Give My Creation Life

I do like where I'm at, and where I've come from.  Sure, there have been speedbumps, potholes, traffic lights, and unsavory drivers.  But this road trip is chuggin' along.  I feel like I've hit a good speed, have open road, and have set the cruise control, and the engine is playing a soothing tune as it hums along the road with me.

I've made some connections to more ways of doing what I want to do with my life.  I'm acting on my thoughts more, and obsessing a little less, it seems.  It's still there, though.  The perfectionism.  Some paranoia.  Some insecurity.  Some self-bashing.  Some distorted thinking.  But the stew is simmering, and there's a natural boil that stirs the elements of the stew, bringing things up from the depths of my unconscious to the surface, where I can observe them with my awareness.  Is the surface of the stew actually a layer of perception, of consciousness itself?

I haven't been writing here as much as I did the last couple of years.  But I have regular check-ins still, having posted at least once a month all year so far...  But I am still writing.  Besides writing for Quiet Mike a couple times, I have also been writing the old fashioned way.  Long hand pen and paper.  Not to mention messages via email and Facebook.  I'm getting at the "stuff", the core matter that swims in the stew, beneath the surface, and outside of perception.  I cannot see or smell or hear every little mushroom that is in the stew.  But I may have seen one bubble up here and there, and I have a good feeling that there are several in there. 

Here I go talking about stew again.  I think it might be time to revisit the stew.

I will go back to the origins of my maiden forage into fiction and publish Primordial Stewage.

Primordial Stewage is what Thistle Penn crawled out of, where he begins, and where he shall end.  He's an ingredient of the stew.  And he is also the stew.  The stew is him, too.

So look for it here, on Tripolarity.  Coming soon.  Primordial Stewage.

The 200 Club

Not to be confused with the 700 club.

This here blog entry is number 201 of all-time here at Tripolarity: Living Bipolar.  The milestone was at the previous blog, but you know how sometimes you miss the odometer turning over to that milestone sort of a number?  No?  Oh yeah, that's right.  Those are digital now.

Some of the fun has gone out of driving, not because I'm older-- no, no... none of that-- but because we've "advanced" or "progressed" such that cars are different now.  I once rebuilt the carburetor on my Chevy pickup.  Now cars don't even have carburetors.  So I'm told.  Maybe I am old...

Used to be that you'd glance down at the odometer while driving a stretch of highway and notice that an event was coming.  With a glance, you could see things shaping up.  All those 9's lined up in a row, all turning to 0's in a matter of seconds.  It was something that you could witness visually.  It was more than just a "blip" and done.  The dials would start to crank, turning slowly until all of the 9's had become 0's, over the course of a few seconds (depending on how fast you were driving).  Nowadays?  Blip.  You're not even sure if you witnessed it happening.  One moment it's all nines, the next it's all zeros. 

There are a lot of things that used to be that aren't anymore.  Used to be that people sent each other pieces of paper with scribbled penmanship on them.  They were called "letters" and were sent all over the world for the price of a stamp.  How much did it cost to mail a letter when you were young?  I remember stamps being 23 cents.  Or was it 22?  It was less than a quarter to mail a letter.  And you had to take your time writing it out in your best penmanship so that the person you were sending it to could actually read it when it got there.

Now I think it costs twelve dollars to send a letter to someone.  And there's no guarantee that the person you send one to will even know what to do with it.  Mail?  Oh that's the crap that the businesses send trying to get you to spend money on their products.  Coupons.  Junk mail.

Who killed the personal letter?  I don't think it was me.  I remember writing letters to girls that I liked a lot back in high school, and even into college.  I was shy, so writing things down allowed me to get my words "just right" and I felt that I was more effective through written word than spoken word.  My rhythm was all wrong when I tried to speak, there was so much going on in my head that my mouth couldn't keep up.  At least with writing, I had time to chew on the ideas and words a bit before I cast them to the page.  And even then, after I'd blurted something in my scribing I could scribble it out and start over if it didn't sound right.  So even in the beginning I did my own editing.

