat. Oh the summer smell of dewy grass and high noon light filtering gracefully through the high branches and leaves, bathing everything in a subdued green haze.
It looked like a company pic nic - people walking around in groups, talking, laughing, wandering the grounds. I wanted to swim, so desperately. The water was calling me. Clear, calm - serenity personified. But I was locked into doing something else. And besides, nobody was swimming and I didn't want to stick out. The new guest who has absolute disregard for new guest etiquette.
I was to meet mom in a cabin - mess hall. Built entirely of stripped wood logs, the pine smell filled the whole room. Moist and almost sweet, i felt as if i had walked into the womb of spring. People sat around in chairs. A semi circle, 15 at most.
Three officiators were at the front of the room, with microphones, nonchalantly scanning their group. I found a chair in the back of the room and tried to blend into the walls.
"miss, over there in the back, please come up here..."
ouf
slowly and deliberately i moved, looking down at my feet, counting the steps. At the end of a row filled with faces frozen with overly zealous smiles, and glazed eyes, i took my place.
There was some kind of ceremony. The only thing I could equate it to was a cross between a town hall meeting and a quaker ceremony. At one point, i was called up to the front of the room and asked to stand next to a young woman in a long petticoat. Hair pulled back tightly in a bun, the tips of her scuffed brown shoes peeping out from underneath the soiled hem of her dress, she was silent and sweaty. I could feel her perspiring thin forearm against mine.
the undead, clammy and cold in the country on a sunny summer day
what fun...
Something happened and she began to wilt. The officiant began to ramble on - a deflated rap parable of Jesus and life everlasting. Her shoulders twitched, her head slumped forward. A life sized raggedy ann doll entering into a seizure next to me. What the fuck was that all about?!
She leaned on my shoulder hard. More moist grossness on my shoulder now. The person with the microphone shouted: "Hold her up! Put your arm around her!"
And so i did, hesitating. She also smelled of cold urine and salt. I turned my head into the other direction to take in the pine aroma around me.
She collapsed into a crumpled cotton heap at my feet. I leaned down next to her, cradled her head. It seemed as if she was having a seizure.
"Yes! Yes! That is what you do - hold her head!"
people in the audience began to stir, mumble, chant.
After a few seconds, everything went quiet.
The young woman woke up, and allowed me to pull her up to her feet. She smiled and hobbled back to her chair. Without hesitation, i turned to walk to mine.
At some point, i was looking for mom. We had kept on crossing paths, motioning to each other in the distance, over the heads of men and woman too pleased to be there. Signaling in a language only a mother and daughter understand.
Dusk came. It was time for dinner.
My feeling of dread and apprehension grew exponentially. What was this place?
I could not help but think back to the Jonestown massacre. I was young enough to understand what it was about. Young enough to understand what those piles of corpses in the jungle meant and why it happened. Trade a jungle for the green mountains and there we were. Fear turned into near paralysis, but I knew I had to find mom and get out.
Dinner looked eerily similar to the quaker meeting, except everybody sat at round tables. Looked like a wedding of sorts. A banquet.
The last supper...
In the food line, silver trays steamed with fresh vegetables and bernaise covered salmon and meaty lasagna. I skipped the main course and went for the carrots and beans. Mom managed to cut into the line behind me.
"we have to get out of here. it's a cult. Look over there. The big punch bowl",
and there it was. Purple cool aid. But everybody looked so peaceful, plates filled with food. Would they off themselves just before a good meal?
That would just be too sad...
"they won't do it now, there are too many new people here. They have to hook us in first, then they do it..."
Dinner dissolved into nightfall. It would be a difficult task, to pack all our bags and nonchalantly walk down to the car. But we had help. Others who could not, for whatever reason, leave. Somebody had sedated the cats. Someone else had packed food for us. All of it, waiting in the big black mercedes. (a really nice car i may add - light blue interior. A/C, GPS.) As we scouted the land, heard some people's voices over the bend, we slipped into the vehicle, slipped it into neutral and was pushed off by two men all dressed in black. Coasting past the gates, I could not help but think of what a waste that lake front property was and how I could have really enjoyed the time away.
Through the mountains - 4am. the sky began to change from indigo to a deep water blue. We would have to hit the border before sunrise. Less people, more chances of crossing over unnoticed.
I worried that the cats would become dehydrated after such a long trip. They slept, or were semi conscious. My heart ached for their plight. Dragged along with no say of their own into another place, world that was unfamiliar to them. But soon they would be home. We would all be....
at the border crossing, a single window in what looked like a small gaz station.
