So I missed most of July. At least, I missed chronicling it here. So I have a little catching up to do.
In July, I finished quitting my job. I had started quitting it several times already, talking myself into scenarios about how it didn't matter enough, didn't pay enough, took too much of my time without enough payback. All in all, it wasn't so bad a job. But it wasn't enough. I need something bigger, something that means something bigger. And that hopefully pays a lot better. So. Back to looking.
We had our Relay For Life event at Cupertino High School. It went well, although it was different with the setup that we had. Or should I say layout. We couldn't camp like we usually do on the track so instead had a satellite camp ground on the practice field, away from the track. The facility is brand spanking new and has the artificial turf that the administrators are very careful about protecting. No food on the track, or drinks, except water. So all the day-of fundraising was off, and the interaction was fragmented. But we made it work. Got to be nice and hot for the afternoon, and there was no natural shade. Just easy-ups and some umbrellas. A nice breeze kicked up in the late afternoon and helped make things much more comfortable.
I've been living through two-week cycles of mood swinging. Feel great with lots of energy and hope and get-to-workedness, then crashing to sleep, sleep, and more sleep. I have a hearing on Friday about my disability claim with Social Security. Wonder how I'll feel for that.
My book is available on amazon.com and bn.com (Barnes and Noble) and I think I've even sold a copy or two. Now to finish the book about my bipolar life...
We're talking about our financial situation, and things are not very pretty. We're looking into bankruptcy. We've considered selling our house and finding somewhere cheaper to live. Something inside me is yelling to me that I should keep this house. I don't know why. I can't justify it to anyone. I just feel like I need to make a move to grow some roots here, right here, right now. To work out in the yards and make a difference== not for curb appeal, but for me, spiritually. To make this a home, where I grow and harvest food that we eat and make use of our land that we own and share the abundance. We have oranges, tangelos, lemons, and an artichoke plant that has yet to bear fruit. But we have so much more soil and resources... I want to plant vines. Grapes and blueberries and blackberries. I want an herb and spice garden. I want to bring back native plants to my yard, and let them flourish. And I want to be free to do these things on my own property, without the meddling of a landlord.
Now I realize I might have to contend with city ordinances and neighbors who disagree with my choices. But it's the revolutionary act that is most important to me-- to take back ownership and responsibility for my food and my nutrition. To unplug from the restaurant circuit. And to feel better about myself and how I'm eating.
I don't know that I'll be raising chickens anytime soon, but I want to explore the homesteading direction. So maybe we should look into property in the country. Maybe the answer is not to bear down and live here at all cost, but to let go and move to another area.
Maybe the homestead is calling me from afar.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Tune to Your Own Channel
Happy July 1st, y'all. End of fiscal year for many... or should I say, beginning...
So I guess I'm not well informed. I don't sift through the news trackers with a fine tooth comb. Never did, really. But now, I don't watch television, I don't check out the headlines on Yahoo more than a couple times a month... The only way that I gather "news" is through social interaction, either talking with other people or "sharing" on "facebook" with "friends." So I guess I kind of have my head stuffed in the sand, by today's standards.
The media as we know it in the United States is a machine that produces thought control, perspective control. It shrinks the world into little chewable bits for the easy consumption of its viewers. The process of "making the news" is one of filtration and processing. Gone are the days of the unadulterated content, everything is washed and sanitized and edited and enhanced and embellished. Even when nothing happens, there are countless channels producing shows about everything that didn't happen... yet. Or what might happen next... Or what will surely happen if something isn't done, soon...
We're a bunch of drama junkies. Right now I'm sitting on the couch, laptop in position, listening to our neighborhood traffic whisper and the neighborhood mockingbird review its repertoire. There's a pleasant breeze now and then that adjusts the scents in the air and tickles the hair on my arms. This is not a film to be broadcast at eleven. And yet, I am enjoying it immensely, more than any newscast I have ever experienced.
I used to listen to talk radio a few years ago. And I would get all worked up about perceived wrong doing in the world. Now that I don't tune in, I'm more well-balanced. I still have opinions, and hear about news stories through different means (I am still on a fair amount of email lists that I can't seem to get rid of...), but I'm acting more locally and assessing my environment locally. I hear the cries from Washington, and it seems that the discord will always be there, no matter who is president or speaker of the house or on the supreme court. There is no end-all fix for this system. It's a system that has to be moving, in flux, in order for change to happen. It is a process, not a destination. If we could all think a little more along those lines, we might get more work, positive work, done.