I don't have a smart phone.  My phone didn't go to college.  It didn't even get its GED.  So I'm outside the speed bubble that our consumer society has created with gadgets replacing gadgets, and things becoming obsolete-- the treasure to trash acceleration-- going faster and faster, like the merry-go-round... and I'm feeling like I'm losing my grip.  I'm about to be flung from the planet and catapulted into the out-dated teeter-totter for a mouth full of slivers.

Why are we in such a hurry?  For what?  Who am I working this hard for?  And for what?

My wife is an amazingly productive multitasking juggernaut.  Sometimes she thinks that if she lets herself rest, she'll get sick.  Better to just push through and keep moving.  I don't think this is healthy.  (She's home sick today, and did a good job resting and eating soup.  Good old fashioned home-made soup-- thanks Aunt Laura).  She does her job, she does volunteer work, she organizes fund-raisers, she goes to meetings, she does conference calls, she helps her family out, she cleans the house, she makes dinner... What the fuck do I do anyway?

I'm too slow.  I live at a different speed.  Had a car dealer tell me that I needed an upgrade to a faster processor-- in my head.  Yeah, way to close the deal, asshole.  Give me my license back, I'm taking my stupid money elsewhere.

So I'm trying to live in this world I've inherited.  And I'm still trying to change along with it.  I want to do right by it, by the people I love.  I want to leave it more beautiful for the next.  I want to keep what is good, what works, but be open to innovation and possibility.  I want to share what I know and what I love in hopes of giving gifts to anyone and everyone that wishes to receive them.  I want to heal the world, and heal myself.  I want to know what there is to know, and be genuine.  Honest, I do.

I hope to enjoy the ride.  It's not the rest stop, or even the destination, but the journey that is most memorable.

The Process of Loving

It's nearly 3am and I can't sleep.  I'm kinda tired but my mind is alert and kind of racing.  Maybe I had too much caffeine today.  Or maybe I slept too late or too much.  Or maybe my bipolar mind has its own agenda and sleep just will have to come later.

Last night, before I went to bed, I had a lengthy conversation with a friend who is struggling with her own issues.  I think she's looking for answers and might be asking too much of herself in some ways.  I don't know; I'm not a professional.  But the professionals don't always know the right thing either.  I gave her the advice that I could come up with, drawing from my experiences in group therapy and the intensive outpatient program that I've been through several times with my episodes and after my hospitalizations.  But I still felt worried about giving a lot of advice, and about her once our conversation ended.

She's a fan of my blog.  This blog.  This practice that I've been developing and using as a ritual to work out some of my issues and try and achieve something bigger, so to speak.  I'm trying to write my memoir of my experiences, centered around my struggles with bipolar disorder and the diagnosing process, or all the processes I've been through to this point.  I've had trials and tribulations with medication combinations.  I've tried taking time off away from work.  I've tried monitoring my sleeping and my eating rituals with the "Social Rhythm Metric" that we use as part of our group therapy.  And all of these things work in concert to bring me forth in this world.  To help me manage my moods instead of having them manage or manipulate me.

I sense that my friend is feeling grief because she doesn't have the support of her family in the way that she desires.  I know what this is like.  It still bothers me that my dad doesn't have a functional relationship with my mom's sister, for example.  And it bothers me that my dad doesn't make more of an effort to contact me or spend time with me.  But I haven't expressed these things to him because I haven't found the time and the right words.  I can make a difference and take charge of this situation by taking the initiative to talk to him about it, and ask him for more support.  Then again, he might read this before I am able to talk to him.  I hope that he doesn't take it wrong, or end up being too hard on himself.  I understand that he is trying as hard as he can, doing the best that he knows how.  And I know that he loves me.  He does a lot to make that evident.