5am. The blue was changing again. Would not be long before we would be bathed in sunlight. Even in a black car, we could easily be identified.
Mom rolled down the window. The border window lifted up.
"Mary sent us."
pause
"thank you, go ahead, and welcome home."
The uniformed woman looked tired but releived, as if she had been saved from something. Perhaps she was releived because she had saved us from something...
I woke up, distraught and in a panic. My muscles began to betray me. The ache was brutal. Perhaps this was translated into my dream as helplessness. Inability to move away from danger. But we did.
I still have this uneasy feeling, as if something is wrong. Some ticking time bomb is about to detonate. The other shoe is about to drop. Kool-aid about to be stirred.
Perhaps it's just this shit medication fucking with my neurons. If it can paralyze my body, God knows what it's doing to my mind...
what an absolutely disturbing dream...
admits the serenity and lush greenery of the country side, a property over looking a pristine lake was a prison. A mental spiritual prison that had my mother and I locked into a lost without a key.
From what I can remember (the feeling of dread, anguish, fear are still with me), mom and I were on this retreat. Oh the summer smell of dewy grass and high noon light filtering gracefully through the high branches and leaves, bathing everything in a subdued green haze.
It looked like a company pic nic - people walking around in groups, talking, laughing, wandering the grounds. I wanted to swim, so desperately. The water was calling me. Clear, calm - serenity personified. But I was locked into doing something else. And besides, nobody was swimming and I didn't want to stick out. The new guest who has absolute disregard for new guest etiquette.
I was to meet mom in a cabin - mess hall. Built entirely of stripped wood logs, the pine smell filled the whole room. Moist and almost sweet, i felt as if i had walked into the womb of spring. People sat around in chairs. A semi circle, 15 at most.
Three officiators were at the front of the room, with microphones, nonchalantly scanning their group. I found a chair in the back of the room and tried to blend into the walls.
"miss, over there in the back, please come up here..."
ouf
slowly and deliberately i moved, looking down at my feet, counting the steps. At the end of a row filled with faces frozen with overly zealous smiles, and glazed eyes, i took my place.
There was some kind of ceremony. The only thing I could equate it to was a cross between a town hall meeting and a quaker ceremony. At one point, i was called up to the front of the room and asked to stand next to a young woman in a long petticoat. Hair pulled back tightly in a bun, the tips of her scuffed brown shoes peeping out from underneath the soiled hem of her dress, she was silent and sweaty. I could feel her perspiring thin forearm against mine.
the undead, clammy and cold in the country on a sunny summer day
what fun...
Something happened and she began to wilt. The officiant began to ramble on - a deflated rap parable of Jesus and life everlasting. Her shoulders twitched, her head slumped forward. A life sized raggedy ann doll entering into a seizure next to me. What the fuck was that all about?!
She leaned on my shoulder hard. More moist grossness on my shoulder now. The person with the microphone shouted: "Hold her up! Put your arm around her!"
And so i did, hesitating. She also smelled of cold urine and salt. I turned my head into the other direction to take in the pine aroma around me.
She collapsed into a crumpled cotton heap at my feet. I leaned down next to her, cradled her head. It seemed as if she was having a seizure.
"Yes! Yes! That is what you do - hold her head!"
people in the audience began to stir, mumble, chant.
After a few seconds, everything went quiet.
The young woman woke up, and allowed me to pull her up to her feet. She smiled and hobbled back to her chair. Without hesitation, i turned to walk to mine.
At some point, i was looking for mom. We had kept on crossing paths, motioning to each other in the distance, over the heads of men and woman too pleased to be there. Signaling in a language only a mother and daughter understand.
Dusk came. It was time for dinner.
My feeling of dread and apprehension grew exponentially. What was this place?
I could not help but think back to the Jonestown massacre. I was young enough to understand what it was about. Young enough to understand what those piles of corpses in the jungle meant and why it happened. Trade a jungle for the green mountains and there we were. Fear turned into near paralysis, but I knew I had to find mom and get out.
Dinner looked eerily similar to the quaker meeting, except everybody sat at round tables. Looked like a wedding of sorts. A banquet.
The last supper...
In the food line, silver trays steamed with fresh vegetables and bernaise covered salmon and meaty lasagna. I skipped the main course and went for the carrots and beans. Mom managed to cut into the line behind me.
"we have to get out of here. it's a cult. Look over there. The big punch bowl",
and there it was. Purple cool aid. But everybody looked so peaceful, plates filled with food. Would they off themselves just before a good meal?
