Riding the Flail-a-whirl

Flailing, flailing, over the dah da dum... however the song goes. I'm flailing along trying to find the steering wheel to this craft... wondering and wandering in the ocean of possibility.

If you're gonna find inspiration, you gotta act. You gotta go for it, cause it doesn't come and get you when you're all primed and ready for it. You gotta exercise and fight for it.

So that's what I'm doing today. I'm writing to you from the Flail-a-whirl. Hands and feet and legs and toes and all just spinning, whirling away. Fingers hands nose and toes. All hands on deck. To the mustard room, stat! To infinity and beyond!

I wanted to stop and get a drink before I started. So I did. Just ended up being procrastination. But now I'm here, and I'm creating. In creative mode. Create in, create out. Breathe in, breathe out. Spell check now, spell check later. There goes the procrastination again...

Had someone come to our door the other night and ring the bell. The dog was in the back yard but still started going crazy. I listened to the spiel and found my cue-- I asked for a flier that I could respond to later. He was glad to oblige and thanked me. It was pleasant and left me wanting to do more. Wanting to help.

Not like when that isn't enough. Like when they want you to buy something or give them some money like right now. I'm bothered by that, but who isn't? This was a nice man doing his job for the United States Mission, an organization that helps the homeless to help themselves. We have a "chapter" in San Jose, and I've helped them out before with monetary donations. And they are thankful for whatever you can do. I once took a bag of clothes and old shoes down to them and they were very thankful for that kind of donation too. Not like Goodwill who refuses to take things if they can't see a profit in it. They flatly refused my dad's set of golf clubs. This was a donation, certainly they could at least take the irons and melt them down or something? But no, there wasn't any worth in them, so I had to dispose of them. Made me angry.

Surely some sports organization looking to make its way would appreciate a set of golf clubs in any condition-- for some kid that has none, perhaps? Would that a young wannabe Tiger be assisted in some way, if he (or she) were in need of some equipment?

I dunno. It seems to me that we're all thinking in small minded ways these days. We don't see the forest for the trees. We see lumber to build houses, but for whom to be able to afford? There is no shortage of empty buildings in my current city, but there is no economy that could ever afford to house it again, since the dot-bomb boom. We are lavished in things like television sets, high definition flat screen beauty, but there are hundreds of channels of nothing on. A parade of blandeur. I just made up a new word. I think.

We all are searching for something greater than ourselves. That's what it means to be alive. We are looking outside of what we know and what we have to find something that brings more of the magical, festive emotion to our hearts. We do things like paint, read, converse, write-- all with the intention of getting somewhere better. Of uncovering more truth or awareness. Or learning about your supposed enemies. We flail on a scale that includes all parts of this whole thing we call life. We're all connected. Interwoven like cloth. We reach out and touch each other as we flail, realizing that we're trying and we're in it together. Each of us strings in the blanket of life. Somewhere, String Theory comes into play here. But that's a subject for another ride.

There's something special that goes on when we dream. We find out things that we thought couldn't happen. We find answers to unanswerable questions. We create reality out of nothing.

Imagination is the engine that churns out life. Reality is just our perception of it, our consciousness of it. Imagination is in flux, just like life. It is dynamic, organic. Like a river or the ocean. A moving train.

I've stopped typing long enough to think and that has derailed my train. Don't know if I can climb back on track.

All in the name of progress.

I do this because I'm trying to get somewhere. I don't know where that is, but I'm still flailing along, trying to do it. Writing, imagining, yearning, dreaming-- reaching out into the dark to find my way to where I'm going. My most re-quoted quote, from Anne LaMott, who was quoting E.L. Doctorow: "Writing is like driving at night with your headlights on. You can only see a few feet in front of you, and yet you can make the whole journey that way." I flail, but I make progress. I spin, zig and zag, but I move toward the goal.

"You have to admit, it's getting better. A little better, all the time." -- The Beatles

What am I? A brain? A soul? An amalgam of parts that add up to make an entity floating in the river of life? There are so many millions of things that are a part of me-- ideas, concepts, dreams, fingers, organs, blood, sweat, toenails-- and all of these things are moving with me on the flail-a-whirl. Up, down, spin to the left; up, down, spin to the right. My right pinky finger and its however many cells-- Millions? Billions?-- spins on the same axis as the rest of the world, relatively speaking. I share much in common with my fellow human organisms. And there are trillions of things that we have in common, yet are each separate and our own. Trillions of conceptual atoms that form our bodies, our worlds, and the universe.