So this is turning into an outing of my dad, and that wasn't my intention.  But you have to go where the writing takes you most of the time.  I love you, Dad.  Know that is true.  You have done so much for me, instilled a great love in me that I share with the world when I can, when I feel my best.  You have made me the best that I can be.  You can be proud of yourself, because you were there for me, during my childhood.  You got me to go to college, and that may be the single most important and enriching thing that I have done in my life to date.  You had a vision, and you made it happen.  Thank you for that.  You rock.

I miss our weekly rendezvous, when we used to meet for breakfast.  That was a great ritual for our relationship.  We just spent time together, once a week, more or less, sharing thoughts and observations about the world and how to fix it.  That was another thing that you have done for me-- you've made efforts to spend time with me, just to sit across the table from me, and make me feel safe.  Safe to utter my thoughts and get them out from swimming in my head.

I feel a loss that we haven't done that in a while.  Things happen; life happens, and we get into other routines.  I was just noticing the other day that we don't speak on the phone nearly as much as we used to.  So I felt a lack, and that's where the support request is coming from.  I'd like to meet with you more than we have been these last couple of years.  Not your fault, or mine-- I don't wish to assign blame.  I just am asserting my needs to have more time with you.  So let's see what we can make happen.

There.  That feels better.  Makes me think of my colon, and what amazing work it does on a daily basis.  Don't always know what it's doing, but it is productive, and something makes itself evident eventually...

Something pulls you along, while the thoughts are dancing and the ideas are formulating.  One of my favorite quotes I learned from Anne Lamott.  It's a quote by E.L. Doctorow that goes something like "Writing is like driving at night.  You can't see beyond the light of your headlights, and yet you can make the whole journey that way."  Hmm.  I think I will look up the actual quote and list it here.

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” --E.L. Doctorow

There you go.  Talk amongst yourselves.

Peace Is Good Food

Another April blog entry.  Deal with it.

I'm writing tonight because it's what I do.  What I do well.  What I am trying to do with my life.  You wanna help?  Keep reading. 

Thanks.

So.  Um.  And also tell some friends about my blog.  Spread the word.  Let's get this thing started here.

I'm doing well, thank you.  I started a new job and had a really good night there tonight.  Love sitting in my shorts, listening to my favorite music, doing a simple task and doing it well.  And enjoying it.  It was like I hit a jackpot tonight and saw everything through the happy lens. 

I was tagging pictures.  Pictures of a lot of what people might consider as "nothing" or "ugly" or something like that.  But I was noticing how I was getting to see, through these pictures, a part of the world that I had never seen.  There were brilliant cloud formations, sunsets, trees, interesting mailboxes even.  There was so much beauty to behold.  My eye was trained-- I had to keep reminding myself not to dwell on things and move on to the next task.  But it was almost like watching a movie or a music video, with my iPod providing the audio track.  I drowned out the chatter of my coworkers and focused on the task and had fun doing it.

The big boss must have noticed, because she came out and checked on me, then offered me a new chair.  Thought that was nice.  The one I had been using had a broken arm support, and the new one has a nice springy aspirator that bounces when I sit down.  Felt nice to have something nice done for me.

I really felt tonight that I was where I need to be.  I was comfortable, at peace.  I wasn't lamenting being where I was.  I was present in the moment, and it felt wonderful.  May we all feel such joy in the moment.

It's warm in here tonight, I'm sweating just sitting here writing.  I'm having my Smirnoff "tall-boy" of sorts, and life is good.  I'm making progress on my dreams.  I can feel it.  I'm healthy, and I know it now.  I have my faculties back.  I feel like I can handle things again.  I trust myself and my judgement.  Things are good.

Looking forward to May.  My birthday's right around the corner.  What are you gonna get me?  I love presents.

What do I want?  I want... I want you to buy my book when it comes out.  Wanna help me get it published?  We could try and work something out...  put in your pre-order of the Raging, Flaming Goat of Samos now, and I'll send it to you when it's ready.  Should be about ten bucks a book, I reckon.  Sure, you can send me cash, if you're so inclined.  Or a check.  Whatever.

