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...
Monday, September 27, 2010
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..."
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