Trillion is a really big number. Relatively speaking.

What do I really know? I'm just thinking here. Just trying to figure it out. I'm flailing along this rapid river without so much as a paddle-- just a keyboard on this stream of consciousness. Feel free to jump in and swim to your own conclusion.

As for me, well, I just keep on imagining that I'll somehow find a way to get off this carnival ride and find the Tunnel of Love. I've heard good things about that one.

Triple Tripolar Digits

This is my 100th post here at Tri-Polar Machinations. Congratulations to me. Now, for the party!

Hoot hoot holler.

I'm taking a prompt from the Journal Jar. Whatever will it be? Well, let me tell you...

What is your favorite book? Tell about your favorite books as a child, teen and adult.


Okay. I can remember one of my favorites from childhood being Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel. As a teen I liked Michael Chrichton, Steven King and Mark Twain. As an adult I've enjoyed Tom Robbins, Kurt Vonnegut, and Anne LaMott.

There. That was a lot of writing.

To continue... I read a lot as a very young boy. My mom encouraged it by reading to me when I was young. As an adult, I don't find the time to read as much as I used to. I do enjoy it. It's been difficult sometimes when I am fighting depression to pay attention and have much reading comprehension. I'm thankful that I have that right now, and I'm looking forward to my next read, whatever that may be. I recently read Carrie Fisher's autobiographical "Wishful Drinking" and really enjoyed it. It was easy reading. She's a great writer. I thoroughly enjoyed Anne LaMott's "Operating Instructions" and "Bird by Bird." Another very great writer is she.

Now, time for another great writer to do some writing. That's me. I'm a great writer. I can write up, down, around and through. I can even write pink and orange. Can't rhyme with orange, but then, who can?

I'm in a really good place these days. My mood is up, but not too up. I'm inspired to do things, yet I'm not all racy thoughted. Whatever that means. I'm getting things done, writing to friends, making knew ones. I'm finding my way back into commission. I'm getting closer to recovery.

I guess this means that, if it continues, I will be trying even harder to get a job soon. Maybe something temporary is the way to go. I dunno.

My office window is open. I can hear the neighbor having a telephone conversation. He paces in and out of the house, so I only hear parts of sentences. The rest is just echoing tones. Not meant to follow along while eavesdropping anyway, right? It's rude.

So many distractions in life. That is life. I'm tempted to go get something to drink instead of continue writing. Nothing alcoholic, just some tea or ice water. But that would mean stopping this really astounding riff I'm on about life and writing. I mean, I just know you're transfixed, hanging on my every keystroke. Well, you should be. I know I am.

(Smacks lips. Maybe some lemon in that water?)

I used to have a lot of picture books. I was well read as a child. People took care of me, lavished me in books. Harry the Dog. Clifford the Big Red Dog. Frog and Toad Are Friends. Dr. Seuss. I wrote my first story when I was in the fourth grade. It was a pretty good one too. Toot toot.

That was my own horn.

My sister is even more prolific a reader than I am. She's an English teacher. So she reads a lot. She loved the book "My Cat Likes to Hide in Boxes" when she was young. She had it memorized before she could read and would flip through the pages, telling the story as she went. That little paperback picture book got some miles on it.

My wife is now home. This probably means the end of this exercise is coming soon. She is getting me something to drink, because she is a saint. And she loves me.

I really enjoyed reading The Great Train Robbery in high school. And Terminal Man. And Huck Finn. I even enjoyed reading Exodus by Leon Uris, though it was a stretch for my intellect at the time. But that what learning is all about. Stretching your limits. Pushing on through and making the next phase a little bit better.

Learned about a peace festival in Berkeley next month. Weekend of Sept. 11th. Would like to go but it's expensive. Not sure that this unemployed boy can afford it. Maybe I'll just send my wife. She has a job.