That would just be too sad...
"they won't do it now, there are too many new people here. They have to hook us in first, then they do it..."
Dinner dissolved into nightfall. It would be a difficult task, to pack all our bags and nonchalantly walk down to the car. But we had help. Others who could not, for whatever reason, leave. Somebody had sedated the cats. Someone else had packed food for us. All of it, waiting in the big black mercedes. (a really nice car i may add - light blue interior. A/C, GPS.) As we scouted the land, heard some people's voices over the bend, we slipped into the vehicle, slipped it into neutral and was pushed off by two men all dressed in black. Coasting past the gates, I could not help but think of what a waste that lake front property was and how I could have really enjoyed the time away.
Through the mountains - 4am. the sky began to change from indigo to a deep water blue. We would have to hit the border before sunrise. Less people, more chances of crossing over unnoticed.
I worried that the cats would become dehydrated after such a long trip. They slept, or were semi conscious. My heart ached for their plight. Dragged along with no say of their own into another place, world that was unfamiliar to them. But soon they would be home. We would all be....
at the border crossing, a single window in what looked like a small gaz station.
5am. The blue was changing again. Would not be long before we would be bathed in sunlight. Even in a black car, we could easily be identified.
Mom rolled down the window. The border window lifted up.
"Mary sent us."
pause
"thank you, go ahead, and welcome home."
The uniformed woman looked tired but releived, as if she had been saved from something. Perhaps she was releived because she had saved us from something...
I woke up, distraught and in a panic. My muscles began to betray me. The ache was brutal. Perhaps this was translated into my dream as helplessness. Inability to move away from danger. But we did.
I still have this uneasy feeling, as if something is wrong. Some ticking time bomb is about to detonate. The other shoe is about to drop. Kool-aid about to be stirred.
Perhaps it's just this shit medication fucking with my neurons. If it can paralyze my body, God knows what it's doing to my mind...
making it worse before it gets better
I once had a boss who was the epitome of a douchebag.
Seriously.
The day he decided to make my life a living hell was the day that the head surgeon/chair of the department joked to him while I was taking pictures at a 'chi-chi" event.
"Mark, you better be careful or this young lady is going to take your job soon!"
ha ha ha ha
laughs all around.
But it was true. Or could have been.
I worked the room like a smooth ass teflon Don politician. Everybody liked my unobtrusive yet charmingly quirky demeanor. Everybody wanted me to take their picture. The night was a huge success. The head surgeon/chair came up to me near the end of the event: "it is a pleasure to have you working with us."
well, that didn't last long...
Shitforbrains flipped and began to panic because the big cheese was on my side. Loved me and said hi every time he came into our office. Turdo didn't even get so much as a mumble.
And he hated me for it.
Or shall i say abhorred me for it.
He sabotaged me in every way he could. Tried to break me every way he could.
I just had an operation that left me weak and ill, and he used that to his advantage.
I broke and he fired me. Just one day shy of being unionized.
I should have known that it was coming down the pipeline.
"It's only gonna get worse..." was his sick and fucked up mantra.
No wonder he was a miserable fat sloth moron.
But I digress from venting...
It's only gonna get worse ...
I find myself saying this right now as i try to march stoically through these horrendous side effects of my GERD medication.
I tried to explain to my gastro doc that I felt like i had been run over by a buss. That i was putting on weight like a rowboat in a monsoon. That i was becoming moody and manic.
"well, i've never heard of those side effects before"
(ergo - they don't exist)
But now thanks to the internet, more and more people are chiming in about the wonderful world of heavy duty meds and the delightful cornucopia of pleasantries that twist your insides and outsides into a wet noodle.
(taken from Wikepedia: Thomas A. Scully, head of the Federal Centers for Medicare and Medicaid services also criticized AstraZeneca for their aggressive marketing of Nexium. At a conference of the American Medical Association he went so far as to suggest that Astra was using the new drug to overcharge consumers and insurance companies. "You should be embarrassed if you prescribe Nexium," he claimed, "because you're screwing your patients and you're screwing the taxpayers.")
GERD can be a serious thing. I was rumored to have Barrette's esophagus, which is one step away from esophageal cancer, but a biopsy showed that the tissue was not diseased, but was told that I would have to go in every 6-8 months for a gastroscopy to make sure. Getting a tube/camera shoved down your throat is not a fun experience. I would rather have 10 colonoscopies to one gastroscopy. Yes, that many. Being awake for both, the sensation of having your throat and thorax scraped with a toilet bowl brush over and over again is not my idea of a good time.