At the end of next month, I'll be attending my Grinnell reunion in Grinnell, IA.  Really looking forward to seeing folks again.  I love me some Grinnellians.  Most of 'em.  Haven't met them all.

So.  Good night.  It was and it is.  So goodnight, I say.  Good night.

Casting a Light Across the Night

Important.  Clever.  Witty.  Original.  Groundbreaking.  World-changing.

I want all my writing to live up to such standards.  But I settle for a little bit less.  Because when you set the bar too high, it only stops the flow of creativity.

So I'm taking the bar down entirely today.  No bar writing.  That's what this is.

I will attempt instead to write at the speed of my thinking. 

Now that's setting the bar low.

Just kidding.  No-- my thinking is fast, indeed too fast for me to type in step with it.  But then, my thinking occurs in forces and waves without words at times.  There is thinking that is beyond language, or of a language that has yet to be fully understood at this time.

Or maybe it's understood, but it cannot be explained by our language.  There is a language and understanding that is fundamental, essential, basic, inherent.  But is it so basic that it is too complicated to know?  Something like that...  Can we really know the language of our soul?

I think we can, but we can't quite articulate it.  Language is a tool that we humans have created to communicate, but it is still developing, mutating, evolving, to bring about the scope of our experience.  We are way behind the development of biology and science, although science as we know it is even younger than language.  But the biology is millions of years ahead of our words to describe it.

Even so, I think that understanding exists on a level that we are yet unable to describe with our words.  It's encoded in our DNA.  Things like truth, idealism, value, and quality are there, too, along with cooperation and democracy.  On the cellular level, things exist at a speed beyond words.  Literally.  Cells aren't pausing to think before they act.  They don't ponder which color blouse to wear with the jeans.  They are acting out a symphony of understanding and greatness that transcends language.

Makes me kind of obsolete, diminished.  Here I sit, trying to get at the heart of this idea and write about it with every faculty that I have, and I just don't got it.  But I keep trying.  Because I understand that moving towards the light, shedding light on the darkness, in any way I can,  makes the life.  Brings forth the understanding.  Brightens the awareness.  Forms the formless.  Astounds.

It's like mining for precious minerals.  Pick and scrape and brush and scrape some more, and something is revealed to you.  May not be the gold you are looking for, but there's something there.  And it may even be more valuable than you realize.

There are lessons to be learned at every turn, every chink in the armor.  You may think that your purpose is defined, explicit and unambiguous.  But you will be surprised at what you end up learning.  It's always that way.  We do not go forth into the night with our horizons in mind.  Learning is discovery, not manufacturing.  We understand as we look backward, not forward.

So turn on the headlamp and go.  See where it takes you.  There are scintillating surprises out there to be had.  Press on.

Reading Is Fundamental

Describe the role of reading in your life.

Ha.  This one's sort of a repeat, from when the journal jar asked me about books.  See here and even here.  Oh-- here, too.

I gotta say, reading has been important.  From the RIF commercials when I was a kid, I learned that it was essential.  Reading is fundamental.  It facilitates so much.  Like, my audience, for example.  It allows for great writing to be processed and shared.

And not so great writing, too.

Reading for me has been spiritual practice.  Not always, of course.  Like when I read the paperback version of The Billion Dollar Hobo, for instance.  But reading is transcendental.  It takes you places-- at speeds unknown in the "real" world.  You can transport yourself to another universe by reading.  You can travel back (or forth) in time.  Reading is learning, is stretching of the intellect.

As opposed to drinking, which can transport you to another reality, yes, but at the cost of a severe headache and hangover.

That's why writing is so important.  Writing what is on your mind and really feeling it, really getting down with what you're thinking and what you feel can be so important.  Communicating with others, now and in the future, your writing can do that.  Writing something down puts it out there for the potential of another's experience.  Be they sibling, spouse, or space-alien.