Tonight we celebrate a young man's birthday. Hugh is usually in Japan, where he lives. But he's visiting his Nana (great grandma) and we all get to visit. He loves to play croquet.

So much about life is seemingly mundane and uninteresting. But it's mostly your perspective. It's all relative. If you're feeling good, things tend to be good too. So celebrate when you can. When it feels right. And when it doesn't, celebrate anyway. Might turn things around for you.

I don't know. Sometimes it's out of my control. But it's cyclical. And it passes, be it depression or happiness. We are all riding waves. Better hope you like to surf.

I think I'll try and read "B is for Beer" next. It's a short one, should be easy to get through. Some times you gotta ease off the throttle a bit and let 'er ride. Can't push too hard. Gotta let the river float ya. Go with the current.

I'm pulling out all the stops here today. I've been prompted by the journal jar; I've reminisced about books and learning, writing, and my sister; I've gotten ice tea. I'm moving on down the river.

I forgot to take my pills last night. Had to count them all out for the week today. Now everything I do today becomes suspect because I'm not medication compliant. I'm not really worried. But you should be. That might get some comments on this here blog, alright.

I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna live. I'm gonna read what I want to read and I'm gonna improve my health. I'm gonna eat better. I'm gonna find ways to exercise my body that don't break it down and tax it. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna get better and better at doing what I like to do, and I'm gonna find a way to get things done. I'm gonna find a way to organize the garage. I'm gonna find a way to write my stories. I'm gonna find a way to make more friends and make my blog a more happening place. I will do all of this because I want to and nobody else needs to but me. I want to do it, so I will. And if I don't, so what. Gonna try.

I also enjoyed reading Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury in high school. And I, Robot by Issac Asimov.

Just so you know.

More Manic Memories

Soon after I had my ceremony with the ash tray/trash container, Suzy was summoning me to come with her to our hotel room. She hoped to get there and find a way to relax me and calm everything down. But I was impossible.

I started down the hallway, suitcase rolling behind me. I settled into a rhythmic march that syncopated with the clicking wheels of the suitcase. The hallway shape shifted in my mind, and I sensed a curvature that I was walking around in a grand maze, as if a slave chained to his routine. The trip to the room turned endlessly for awhile, and then I noticed a change in scenery.

Suzy came to the end of the hallway and turned to the right. Right about where the hallway changed direction, there was a room, and the door was open. There were people inside. My mind raced to the opening.

I went inside the room and approached the individuals there. "Is everything alright?" I said with utmost concern and expedience. It was as if I was running a triage of some sort, behind enemy lines. The people in the room stopped what they were doing and just kind of gawked at this total stranger that had waltzed into their room. "I'm a doctor," I assured them, as Suzy caught up with me again. "Michael!" she chirped. "Let's go!"

"If you need anything, let me know," I said to them, with authoritative panache. Again, empty looks, mouths agape. I was in doctor-in-the-war-field mode. They would surely confide in me if needed. As I turned to go, I muttered something about my wife's name being Suzy. Suzy Buffet.

After the flagrant doctor posing and name dropping, I floated down the hall again, in time with my suitcase.

We got to the room, and I can still hear Suzy exhaling, ten years later, like we had reached an oasis. Suddenly, I was struck with how much stuff we were carrying around. "Look at all this stuff!" I exclaimed, and proceeded to open the closet cupboards. I pulled blankets and pillows from the shelves, flinging it into the room. All the while chanting, "Stuff! Stuff!" My mind raced on the baggage, of all kinds, that I was carrying around with me on this trip. Lots of stuff to be reckoned with. Lots of stuff to think about.

After I rampaged aloud about stuff for a few minutes, I became exhausted and plopped down on the bed. My physical self came to rest in that position, slid somewhat between two beds shoved almost together. But my mind raced on.

I began to think of myself as an artifact-- a sculpture carved in marble. I imagined myself as still for thousands upon thousands of years, stuck in the same shape. I traveled faster than the speed of light. I imagined myself light years into the past, light years into the future. I saw rivers carve canyons into the earth, mountains ebb and flow. I let my imagination do the traveling, and I could go anywhere at infinite speed. The laws of the physical world melted away, as I obsessed on an algorithm that took infinity and multiplied itself factorial, exponentially. Infinity, infinity, infinity... faster and faster and faster I rode on this lightning bolt thought. Other things popped into my mind and I pressed them into the replication algorithm-- Shamanism, shamanism, shamanism... faster and faster and faster. Mt. Shasta, Mr. Shasta, Mt. Shasta... all of it is connected by a single thread of thought. All of it makes sense. All of it makes sense...