It's ironic - i never was a smoker, or a drinker, yet I have what most smokers and drinkers suffer from. Oh if i were only able to say that i had and once enjoyed those vices, perhaps the intestinal prodding would seem more tolerable. Perhaps it's all made worse by the fact that I have a Hiatus hernia...
It's only gonna get worse ...
These pills - nasty pills. Have caused my fybromalgia to flare up in a serious way. I have to actually walk with a cane. Standing causes me to help in pain with each step, sitting is tantamount to sucking my skin and muscles into the floor with an industrial vacuum cleaner. And sleep? Well, I'll have none of that. The brain is mostly made of water, but is also a muscle, and with fybromyalgia, all muscles hurt, a lot. Including my brain.
It also triggers my bipolar.
Not a pretty sight considering I am already fighting that on a regular basis.
No more sunny days, no more walking with flip flops, letting the warm weather wrap me in its arms like a bright candy colored flannel blanket.
Fall - cold, damp, grey.
All my enemies for so many reasons.
I had an alternative, but that is even more scary than what i'm on now.
I had taken it once before, and had to get off after the third dose. My doctors thought i was crazy. Well, this crazy lady now has back up.
Astra zeneca has now packaged a long list of troubling side effects, preceded by the warning: Consult your doctor if these conditions occur or become worse.
Well, all the ones I had once tried to explain were all there in mauve and white.
Pretty packaging, not so pretty side effects.
It's only gonna get worse ...
I can hear people saying: "at least you don't have to go through chemo!"
Well, if this condition worsens, i may just have to...
But yes, it is gonna get worse before it gets better, and i have to take this bitter pill, my medicine, but why does something that is supposed to heal you make you more sick than what you started with?
Isn't that backwards?
Oh modern medicine, why must you be such a motherfucker?
Seriously.
The day he decided to make my life a living hell was the day that the head surgeon/chair of the department joked to him while I was taking pictures at a 'chi-chi" event.
"Mark, you better be careful or this young lady is going to take your job soon!"
ha ha ha ha
laughs all around.
But it was true. Or could have been.
I worked the room like a smooth ass teflon Don politician. Everybody liked my unobtrusive yet charmingly quirky demeanor. Everybody wanted me to take their picture. The night was a huge success. The head surgeon/chair came up to me near the end of the event: "it is a pleasure to have you working with us."
well, that didn't last long...
Shitforbrains flipped and began to panic because the big cheese was on my side. Loved me and said hi every time he came into our office. Turdo didn't even get so much as a mumble.
And he hated me for it.
Or shall i say abhorred me for it.
He sabotaged me in every way he could. Tried to break me every way he could.
I just had an operation that left me weak and ill, and he used that to his advantage.
I broke and he fired me. Just one day shy of being unionized.
I should have known that it was coming down the pipeline.
"It's only gonna get worse..." was his sick and fucked up mantra.
No wonder he was a miserable fat sloth moron.
But I digress from venting...
It's only gonna get worse ...
I find myself saying this right now as i try to march stoically through these horrendous side effects of my GERD medication.
I tried to explain to my gastro doc that I felt like i had been run over by a buss. That i was putting on weight like a rowboat in a monsoon. That i was becoming moody and manic.
"well, i've never heard of those side effects before"
(ergo - they don't exist)
But now thanks to the internet, more and more people are chiming in about the wonderful world of heavy duty meds and the delightful cornucopia of pleasantries that twist your insides and outsides into a wet noodle.
(taken from Wikepedia: Thomas A. Scully, head of the Federal Centers for Medicare and Medicaid services also criticized AstraZeneca for their aggressive marketing of Nexium. At a conference of the American Medical Association he went so far as to suggest that Astra was using the new drug to overcharge consumers and insurance companies. "You should be embarrassed if you prescribe Nexium," he claimed, "because you're screwing your patients and you're screwing the taxpayers.")
GERD can be a serious thing. I was rumored to have Barrette's esophagus, which is one step away from esophageal cancer, but a biopsy showed that the tissue was not diseased, but was told that I would have to go in every 6-8 months for a gastroscopy to make sure. Getting a tube/camera shoved down your throat is not a fun experience. I would rather have 10 colonoscopies to one gastroscopy. Yes, that many. Being awake for both, the sensation of having your throat and thorax scraped with a toilet bowl brush over and over again is not my idea of a good time.