Recently, I took a walk back in time by digging out one of my old journals and reading through it.  Nearly twenty years had passed since I had cracked the binding on this particular journal.  I ended up reading the entire thing in a couple hours.  But even more interesting-- when I dug out the journal, I found a letter that I had written to one of my friends.  It had to be about 15 years old.  I had written it and sealed it up, not knowing if it would ever be delivered to him or not.  I had lost touch with him and didn't know if I'd ever reconnect with him.  Just recently, we re-established contact, and he visited the area and we met for drinks and caught up.  So when I found the letter, I was excited to share it with him.  I sent it to him with a note about how I didn't even know what I had written, but how it had come about and about how old the letter was.  I told him that I would love to hear from him about what I said, after he received and read the letter.

Of course, I haven't heard anything.  But it's only been a couple weeks.  Just another reason for him to get back in touch with me, right?

Reading can heal you, can make you a better person.  It is powerfully transformative.  Use it with respect.  As one does with writing, as well.

Activities Enjoyed By Young and Old

How about we has us some Journal Jar about now?

What activities do you enjoy doing today that you also enjoyed as a child?  Describe them.

Well, I enjoy writing, we know that.  And I really enjoyed writing a story in the fourth grade about riding a BMX bike with my friend.  I'll have to put that up, if I can find it.  I'm sure I still have it somewhere.  Along with an illustration.

I really enjoy naps, although I don't think I enjoyed them as much when I was a child.  I very much enjoy eating, as my belly extolls.  But I don't know that I really enjoyed eating as much when I was a child as I do now.  Now it's a sporting event.  Now I eat for pleasure, not just for necessity.

But anyway.  What else...  I always enjoyed drawing when I was a kid.  Got pretty good at it.  And I still like to doodle now and then.  Sometimes I break out the pastels or the magic markers and let it all rip loose.  But not very often anymore.  There was a period, back in the early 1990's, where I made a habit of drawing in most of my free time.  And it produced a lot of interesting stuff, much of what I've displayed on this site.  In fact, most of my favorite works are from that time.  I had a makeshift easel set up next to my bed, with an adjustable desklamp for instant lighting.  The pastels and other assorted markers were right there too.  I could spend time laying on my bed and staring into whatever I was working on, get perspective, work out ideas in my head before attempting them on the paper.  It was a productive time for me and my art.

I was also writing quite a bit back then.  I was limited in that I was a slow typist, but I made time to try and write.  A lot of Thistle Penn was developed during that time, although he was and remains an enigma, a conundrum.  The mystery is what was so much fun to explore. 

Curiosity.  I've always enjoyed that.  That's part of what made me a reader of books as a child and continues to get me turning pages, or writing them.  Is curiosity really an activity?  I believe it is.  It can be.  After all, what killed the cat?

Other activities... I mentioned reading.  It's something that I really do enjoy and have written about before.  But since having to deal with my bipolar illness, reading has become more difficult.  If I'm struggling, for example, with a medication change or adjustment, reading can be near impossible.  I'm really happy that right now I'm in a place where reading is again enjoyable and that I get a lot out of it.  For a while there, I'd try to read and have little recollection or comprehension.  But that may have been the drug side effects or the illness or both.  I'm celebrating being able to read by using my local library more, going through my personal library, and trading books with friends.  The last few months I've read more books than I have in years.  It's a wonderful thing.

Kind of funny that I enjoyed math so much when I was a kid and now I don't even balance my checkbook.  I was really good at math, too.  But I just got away from it.  I chose to do other things-- me and math kind of had a falling out by the end of high school.  I got burned out with it, lost interest.  The "deeper" math of calculus and trigonometry kinda killed my interest.  I lost my curiosity for finding the answer to math problems, and turned instead toward finding "truth" or answers like it.  That's what I began to grope for-- something spiritual.  Art and writing and reading seemed more appropriate endeavors toward spiritual practice than math did, so I set to doing them instead.  But I realize now the value of mathematics, and the ability for it to address spirituality.  Someday I hope to read the book I got for Christmas many years ago, The Physics of Immortality, which purports to mathematically prove the existence of God.  All in due time.

