Monthly Archives: June 2004

Pharmaceutical Chicken Little?

I think all of us, at some time or another, become terrified that we have some horrible ailment that is going to complicate or shorten our lives. For those of us who are lucky, we turn out to be wrong. I am lucky enough to be wrong. The doctor checked me out top to bottom, ran a battery of blood tests, and as it happens, I am in tip top shape. No diabetes, no parkinsons, just my bipolar tinging my life with a touch of sadness these days.

I am relieved. I am tired of worrying that my drugs, which really do help, could be responsible for destroying other parts of my health.

Aw, I’m hungry. I’m gonna run to the wee cafe in the hood and eat something. I will write something more intelligent later.

Heaven is for Worker Ants

Once when I was a little kid I was watching this little ant. A little red ant, it had found a large white feather. It had decided it needed this feather, needed to take it across this side walk. Centimetre by centimetre it struggled mightily, pulling with it the feather. I was amazed at how brazen it was, how determined and noble. It pulled and pulled. Half an hour later it was in the middle of the the sidewalk.

Somebody stepped on it. I cried. The little ant was dead, expired. Gone to ant heaven. The feather remained where the little ant comrade had fallen. I wanted to give the little ant meaning, wanted it’s life to be worth something as noble as it had been. All I could do was move the feather to the other side of the sidewalk. After death, it’s mission had finally been accomplished.

Sometimes I still cry when I think of the little ant, a tear seeps out larger than the ant’s body had been. Sometimes I wonder if I should have moved the feather and the ant, but I know that would have wrecked the story.

On the Outside/From the Inside

I am listening to Karen Carpenter sing “I’m on top of the world, looking down on creation, and the only explaination I can find, is the love that I’ve found ever since you’ve been around. You’ve put me at the top of the world. Something in the wind has learned my name, and it’s telling me that things aren’t the same.” Strangely appropriate these days. A friend seems to be slowly spinning into the maelstrom that is mania.

I know what it’s like to be in the inside of a manic episode. The edges of everything have a magical sparkle, and while you feel like you’re happy and brilliant and finally standing up for yourself, friends drop away, look confused, upset, and you don’t understand why. I know what it’s like to be inside of all that.

But today I am on the outside. Madness doesn’t have any easy answers, only uneasy questions. Is this person REALLY the person I knew of as my friend? Or is this an entirely new being? Is it her fault she is terrorizing everyone around her? Or is it the disease that she won’t admit she has?

So many questions. I know I was a holy terror when I was a maniac. She’s a maniac, maniac, on the floor. Ah, memories I wish I no longer had.

Life has a funny way of balancing itself out. It wasn’t until months and months after my episode that I started meeting and talking with people who have been there on the outside of madness, trying desperately to reach their loved ones and bring them back to the safe places. But to get people to safer places, often one must take them someplace colder, more inhuman, like the psychiatric system. I think there need to be alternatives. But how? And what?

My friend needs help, of some sort, but people are too afraid to do anything. I don’t think there’s danger yet, but there is that unravelling. When I think of her I see a person who’s life is in tatters at her feet and she is so unaware of it. When I think of her I see myself.

How Do You Fill YOUR Hole?

Yes, I affirm that it is important for lesbians to have access to pornographic materials which “do it” for them. God, I hope Nike doesn’t get after me for using their slogan. Recently I went with a friend to a lesbian strip show. An hour before the show we were full of sushi and feeling psyched. Bring on the boobies! Four hours later, we were depleted. Sucked dry and horny as hell, surrounded by dykes on the make. Meat Market Madness, ladiez were taking it off and sweating all over each other while I quietly sipped my beer.

Some of us are not players, looking deperately for a happy medium between burlezzque and potlucks. Something sexy yet serious, monogamous leather ladies. Where are they? I am disillusioned with the dyke dating scene. Tired of being treated like an easy lay by the easy lays. The hottest dyke sex scene in a film recently was Mullholland Drive, and yet there was no sex if you really look at it. Sometimes the hint of something is dreadfully hotter than getting it all.

No one knows this better than me. With a list of unrequieted loves longer than the string on my mittens, I have had tortured moments of agony that in their own strange way become exquisite. But I am digressing. I was not going to talk about my non-existent love life. I was going to talk about The Hole.

The Hole is what everyone feels but no one talks about, like a fart in polite company. We all have a hole in our life that we try to fill with some meaning to make the meaninglessness of it all a little more bearable. Some people fill it with casual sex. In fact, this is how I got onto the topic of The Hole to begin with.

My ex’s have all moved on to have millions of romps. And they seem to have filled their Hole, and it makes me jealous in a way, because it’s so celebratory. whereas for me, it seems so much quieter, my own private passions. But what do I fill my Hole with? Not casual sex, the last time I did that I got lonely halfway through and wanted to go to sleep. I’m not really the type to have sex outside of marriage. Good thing it’s finally legal for me to get married. I’m only being half serious.

But really, what is my Hole filling hobby? I have an internationally recognized art practice that sometimes is fulfilling. But if I had to say what fills my Hole, I would say Media. The Internet, Television, and Movies. Thank God I was born in the 20th Century or I would be completely empty. Is that shallow?

And what is the Hole? Is it really emptiness, the void? Or is it the core essence of ourselves, the one part of being human that we avoid dealing with out of fear of being the embodiment of mediocrity?

Too many questions. I wish I was shallow enough that all I needed was meaningless sex. Or that I had enough sense that I could be happy with casual sex. Oh well. Time to smoke a j and surf the net and ponder big worldly events so I don’t have to think about my own teetertotter existence.

UPDATE: Relevant Link to The Parking Lot Is Full comic that I’ve been reading today.