It's ironic - i never was a smoker, or a drinker, yet I have what most smokers and drinkers suffer from. Oh if i were only able to say that i had and once enjoyed those vices, perhaps the intestinal prodding would seem more tolerable. Perhaps it's all made worse by the fact that I have a Hiatus hernia...
It's only gonna get worse ...
These pills - nasty pills. Have caused my fybromalgia to flare up in a serious way. I have to actually walk with a cane. Standing causes me to help in pain with each step, sitting is tantamount to sucking my skin and muscles into the floor with an industrial vacuum cleaner. And sleep? Well, I'll have none of that. The brain is mostly made of water, but is also a muscle, and with fybromyalgia, all muscles hurt, a lot. Including my brain.
It also triggers my bipolar.
Not a pretty sight considering I am already fighting that on a regular basis.
No more sunny days, no more walking with flip flops, letting the warm weather wrap me in its arms like a bright candy colored flannel blanket.
Fall - cold, damp, grey.
All my enemies for so many reasons.
I had an alternative, but that is even more scary than what i'm on now.
I had taken it once before, and had to get off after the third dose. My doctors thought i was crazy. Well, this crazy lady now has back up.
Astra zeneca has now packaged a long list of troubling side effects, preceded by the warning: Consult your doctor if these conditions occur or become worse.
Well, all the ones I had once tried to explain were all there in mauve and white.
Pretty packaging, not so pretty side effects.
It's only gonna get worse ...
I can hear people saying: "at least you don't have to go through chemo!"
Well, if this condition worsens, i may just have to...
But yes, it is gonna get worse before it gets better, and i have to take this bitter pill, my medicine, but why does something that is supposed to heal you make you more sick than what you started with?
Isn't that backwards?
Oh modern medicine, why must you be such a motherfucker?
Sunday, September 05, 2010
today's dream log
dream
water
i was swimming. Learning to improve my strokes.
Hotel swimming pool. More rectangular than long. At dusk.
The glow of the lights in the water - turquoise.
Glass walls - rooftop terrace now closed. City skyline becomes alive.
Few people, mostly milling about. Languid in lounge chairs.
An instructor, svelt man, middle aged, comes into the pool to show me how to improve my strokes. Turns on the wave machine. I begin to swim. Each movement, poetic, graceful. Underwater ballet. He stops me, shows me, i begin again.
The movement propelling me forward is counteracted by the waves, bubbles, noise.
I pick up speed, and the waves get stronger, the bubbles bigger and the noise - louder.
Now it all seems so effortless. My body glides, hands slice the water like cleavers. Blade through flesh. Silent. No spash. No sound.
Flash. it's morning and we are now entering the sauna. Tilled cubicle. Standing room only. Five of us walk in. It's dark except for the ambient light. Steam streams through the walls. Eucalyptus fills our nostrils. Mentholated brush into the sinuses. General malaise. I say: "it's good for you. Now we sit and sweat."
After a few seconds, people tire and become anxious.
"Now we cold dip." pointing to the garden hose attached to the wall. I pick it up and lift it to my head.
"Are you crazy?"
"that's too cold!!"
"It closes your pores, gets your heart rate going. It's good for you."
But nobody listens. They slide out of the stall, aimless and sweaty. I stay behind, enjoying the whole aquatic experience.
House
E and I had bought a house. Condo actually. Model home. Fully equipped, furnished. Showroom ready to go. It was dark, pale moss green everywhere. Into the post-modern domestic forest. Everything was set. Tv was on. Welcoming din.
I began to get anxious. Nervous. Something was wrong. Trapped, suffocated I began to rant. Question. Weariness covered me like a veil.
"There are no windows!! How could you have said yes to a place that had no windows!!"
"it's not that big of a deal."
"what the hell do you mean!? Of course it is! I can't breathe! I can't see out! There is no natural sunlight!"
"why do you need light?"
Picking up a paint chip, blush pink, I waved it into his face.
"why can't we paint this place another color!? Why all this green? "
"you want to paint it? no problem. I can do that. Just give me the paint."
"but we can't live here while we paint!"
"why not?"
"THERE ARE NO WINDOWS TO OPEN!"
"so, what's your point?"
desperate, dejected and furious, i ran out of the house, into the street. Into the light, into the fresh air.
House - part 2
Now we are in an actual house. I'm on the other side of the front door, watching myself walk in with the agent. Cathedral ceilings, ruched curtains protecting the interior from sun. Two level, winding staircase, kitchen with marble island, open concept. Stainless steel appliances. Clean. Hyper clean.