Not sure I could even locate that book in my personal library right now...  But who has to now, in the age of the internet?  Just look up the reviews...  There are plenty.  But I think I should read it for myself (if I can...) and make up my own mind.  Slow process, but that is how things work.

So.  Another activity that I've done all my life: Thinking.  I do so enjoy it.  Most of the time.  But I do so much of it sometimes that it just gets in the way.  It's addictive.  So you have to do "thinking fasts" now and then, where you rid yourself of thinking for a spell.  Keeps one healthy.  There's an art to it.

Alrightythen.  Lunch time.  You know what that means!  Gotta run!

Elizabeth Gilbert on Creativity

Creativity is what I do.  It's what I am.  But it's not only what I am.  It's a glimpse of divinity.  Creativity is a path to another world, another spirit.  It acts on its own accord.  It's beyond logic, beyond rationality.  It doesn't always make sense.  But it inspires, rejuvenates, and astounds nonetheless.



Being creative brings forth the power of creation.  It brings forth the power of God.  Divinity is in the moment.  It bobs and weaves between the past and present.  And our attention.

What's a Little Trying Between Friends?

No journal jar tonight.  Just the journal.

I'm a writer, and sometimes I just gotta write.

When did I learn to be so hard on myself?  Why must I self inflict such damage?  Why am I doing it now?

I can be going along just fine, and then wham, I'm inside my head, second guessing my thoughts, judging myself inferior or stupid or unfit to opine or transmit.  I wish I could just be.  I wish I could just be who I am.  Who am I? 

I am a writer.  And sometimes I just have to write.  About whatever it is.  Whether it makes sense or not.  Whether it flows or not.  Whether it is spelled correctly or not.  Whether it is knowledgeable or not.  Whether it matters or not.

I would like that my every word that I type came floating over the horizon with a flurry of fanfare and philharmonic symphony.  But it don't go like that.  I try to write and have a soundtrack, and sometimes that works, but not always. 

Checking with my muse puts a skip in the music.  I've got long-playing records on the turntable that crackle and pop when they sing and dance.  There's a warm ambient sound to them.  They don't have the precision of the digital age.  Sure, CD's brought clarity and exciting highs and lows to the ear.  But they don't have the warmth, the burn.  And they still skip, too.

I'm just practicing.  Trying to get my chops back.  Doing the scales, up and down.  Methodically typing them out.  Knowing that practice makes perfecter.  Because there is no perfect, only for the moment and the moment is gone.  As soon as you try to grab it, it's gone.  Past baby.  Fleeting.  Sands through the hourglass.  There's some old technology.

I wanna write big.  I wanna wrap my words around some big things.  I wanna wrap my words around the world.  And I wanna do it with style and panache and love.  I wanna love my way through this.  Love is the answer.

I wanna chase the fire again.  I want to eat the flame.  I want to sip the sparks and boil the elixir.  I want to find my way.  I wish to gain access.  I want to make the plate clean.  I want to keep the feelings flowing to the righteous river.  I want to wear pants.

There will be a victory.  There will be a time of honor and respect.  There will be a finish line.  There will be a triumph.  There will be rejoicing.  There will be dancing.  There will be embracing.  There will be love.

I will push through the walls.  I will push through the blocks.  I will find a path that I can lead my way.  I will take the steps and make the journey.  I will sing the song.  I will swim with the current.  I can make my way.  I will cooperate with the river.  I can float downstream.  I can be the writer that I want to be.  I can make the effort.  I can make the art.  I can make the love.  I will make a difference.

There is nutrition in this life.  To be had, to digest.  To be conquered as a little sprite.  I will digest my gruel.  I will eat of the forbidden fruit.  I will find my true distinction.  I will make a meaning out of it. 