In trying to write this book, I keep feeling like I'm rewriting things I've already mentioned. Like I've already told the story so many times. It all overlaps. But I still have the sense that there is more to be told. That I haven't gotten it all out yet.

Man, do I need a cleansing.

There is so much more out there. To think that I had it all figured out, that there was a part of me in the whole that felt it was it, and that there was nothing else to know... I don't know if that's what happened, but it kind of looks that way, upon further review. What I forgot to mention to myself while I was full of it was that there's more than just "me" at work here.

And I am working. Honest.

When I stopped ranting and raving about "stuff" and let my mind wander, it took me to places so astounding, so rapturous that here I am, ten years later, and I still can't describe it distinctly.

As I was walking down that hallway, pulling my stuff, trying to catch up with Suzy, I was in psychological turmoil. And the reasons for this are why I continue to try and explore my recollection. And try to get it down in one place where I can look at it with others and get a sense of what was happening.

Because I don't want to go back there, where I'm living like that. But I want to go back and make sense of it. I want to make peace with it. I want to somehow solve it.

And maybe that's not possible. But it's what I want to do. I want to recount the thoughts, images, concepts, and see where things went wrong AND where things went right. I want to see the good, too. Just labeling me as bipolar and affixing a tab that says "manic episode" doesn't go far enough in healing me, in seeing what transformative processes took place during those moments. I was lucid enough to listen to Suzy, to take cues from her and keep following her. I was very creative in my thinking, was making some fantastic connections between thoughts. This is not all good and not all bad. I want to parse it all out.

Spinning the Waste

Well it's August, folks. Time for scootin' around, finishing up all your summer fun and headin' back to school. For my sister, school starts next week (kids are back on the 15th, I think...) So. What did you do for your summer vacation?

We're heading to Santa Cruz this weekend for a little summer R & R at the Boardwalk and beach. Should be fun. Will most likely get a chocolate dipped cone. Traditions...

Will also most likely ride the Big Dipper, one of the best roller coasters in existence. Again, should be fun.

I'm trolling for a writing idea here. Not sure what to write about. Would be a good time for the journal jar, but I'm not at home. I'm visiting my parents and using my mom's laptop.

The words just aren't coming. I'm stymied. Or something.

I didn't "shut up and blog" this week. Opted instead to sleep in. Kind of regret that decision. Oh well. Bygones.

I'm going to keep going here. Hope you can bear with me. Just feeling my way. Hoping that inspiration is just around the corner.

I could talk about things. Nouns. Tape. All things sticky. Or cassette tapes. Mix tapes. Music. Radio. But then again, I could go take a nap. I kinda already am napping. My mind is a bit asleep, without dreaming. I'm dull and have vacancy. Load 'em up! The surrounding sounds are light as the air. A ticking clock, the tapping keys, my breathing in and out, the moan of the laptop organs... I think I'm getting somewhere, but it only feels like it. I'm not sure what I'm doing.

Sometimes you've got to push out some of the bland, white bread filler stuff and let it ride. Ride the current downstream towards the treatment plant. Where it all gets filtered and decimated, titrated down to the finest trickle.

There's wisdom all around us. In the elements: air, water, earth, fire. We are of this soil; born of it. And we return. Life circles, round and round. Yin and Yang, ebb and flow. The tiniest seed can progress to cover the expansive meadow. The shining light of a star millions of light years away shares its past with us in our present. Air tastes tinny and cold. There are meanings.

I don't purport to understand it. I am but a vessel. The cell which travels through the blood to the organ of origin, sustaining life. Where is our consciousness located?

There has to be answers, I keep telling myself. Has to be. There's reason for a reason. Logical, dare I say? It pays to be evident.

I'm just feeling my way in the darkness of the unknown here. Trying to mute the fears and allot strength to the visions and understated knowings in my mind. Chlorination unnecessary. Publish and save now. Live now. Breathe now. All we have is now.