So I've developed my own critical thinking abilities, thank you very much. No thanks to the mass media. In spite of it. Through relationships and conversations and writing and questioning myself. I can do this without the aid of someone who is getting paid to tell me what I "need". How would they know the answer to that, when we've never even met?
But what do I know? I'm just a blogger out here, with no advertisers, and about twelve regular followers. I don't even "count" in today's society. My voice is not being solicited by the masses.
Well. Not yet, anyway.
So I guess I'm not well informed. I don't sift through the news trackers with a fine tooth comb. Never did, really. But now, I don't watch television, I don't check out the headlines on Yahoo more than a couple times a month... The only way that I gather "news" is through social interaction, either talking with other people or "sharing" on "facebook" with "friends." So I guess I kind of have my head stuffed in the sand, by today's standards.
The media as we know it in the United States is a machine that produces thought control, perspective control. It shrinks the world into little chewable bits for the easy consumption of its viewers. The process of "making the news" is one of filtration and processing. Gone are the days of the unadulterated content, everything is washed and sanitized and edited and enhanced and embellished. Even when nothing happens, there are countless channels producing shows about everything that didn't happen... yet. Or what might happen next... Or what will surely happen if something isn't done, soon...
We're a bunch of drama junkies. Right now I'm sitting on the couch, laptop in position, listening to our neighborhood traffic whisper and the neighborhood mockingbird review its repertoire. There's a pleasant breeze now and then that adjusts the scents in the air and tickles the hair on my arms. This is not a film to be broadcast at eleven. And yet, I am enjoying it immensely, more than any newscast I have ever experienced.
I used to listen to talk radio a few years ago. And I would get all worked up about perceived wrong doing in the world. Now that I don't tune in, I'm more well-balanced. I still have opinions, and hear about news stories through different means (I am still on a fair amount of email lists that I can't seem to get rid of...), but I'm acting more locally and assessing my environment locally. I hear the cries from Washington, and it seems that the discord will always be there, no matter who is president or speaker of the house or on the supreme court. There is no end-all fix for this system. It's a system that has to be moving, in flux, in order for change to happen. It is a process, not a destination. If we could all think a little more along those lines, we might get more work, positive work, done.
So I've developed my own critical thinking abilities, thank you very much. No thanks to the mass media. In spite of it. Through relationships and conversations and writing and questioning myself. I can do this without the aid of someone who is getting paid to tell me what I "need". How would they know the answer to that, when we've never even met?
But what do I know? I'm just a blogger out here, with no advertisers, and about twelve regular followers. I don't even "count" in today's society. My voice is not being solicited by the masses.
Well. Not yet, anyway.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Loving Through Depression
It creeps in like flood water. You can sense it coming, but you aren't sure from where. Soon it's a part of you, surrounds you. You don't know where it stops and where you begin.
I begin here, right now. With this.
I'm crashing, moodwise. I can feel myself starting to hurt, starting to doubt. I am covered in a sheet of warm malaise. It's like heated wax paper. I can sense it wrapping me up, turning my consciousness.
It's nothing new. But it still manages to cut me down the center of my being, and I am left gaping, gasping. With every return, depression brings the thoughts that rattle their hollow truths. Oh Dear God, not again. I can't bear the pain. Please don't let me hurt like this again.
Next comes the bargaining. You want to make peace with it. You want to feel there again. You try and hope your way through it. But it shackles your optimism and whips it with its dirty reeds. You see that the struggle is once again futile. You submit, knowing that you are not in control. But the submission leads to those thoughts, again, of ending. The only way to end the pain, to get outside of it, is to leave it. You let it lie and hope for remission, but it dawdles, dwells.
You want to give up. Not again, can I go through this. Not again. The pain too much to endure. There must be a way to make it end.
The suicidal thoughts present themselves. Will you be creative? Will you find a different way to navigate this transition?
I thought about driving to the beach, stripping down and walking out into the water and letting the ocean decide what to do with me. Were I to be swept up in a riptide or thrust into the rocks, or even just overcome by the water and sunk to the bottom like a stone, I would be relenting the pain. I would be finding peace. Somehow. So it seems.
I do not wish to bring grief to those that I love. And there are many of you, I know this. But when the depressed paradigm arrives, it inhabits all four corners of my mind. There is no escaping it, except to know that all things must pass, and eventually it will. It must cycle its way away from my life, just as the joyous times are fleeting and don't last either.