Know that this too shall pass.  Know that this too shall remain.  Know that this too shall be gloriously understood all too late.  Know that this too shall pass.

Dreaming Face Fractals

Do I dare do two Journal Jar entries in the same day?

Here goes something--

What is the weirdest dream you've ever had?

Well now, that's just impossible.  I have too many weird dreams to choose from.  They're all extremely weird.  Dreams can be that way.

Face Fraction

One of the weirdest sensations I've had while dreaming was the feeling that I can't wake up completely.  This has happened several times.  In the dream, I realize that I'm asleep and I'll start trying to wake up, trying to move, but I'm separate from my body.  I'm just thinking, detached from the physical body.  I try to move, to slap myself in the face to wake me up, but nothing works.  I usually end up trying to yell something, screaming.  Sustained straining and screaming starts to move my body away from the deep slumber, and I'll whimper or moan as a connection starts to establish itself.  After what seems like a long and drawn out struggle, I awake to myself yelling and sit up with a start.  I usually still feel drugged, heavy, drowsed, but I'm rattled and anxious now.

This dream led to my central struggle in the plot of my short story that I wrote in high school, called "Death of a Nerd."  Someday I'll have to post it.  I have to unearth it from all the writing stuff I have amassed.  It's in here somewhere.

I have a lot of writing that I've already done that hasn't seen another person's eyes.  And a lot of it might just stay that way.  I wrote a lot of journals when I was younger.  It was therapy before I could afford regular therapy.  Writing is powerful like that.  It gets the stuff out of your head and into your hands so you can work with it, like clay.  Once it's out, you can organize it, shape it, work it into something.  And it clears space for the origination of greater thought.

I worked today on my sort of children's book.  I'm thinking more and more that I just need to get on with it and make some dumb ass drawings for it and get it done so that I can publish it myself and give it away to Armand and Melissa before their kids are in college already.  The book was born over ten years ago already.  Ten years.  That's a lot of reading time.  A children's book takes only minutes to read.  How long do they take to write and illustrate?  A little longer, I'm guessing.  A little longer.

Anyway.  Back to the weird dreams... I've blogged about them before: see the Dream of Life and Goals Work to Make Dreams Reality.  Also Return to the Journal Jar.  Do check them out.  I don't recall having much weirdness happen in my dreams as of late.  So I'm due.  Maybe tomorrow I'll have a real doosie.  Or is that Duzy?  Douxie.  You get the idea.  Something major.  Until then, then.

Imagine All the Writing

"...without imagination of change you can't have change.  It's the imagination that comes first." -- Gloria Steinem

So they suspended my AdSense account because of "invalid clicks" or something.  Basically, they are on to me and my friends and they don't like us because we're parasites.  And they like the advertisers better because they're paid to do so.

So no more ads on my blog.  The experiment is over.  I will not make any money from my blogging.  At least not this way that seemed so easy and possible for a little bit.

So now what?

Now the real shit starts.

Back to writing for writing's sake.  Back to getting it all down on the paper because it has to come out, not because it has to satiate and entice readers.  Back to the content being what I am not what I wish I could be.  Or not what I wish I could be-- more like trying to be something I'm not to make people like me.

Genuine draft.  That's what this is.  Find the ingenuity.  Genius is in you.  Let it out.

The Gloria Steinem quote above is from a movie I watched last night, "One Bright Shining Moment," a documentary chronicling the George McGovern candidacy for president.  I enjoyed it.  Maybe you would too.  You can stream it on Netflix like I did.  It's haunting to retrace those steps in our history, but inspiring too. 

Another quote, this time from Albert Einstein: "Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow."  That is festooned to the wall above the "blackboard" in the room where my NAMI Peer to Peer course is being held every Wednesday afternoon.  Two weeks in and so far so good.  There are some neat people in class, and every week there are snacks.  How great is that?  Free information and they feed you, too.