Now fleets with the gathering dawn. Therein we think and try to make sense. But only for a moment. We move on.

There's exhaust. Defining moments. Definitions of grandeur and even bigger clues. Are all the words merely cogs in the machinery? Latex.

I'm not enjoying this as much as I hope you are. There's still ore in the hillside. Got to pound about and get her out.

Once upon a time I was a writer of my own future. A million outcomes later and I still have yet to stamp a project "completed." Such is the beast. Such is the beast.

My Bra (My Support)

A friend has offered an assignment to me. He asks: "What inspires you, supports you, helps you to advance?"

A number of things come to mind. My family provides a great support system for me, and has seen me through some tough times, as I've chronicled recently. Not so much the support they provided, but the tough times. They've been there for me during my bouts with depression and my struggles with medication and psychosis. And they're inspiring, too-- my mom and my sister are two of my fans, and they comment on my blog regularly (or as regularly as I write, anyway...)

I'm inspired by their passion for life. My sister and my mom recently went to the Stampin' Up convention in Salt Lake City, Utah. They came back pumped up to be creative, and have even tempted me to join them. So next week I'll be going to visit and scrapbook.

Creativity is an inspiration to me as well. It helps me to advance. I like to find new and different ways of thinking about things. This comes through in my writing. Usually. Most of the time.

Humor is another thing that has sustained me, and helped me to advance. My dad has taught me a lot about taking life less seriously and being able to laugh at oneself. Never underestimate the power of laughter.

So I'm blogging to you today "on location" at Panera Bread in Sunnyvale, CA. I'm here for the Meetup "Shut Up and Blog" that meets almost every Wednesday. This is my second time here, and I've yet to talk to anyone. First time I was a couple hours late (overslept) and then was too shy to walk up and introduce myself. Today I went for the setup-- location, location, location-- and am in the corner with a wall outlet so the laptop battery doesn't prematurely end my productivity. Not sure if there are any other bloggers here today, but then I haven't poked around at all-- I've been writing to you! On assignment, too. So back to the bra and then some.

I'm inspired by music and humor and creativity. Art. Volunteerism. Philanthropy. Dreams. And politicians. All of them.

Again, humor.

Actually, some of the politicians inspire me some of the time. It does happen. I'm inspired by Al Franken. Not when he's doing his bits that I've heard a hundred times. But when he draws the map of the United States from memory, I'm always impressed.

So I'm sustained and inspired by family and friends. I am inspired by Jennifer Mattern, a great writer and fellow bipolar individual. Jenn's blog Breed 'em and Weep is a wealth of entertainment and wisdom and highly recommended. It's also got a whole lot bigger following than I do at the present moment. That's something to aspire to, something to help me advance...

I was inspired by the movie "I Am" and look forward to seeing it again, when it comes out on DVD. I'm inspired by cooperation. I like the fact that it's coded into our DNA and is a force of nature.

I'm inspired by nature. I'm in awe of it all. I love watching the sunset and the moon rise. The waves of the ocean at the beach. Trees and flowers and grass. Fire. Soil. Water. Love.

I'm inspired by others who create. The folks at the Van Gough Complex. Artists everywhere. Musicians. Parents. Teachers.

The project to make a movie out of the book "The Fifth Sacred Thing" inspires me. Check it out at Kickstarter.

And I'm inspired by the concept of infinity. It makes it all possible.

I kinda like that.

I was inspired by the speakers at the American Cancer Society Volunteer Appreciation Dinner the other night. Inspired to learn that we are making progress and learning new ways to treat and combat this nasty disease. That there are mechanisms already present in our bodies to deal with the abnormal cancer cells, and we're learning how to turn them on and direct them more efficiently so they beat cancer. There was a room full of inspiring people, all looking to work toward the same goal of curing cancer and saving lives. I was inspired by Patricia Brown and others who talked about the California Cancer Research Act, which, if passed, would inject over half a billion dollars into cancer research, effectively tripling the research budget.

Now that's inspiring. And only a dollar tax per pack of cigarettes will do it. Pass it now.

I know how I'm voting next June.