This is my house, yet it is not my house.
I own it but don't live in it.
I make my way to the kitchen, and begin to cook. Taking out the spices, putting them in alphabetical order. E is there, but distant. Observing but not attentive.
I am despondent, why does he not help me?
The doorbell rings. We were not expecting company?
Open the door and a flood of people fill our hallway, making their way into the kitchen. The nexus of this industrial universe. So many people.
"why don't you help me?!!"
E walks away. JM walks behind him, turning to me: "he's not interesting in helping anymore. You have asked him for enough help. He needs to rest. He is fed up. Go on doing what you have to do. He's done with this. This marriage. This everything."
I am crushed. Mentally raped. Physically ruined.
More people, more noise, more scrutiny. My body goes numb. It's a miracle I'm standing.
I too become part of the model home. A fixture. Fleshy furniture. Bees buzzing around me, examining the countertops, the microwave, the fridge. Doors open, plates shifting, floor squeaking under the weight of these bodies make the floor squeak.
Everything is filthy, at least to my standards. I scurry behind, a gypsy child, picking up crumbs, wiping away residue, making everything sparkling clean.
I open the back door and they all fill into the outside yard. Good riddance. Goodbye. I close the door. The remaining people trickle away from the center of the industrial homemaker's universe.
There is a group of Indian women, diligently examining the spice rack.
"it's important to have all the spices in order to keep your kitchen harmonious".
Brown nimble fingers delicately pull apart the angel hairs of red saffron and place them onto the marble countertop.
"this should do it. This should fix everything now..."
water
i was swimming. Learning to improve my strokes.
Hotel swimming pool. More rectangular than long. At dusk.
The glow of the lights in the water - turquoise.
Glass walls - rooftop terrace now closed. City skyline becomes alive.
Few people, mostly milling about. Languid in lounge chairs.
An instructor, svelt man, middle aged, comes into the pool to show me how to improve my strokes. Turns on the wave machine. I begin to swim. Each movement, poetic, graceful. Underwater ballet. He stops me, shows me, i begin again.
The movement propelling me forward is counteracted by the waves, bubbles, noise.
I pick up speed, and the waves get stronger, the bubbles bigger and the noise - louder.
Now it all seems so effortless. My body glides, hands slice the water like cleavers. Blade through flesh. Silent. No spash. No sound.
Flash. it's morning and we are now entering the sauna. Tilled cubicle. Standing room only. Five of us walk in. It's dark except for the ambient light. Steam streams through the walls. Eucalyptus fills our nostrils. Mentholated brush into the sinuses. General malaise. I say: "it's good for you. Now we sit and sweat."
After a few seconds, people tire and become anxious.
"Now we cold dip." pointing to the garden hose attached to the wall. I pick it up and lift it to my head.
"Are you crazy?"
"that's too cold!!"
"It closes your pores, gets your heart rate going. It's good for you."
But nobody listens. They slide out of the stall, aimless and sweaty. I stay behind, enjoying the whole aquatic experience.
House
E and I had bought a house. Condo actually. Model home. Fully equipped, furnished. Showroom ready to go. It was dark, pale moss green everywhere. Into the post-modern domestic forest. Everything was set. Tv was on. Welcoming din.
I began to get anxious. Nervous. Something was wrong. Trapped, suffocated I began to rant. Question. Weariness covered me like a veil.
"There are no windows!! How could you have said yes to a place that had no windows!!"
"it's not that big of a deal."
"what the hell do you mean!? Of course it is! I can't breathe! I can't see out! There is no natural sunlight!"
"why do you need light?"
Picking up a paint chip, blush pink, I waved it into his face.
"why can't we paint this place another color!? Why all this green? "
"you want to paint it? no problem. I can do that. Just give me the paint."
"but we can't live here while we paint!"
"why not?"
"THERE ARE NO WINDOWS TO OPEN!"
"so, what's your point?"
desperate, dejected and furious, i ran out of the house, into the street. Into the light, into the fresh air.
House - part 2
Now we are in an actual house. I'm on the other side of the front door, watching myself walk in with the agent. Cathedral ceilings, ruched curtains protecting the interior from sun. Two level, winding staircase, kitchen with marble island, open concept. Stainless steel appliances. Clean. Hyper clean.
This is my house, yet it is not my house.
I own it but don't live in it.
I make my way to the kitchen, and begin to cook. Taking out the spices, putting them in alphabetical order. E is there, but distant. Observing but not attentive.