Giving up and checking out of life would be a cowardly act. A selfish act. I would be acting only on my own needs and not considering the needs of others. To set out to end my life would be a grand risk as well-- what if the pain continues, or even worsens, when one takes one's own life? Perhaps there is nothing; but perhaps one locks in to a special kind of hell.
I don't have answers. I don't know the future, I don't know what is my fate. All I know is what I have right now, in this very moment. And that is a desire to live, a desire to love. A desire to be loved. And that, I think, is enough.
I begin here, right now. With this.
I'm crashing, moodwise. I can feel myself starting to hurt, starting to doubt. I am covered in a sheet of warm malaise. It's like heated wax paper. I can sense it wrapping me up, turning my consciousness.
It's nothing new. But it still manages to cut me down the center of my being, and I am left gaping, gasping. With every return, depression brings the thoughts that rattle their hollow truths. Oh Dear God, not again. I can't bear the pain. Please don't let me hurt like this again.
Next comes the bargaining. You want to make peace with it. You want to feel there again. You try and hope your way through it. But it shackles your optimism and whips it with its dirty reeds. You see that the struggle is once again futile. You submit, knowing that you are not in control. But the submission leads to those thoughts, again, of ending. The only way to end the pain, to get outside of it, is to leave it. You let it lie and hope for remission, but it dawdles, dwells.
You want to give up. Not again, can I go through this. Not again. The pain too much to endure. There must be a way to make it end.
The suicidal thoughts present themselves. Will you be creative? Will you find a different way to navigate this transition?
I thought about driving to the beach, stripping down and walking out into the water and letting the ocean decide what to do with me. Were I to be swept up in a riptide or thrust into the rocks, or even just overcome by the water and sunk to the bottom like a stone, I would be relenting the pain. I would be finding peace. Somehow. So it seems.
I do not wish to bring grief to those that I love. And there are many of you, I know this. But when the depressed paradigm arrives, it inhabits all four corners of my mind. There is no escaping it, except to know that all things must pass, and eventually it will. It must cycle its way away from my life, just as the joyous times are fleeting and don't last either.
Giving up and checking out of life would be a cowardly act. A selfish act. I would be acting only on my own needs and not considering the needs of others. To set out to end my life would be a grand risk as well-- what if the pain continues, or even worsens, when one takes one's own life? Perhaps there is nothing; but perhaps one locks in to a special kind of hell.
I don't have answers. I don't know the future, I don't know what is my fate. All I know is what I have right now, in this very moment. And that is a desire to live, a desire to love. A desire to be loved. And that, I think, is enough.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Breaking Into Prison
Attitude isn't everything, as you may have heard. It's an awful lot of things, but there are still a few things, after you do the accounting.
Exceptions to every rule...
Indeed. But a change in perspective can seem like it changes everything. Maybe that's because everything is not a static idea. Remember, everything changes.
Everything is something that is organic, is constantly being redefined in our minds. From moment to moment, we learn new things that become part of our ever expanding universe.
Is everything a fact? No, it is not static and unchanging. Although sometimes everything seems to be figured out and set in stone. Everything can feel like a fact sometimes.
Should we talk about anything and everything? I could converse about the universe and theories that contain it, try to explain it in non-changing rigid labels. But the universe is organic, too. It's dynamic. It's moving, evolving. Infinite.
So. To infinity and beyond, to borrow another line. As long as I live, I change. The paradigm shifts. It is and yet it isn't. Paradox exists now and again.
Feel free to share what you think of anything and everything.
I like pickles. Dill more than bread and butter ones.
Exceptions to every rule...
Indeed. But a change in perspective can seem like it changes everything. Maybe that's because everything is not a static idea. Remember, everything changes.
Everything is something that is organic, is constantly being redefined in our minds. From moment to moment, we learn new things that become part of our ever expanding universe.
Is everything a fact? No, it is not static and unchanging. Although sometimes everything seems to be figured out and set in stone. Everything can feel like a fact sometimes.
Should we talk about anything and everything? I could converse about the universe and theories that contain it, try to explain it in non-changing rigid labels. But the universe is organic, too. It's dynamic. It's moving, evolving. Infinite.
So. To infinity and beyond, to borrow another line. As long as I live, I change. The paradigm shifts. It is and yet it isn't. Paradox exists now and again.
Feel free to share what you think of anything and everything.
I like pickles. Dill more than bread and butter ones.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