Another thing that promotes me is my marriage. My wife is affectionate, inspiring, nurturing, humorous, and uplifting. She deserves much credit in my recovery and stability (as do I, I should say...) and has been a tireless supporter of me throughout my illness. Marrying her has been my greatest investment. Love you, Suz.

I'm sure there's more, but I'm inspired by nature to use the restroom right now. So I'll end it here. Thanks for your time; I hope you find me inspiring, too.

Dry

There's something that I've yet to really explore here. And that's my relationship with alcoholic beverages.

I started drinking when I was still in high school. It was easy enough-- there were a lot of us doing it together. I started because I thought it was cool. Not because I wanted to be cool-- I had already "arrived" on the social scene, found my confidence and made a lot of friends. But I always thought that drinking was somehow cool, as somehow something that I wanted to do.

It wasn't so much the rush of doing something that was illegal, although I suppose there was some of that-- doing something that you saw adults do for fun, made it even more fun and uplifting. It was growing up without waiting for the actual aging.

I soon learned that I could drink a lot and not get really sick. In fact, it wasn't long before I had my first black out. I may have a predisposition for such things, because my experiences with drinking were different from those of my friends. I could get drunk to where I didn't remember what happened the next day. But I could still function to some extent while I was that drunk. Well, sometimes, anyway.

About the time that I finished high school and went away to college, I became sexually active. My first time was with a woman that I worked with, and we sneaked off after our shift and parked on a dark country road. There was no alcohol involved, but I was transformed. I wasn't scared anymore; I felt I finally knew what to do.

The combination of alcohol and sexual drive was a dangerous combination. Alcohol lifted my confidence even more, to where I thought any woman that I was attracted to would surely return my sentiment. I pushed the boundaries, coming on to women hard, especially after a few drinks. This often led to one-night stands that exacerbated the hangover in the morning. I even had a couple bouts with venereal disease. I wasn't careful, and I was lucky that I didn't contract something more severe, or end up getting somebody pregnant. Alcohol made all of this possible.

Drinking became my main social activity in college. Almost all my friends drank, and to excess. I had countless times where I drank too much, didn't remember the events from the evening the following day, and vowed to myself never to let that happen again. But it did, and often got worse.

After a few times where I really pissed off my friends, or I just got myself into situations that I felt horrible about the next day, I started to try and change my drinking. Over many years, I ended up focusing my drinking, limiting my intake of wine and cocktails and concentrating mainly on beer.

But beer was still a formidable force. I developed the habit of drinking by myself after work, when I was working swing shift. I'd get some beer after the end of my shift at 1:30am and drink sometimes well into the morning hours before crashing into bed.

There were a lot of incidents where my drinking got me into some trouble. The first run-in with the law was six days before my 21st birthday, I tried to buy some beer at a mini-mart gas station. I was successful without being carded, so me and two friends took a twelve pack of Coors Light and parked on a city street near a park, shut off the engine and popped the tops. We'd barely had a sip when a bright pair of headlights swooped up behind us and started an investigation. We all ended up with tickets and had to pour all the beer out. Dejected, we proceeded to drive to a very small town nearby, roll down the windows, and scream expletives at the top of our lungs while my friend drove screeching around the couple blocks or so of the neighborhood. Since it was about midnight, this was not met with much amusement, I'm assuming, by the townspeople. But it felt good. Which is always of the utmost importance when you're about that age.

I ended up doing a trial-by-mail and getting "acquitted" of the illegal possession charge. Seems my writing abilities have served me well. But there were other times that I got into sticky situations and just somehow lucked out of them. I don't know how I got away without any DUI's or DWI's but I did. There are times that I don't remember driving home, even though it was several miles of dark two-lane country roads. I'm lucky to be alive, lucky I didn't kill anybody.

So. I finally quit drinking for a couple years, as I was trying to equalize and stabilize between my moods and meds, as treatment for my bipolar disorder. I recently started having beer with meals again, but still, there's a desire to drink to excess; to drink to the point where perfection is an emotion that I feel with endless abandon. Euphoria in a buzz, and magical peace in universal loving collaboration. All doubt takes a nap. And the mind is at ease, with all possibility at hand.