I am despondent, why does he not help me?
The doorbell rings. We were not expecting company?
Open the door and a flood of people fill our hallway, making their way into the kitchen. The nexus of this industrial universe. So many people.
"why don't you help me?!!"
E walks away. JM walks behind him, turning to me: "he's not interesting in helping anymore. You have asked him for enough help. He needs to rest. He is fed up. Go on doing what you have to do. He's done with this. This marriage. This everything."
I am crushed. Mentally raped. Physically ruined.
More people, more noise, more scrutiny. My body goes numb. It's a miracle I'm standing.
I too become part of the model home. A fixture. Fleshy furniture. Bees buzzing around me, examining the countertops, the microwave, the fridge. Doors open, plates shifting, floor squeaking under the weight of these bodies make the floor squeak.
Everything is filthy, at least to my standards. I scurry behind, a gypsy child, picking up crumbs, wiping away residue, making everything sparkling clean.
I open the back door and they all fill into the outside yard. Good riddance. Goodbye. I close the door. The remaining people trickle away from the center of the industrial homemaker's universe.
There is a group of Indian women, diligently examining the spice rack.
"it's important to have all the spices in order to keep your kitchen harmonious".
Brown nimble fingers delicately pull apart the angel hairs of red saffron and place them onto the marble countertop.
"this should do it. This should fix everything now..."
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A letter to a friend
a letter to a photographer friend today - a reply to his message after seeing my film
Clair Obscure.
I was surprised by what gushed forth
sometimes I surprise myself, in a good way :-)
Clair Obscure.
I was surprised by what gushed forth
sometimes I surprise myself, in a good way :-)
Oh Dave,
you have no idea how much your message has touched me. So many emotions. I don't know where to begin...
first, I'll start from the end...
Interesting you picked up on the whole doc/60's-70's feel. I guess my religious viewing of films such as shock corridor (Sam Fuller), Titicut Follies (Frederick Wiseman), 2001 (Kubrick), A woman under the influence (Cassavettes) and of course, One Flew over the cuckoo's nest (Forman) and Let there be light (Huston). Film has been a huge part of my life. When my parents divorced, i was 11, and my weekly father's visits consisted of dinner @ Wendy's or McDonalds followed by a movie. That's all we did. That was his way of connecting. After watching a film, we'd go for ice cream and have our own "At the movies" critique session. You can imagine how interesting they were when we saw 2001 a Space Odyssey and Apocalypse Now (he snuck me into that one. Opening week - crazy insanity. He literally snuck me underneath his coat!!)
And when I did film production @ university, we were old school. 1990. Cutting film was an organic experience. Almost spiritual.
manic depression is often a ticking time bomb, present in the family tree and detonated during or after a traumatic event - my detonation was my parent's split. After that. puberty wreaked havoc until I was 19. That's when I had my full blown breakdown. It was ugly. It is truly a miracle I lived to tell the tale. I should have been dead by now, more than half a dozen times over...
After almost a year of being shuttled from emergency room to another, I was helped by a doctor who was starting a crisis clinic at one of the hospitals. She was a pioneer in her field and research into bipolar. It was the light at the end of the tunnel, but little did I know, the tunnel would be filled with sewage, rot and stigma. (funny enough - while I'm writing this, I just realized that the whole scene in the tunnel might have been a subconscious link to that...)
I was hospitalized for a week and then a day patient for a month. The big mental hospital is actually an old mansion on the mountain. Ornate, yet now devoid of all its glamour, it was a hollow shell of a once grandiose existence - so much like the life of a person with bipolar - after the crash...
I knew I was not 'crazy/over the edge" as some of the people there were, but i was not far from it. I had actually looked into the abyss. Stood on the precipice of no return. It was a welcome end to an existence filled with pain, confusion and relentless chaos. That ledge was so narrow. Despite my new 'medicated lithium state", it was terrifying to actually know that i was so close to jumping into an alternate reality because mine had become a living hell. The woman who sat in the waiting room, in the buss, arranging her groceries, watching out the window as the world passed her by, letting the wind blow through her hair. That could have been me. In that waiting room, in that other world...
what brought me back, i still don't know. But to this day, I am forever thankful that by some divine intervention, i returned. Perhaps it was the will to live, my higher reptilian brain telling me to push through. Or perhaps it was my old soul telling me it was my gift to be able to share this experience with the world. That my suffering was indeed necessary to be able to coherently explain life "on the other side" and to give others hope, and others insight into an existence that is nothing short of hell on earth...