So I guess we'll see what happens.  Still gonna do Journal Jar 'til it's empty, aiming to have it done by end of the year.  So I hope you have fun reading along, trying on this life with me.

Most Read Blog Entries

The top 3 most read blog entries I've done are "On Writing," "Return to the Journal Jar," and "We Endure to Beat It."  The success in these entries to garner readership is unexplained, really.  I could use a professional opinion regarding this issue, but I don't know where to find one.  So I'm just throwing it out there.  May the universe reciprocate and take care of me.

I am finding that I'm getting more page views than I used to, now that I'm blogging more regularly.  What is it that brings you back, dear reader?  My bubbly personality?  Or is it the puns?  Or the runs?  Is there levity in reading my musings?

I invite you to comment.  Ask and you will receive.  I bring gifts.  All you have to do is read a little, maybe click on some ads, and keep coming back.  And it will all work out nicely.  Very nicely.

If I make money with this blog, enough money that I can keep the creditors and debtors and whatever other "ors" at bay, I'll throw a freakin' party for y'all.  Click the ads and you're on your way to making a party!  It's that simple!

Stay tuned for more great party insights right here at Tripolarity: Living Bipolar.

On Writing

Write. It is right. It's your right. With all your might. Write.

"It's harder to be friends than lovers
And you shouldn't try to mix the two
Cuz if you do it and you're still unhappy
Then you know that the problem is you."

--Liz Phair

I think I'm lonely. I am getting pushy with possible friends. I want people to like me. I'm out of my element, fishing for compromise. "Please be my friend, I'm just so needy!" Not a good place from which to make friends.

But it's true. I need someone. A good guy friend to hang out with. Somebody who used to drink but doesn't anymore (just to make it easier for the both of us). Or some writer friends, a club that meets weekly and just chats about this and that. Maybe over a snack or tea?

I think what's really going on here is that I'm feeling sorry for myself rather than do the writing. I'm procrastinating writing like I think I want to write by playing the woe is me game. And I'm good at it-- got a triple word score on my last turn. King me.

There are so many things holding me back-- fears that include looking stupid, not being able to say what I'm trying to say, mold-- it's nasty stuff, y'know. I fear success. I don't want to lose my freedom of lifestyle to the paparazzi machine. But whatever-- cross that bridge when the traffic cop waves you through...

Oh blessed Hell-- I want to sit down and start writing and not stop until I've finished saying what I want to say! Is that too much to ask? Can't I just start rollicking through the verbiage and create some waves to buck my life into motion? Isn't it just a matter of writing for writing's sake and the rest falls into place?

I want a writer's life. I want freedom to create worlds and commemorate the past. I want to push myself to type and just get it all out, to not worry about the editor-- to spit in the editor's hair so that he leaves me alone while he goes to wash himself.

I want to struggle to make sense of myself and my life. I want to read about things that are affecting me. I want to write my story of a bipolar life. I want to remember the details of my psychotic episodes.

But I want help, too. I want people in my life. I want friends. I want to know that I can put out some ideas and that I'll hear back whether they fly or not. Now there's a pie in the sky idea-- friends that can fly. I want that!

There's no set direction here tonight, just that I am trying to write, and I'm trying to do it without holding back. I feel like I've got the reins firmly in hand, and that I might need to let them go and see where this little horse and pony show will take me...

There are those out there that I respect, and I know them. I've met them. Some of them. I seek their approval, their accolades. I need stroking. Why is this? Because I don't listen to myself. At least, not when I'm telling myself I'm good. I more readily will point out my faults than to compliment myself. So I'm needy for compliments. Because I'm self-conscious and lack confidence.

I'm most comfortable with my humor. A nod to my father for this skill. We grew up laughing and making each other laugh. That's a great gift. Greater than gadgets or the right clothing. We're skilled with rapier sense of humor. Priceless.

So there's more, of course. So much more. But enough for now. It's time I should break for dinner. Nourish the belly, nourish the soul.

Or something like that.