I'm not sure I'm doing the "right" thing by drinking at all. But not drinking at all didn't cure me, either.

All of those blackouts have forever Swiss-cheesed my confidence, my recollection. My confidence is undermined because I don't remember; Anything could have happened and I might have done something I will forever regret. In fact, the whole idea that I don't remember is grounds for psychological doubt-- am I not remembering something for a distinct reason? Am I actually suppressing the memory? I don't know how I can ever be sure.

And my drinking is entwined in my bipolar disorder. Some of the drinking is self-medication, and it works. But it doesn't treat the disorder; it treats the immediate symptoms and creates deeper concerns. So there's a pull to take part in drinking because it feels right, and it's socially acceptable. More acceptable to drink than be depressed or exhibit symptoms of mental illness. That's how society's organized it to date.

So just like when my mood disorder is in full swing, and I sneak into a manic episode, there's the motivation to lap up every last drop of "feel-good" and try to live there, in euphoria, like it's eternally sustainable. But it's not. We are like waves at the beach. Our moods and emotions come and go. Drinking is a crude way of managing this disorder. And ultimately, it doesn't work. But that doesn't make it any easier when you're facing shitty options to give it a try again.

So I still wish that I could drink to excess. I still wish that I was in my twenties. The truth about my life is that I'm not going to go back there; I can't be twenty-one again any more than I can drink eight beers in one night. But I will always want to. Always.

Always.

Writer Writes of Whiter White

Hey. I know how to do this.

It's like riding a bike. Once you got it down and do it right, you don't forget, even if you don't ride for a few years.

Bet you never heard that one before.

I'm trying to win my own attention. I'm trying to build up my confidence in myself and my abilities. I'm trying to get back to being happy with who I am.

Wanna pump?

Ride along with me on this odyssey of life, a bipolar one to boot. Great flux of emotion, ebbing and flowing like the tides.

Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. Just hang on; You'll be fine.

I was noticing the other day how brightly certain buildings shone in my vision, as if freshly painted. Upon further investigation, I concluded that the paint jobs were not new. My guess is that what changed was my perspective. Or my vision. Or my brain chemistry.

One of the above, anyway.

Could changes in medication actually produce such a phenomenon? That's my guess. When you feel good, things look better, smell better. That's kind of what happened, I think. My outlook was more bright, and so I saw some colors more brightly.

I'm waking up to a new phase in my life. I'm becoming the special perfection that I seek. I'm becoming into being. I'm balancing on two wheels, and ringing the bell.

There's so much to consider these days-- nutrition, exercise, charity, work, relationships, politics... And yet, I tend to consider myself the most, and I judge with a stern finger.

Tama Kieves is a motivational speaker/writer that has helped me to fine tune my perception in recent years. She speaks of the inner light that shines in everyone, and how liberating that personal energy is the stuff of magic. Finding your path is a matter of allowing yourself the love and understanding to do what it is that you are meant to do. Getting out of your own way. Loving the moment. I tell ya, I'm gonna read her book or something one of these days. I loaned it to my sister and she enjoyed it, but I have yet to get the book back from her... Meanwhile, I follow Tama on Facebook. Her first book is called "This Time I Dance." She has a new one coming out soon-- next year, I think?

I'm trying to get to my most inspirational self. My strongest, most confident self. It's a process of doing these sort of exercises, where I type out what's on my mind and grapple with issues that are swimming around in there. I try to get at the core issues and have some fun. Fun is good, y'know.

I tend to want perfection when I write-- so that every phrase I turn elicits severe emotion and rapture. I need to loosen it up a bit. Whop bop a loo bop. A whop bam boom.

I'm trying to be creative, wrap up new presents to be gifted to my reader. Trying to remember what I've learned from the past, all the writing trade secrets and so forth.

I'm trying.

I want to inspire. I want to make friends. I want to dig out the splinters and salve the wound.

There is a way for me to get where I'm trying to go. And you know what? I'm on the path. You may even know better than I do that I'm on the right path. All will be well, just trust your self love, and love yourself, and you'll find your way. Through darkness and twists and turns and mud. Ooo, squishy.

I will continue to build my trust in myself. I may even find it interesting. Perhaps you will too.