Your relationship with your ex-girlfriend - bless your heart. We all need somebody as understanding and loving as you are to her. You are insightful and kind to realize that bipolar is something bigger than we are. It is bigger than our logical mind. It is our emotional mind on crack. It's the vortex of fear and isolation, of gravity and pain twisted around synapses that fire furiously, out of control, without a plan. Rabid. Paralyzing. What we say and do during our mixed states is not of our own consciousness. It is the muddled kaleidoscope of isolation, broken dreams and terror.
And ADD, I suffer from that too, albeit a mild version but I know all too well how that can turn a normal task into a labyrinth of confusion and complication. Mine runs into elliptical and illogical ruminations about death, paranoia and other worst case scenarios. Sometimes, I can't even step out of the house because I'm afraid that the earth will open up and swallow me whole, or that I will spontaneously combust. My mind checks over the details like a mega processor, but the computations never add up but information spews forth at random, adding to the confusion and chaos in my brain.
Dysthymic Disorder - that languid melancholy, worn like a wet overcoat. How it turns the most beautiful sunset into a realization that another day has passed and life is that much shorter. How the excitement of a new day is filtered through the density of apprehension that what we didn't do yesterday is yet another reason to put off what we could have done to what we should do, but then as the sunset begins, we get lost in an endless cycle of regret and what seems like idyllic hope. I really hope that you are able to manage those episodes. That you have found a medication to ease the pain. I have found that CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy has helped me a lot), but as with all ways of seeing and learning, it takes practice. The key is to stay positive and focused. Which for people like us, is nothing short of a hurdle in itself. Having friends who understand and believe in you are key.
But I think the worst part is dealing with the people who think "it's all in your head". Yes. It is. But despite that when they say : "just snap out of it" - mental illness is a chemical imbalance. The brain is a complex system of nerve tissue, fibers, neurons, dendrites and synapses - all working together or against each other. Even in the 21st century, science is still in the initial stages of comprehension and unraveling the mystery that is the human mind. I have had to deal with people who say: "just get a grip on life", "everybody has problems", "it's all in how you deal with it" or the best one: "buck up and face your problems like a man/woman". It is my hope that one day, people who are these ignorant naysayers live one life in the mind of somebody who suffers as we have. I have no doubt that they would quickly change their mind and opinion, but until then, I try with my photography and films to drive the point home.
Did you see my "blue series" on flickr? I have a bunch of other "self portraits" that try to illustrate life on the other side of sanity. With each shutter click, i hope that one day I will get closer to being more cohesive, better at expressing my experiences. It's important that people know and understand. Ignorance breeds contempt and hatred. Our world is filled with enough of that.
People who suffer by no will of their own need a fucken break.
People who suffer by no will of their own need a fucken break.
All my life i've had to deal with people labeling me a "weird/off/strange/psychotic/wacky". A good friend of mine from high school with whom i recently reconnected with said that people often came to her and asked: "why are you friends with her? She's pretty messed up." But she stuck through, believed in me and said - 'that's why she's so special. And that's why she's my friend." If only i had that kind of unconditional acceptance from my friends and family.
After a nasty court settlement when i turned 20, my mother, father and both lawyers on both sides sat in our lawyer's office and when asked if we had any last words, I looked at him and pulled out a piece of paper.
"dad, you think that this is all in my head - this depression. this mania. my suffering. Here is a list of doctors that will tell you that I am in fact suffering from bipolar disorder. That it is real. I encourage you to get in touch with them and talk to them yourself."
without looking at me, he packed up his briefcase, took the paper, folded it into a tiny square and shoved it in his pocket.
"Well, if I were to ask the doctors when all my problems started, they would say that it all started when you were born."
"Well, if I were to ask the doctors when all my problems started, they would say that it all started when you were born."
And with that, he left the room. His lawyer, my lawyer and mother all stood there, silent and shocked. His lawyer apologized profusely. So did our lawyer. So did my mom. It was something I would have to get used to.
How ironic is it that to this day, my dad, even though he has seen my film, still does not believe that what i suffer from is a legitimate and medical condition.
It is still something I am getting used to. But if my film can touch one person, then all of this will have been worth it.
And your message has made me smile.
I'm so happy that it touched your life. That means everything to me.
Please stay well Dave, and i have faith that one day, we will be able to share our stories on the battle field. We have come through the difficult task of survival, overcoming the stigma, and through that, will inspire others.
hpk
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