Processing the Blues

   

photo by Allison Huyett

   What is it like to live with bipolar disorder? Time to bring it up.  

   People fear the diagnosis formerly known as manic depression. How does it present itself? Predictably unpredictably. Disassociates self and others. All-encompassing in coping mechanisms.

    Theory: Roller coaster imagery is overrated. Peaks and valleys, sure. Days, weeks, months go by the wayside. Plateaus, plenty. Platitudes, beatitudes, positive/negative attitudes. Take this.  

   Reality: Moods can change in thirty seconds or less. Everything is fine. Wipe away the welling tears! Be all smiles. Cheerful and happy. Next. Muttering things. Not nice. One minute managing to be neat, clear and in order. Followed by: momentary distress. Beautiful mess!  

   Bipolarity is a flickering flame, burning straight and steady, moving gently and softly with the air; then – wildfire! without the wax and wick. Bipolar is impenetrable chilled ice skating rink along with warm and inviting bath-water temperature azure Caribbean seas. Manic is crisp. Normal is aligned. Depressive is torn, snippy. Genuine. False.  

    Bipolar living is futile and productive. Try and counter that one. There is no point to anything, depleted energy coffers. Basic chores, hygeine and maintenance may be left unattended. Then again, you can do anything and everything when strong and determined enough to persist. Middle ground? Fertile crescendo! A kingdom for a graceful undulating pasture for a horse. Master and hack. Competent, too. 

   Its primary colors are black, white, and kaleidoscopic.  It dresses grunge, may be classically tailored to fit. The music it streams goes Sheryl Crow and Miles Davis to Jimmy McGriff to Chopin to twang. Its pictures, Braque and Matisse. Textures: Smooth one minute. Rough the next. The riff-raff and the creme-de-la-creme. The masses. Opiates. Cursing a drinking glass. Volatile cocktail. It’s impossible.  

    Mischannelled moods rub people the wrong way. Effort applied with appropriateness: pleasing to no end! Working hard to meet or exceed expectations. Wanting to be good. Holding it all in. Bending away from the light. Control panel out of whack. Ouch. Checks and balances. What a system!  High cost of lost jobs and relationships. Low self-worth. Shaky.

   Living with bipolar disorder is like seeing the world through the complex eye of a fly, then plunging in and swimming through murky water and, shedding amphibious nature, making a departure for cloud nine on a crystalline day in the unbearable lightness of being. (Exercise has been shown to relieve symptoms of depression.)

  Imagine being in an adventure reality television show. You are the full cast, in one body, going through the trials and tribulations of the whole tribe. (As opposed to a being a body in a full cast.) Put an X in the works well with others box. Drama or theater? 

  Erect a set. In come the stimuli. You sponge-mop, you! Desperately seeking introvert. Must branch out. Centrifugal forces at work. Other-worldly. You are what you plan. He who waits in the wings is lost or prompting to action. All the world’s a stage we’re going through.

   It’s New Year’s Eve. Party to go to. Best wishes for a safe, healthy and happy 2010!

Sizzy is Dead

   Long live Sisyphus.

This is so Christmas

   The holy holly day is here! My mother and I go out, walking and wheeling. We enjoy a winter’s art show, (scenes of snow) and a bit of warm brie and some sweet little nibbles. It is a simple plan to share good cheer. What tickles her most is having hiccups.

   We sit by the ornamental fireplace to read Charles Dickens’ Christmas Stories, only to discover its workings have been given the day off. The book does fine; old lines tell new tales: 

   “Time was, with most of us, when Christmas day encircled all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections and hopes, grouped everything and every one around the Christmas fire and made the little picture shining in our bright young eyes complete.”

   We explore the residential hallways, where almost every door has a red and green wreath of  some type, make or model. There are snowmen and snow women, Kris Kringle and bells to jingle. Pads and pencils for jotting hello. Pictures and stitchery.

   Three stuffed rabbits, each with a fat carrot, have been moved aside to make way for the wintry crowd of  poinsettia plants and presents.

   A large stone dog figurine stops us in our tracks. The dog is dressed with a red scarf. Its jaw permanently holds a basket; right now red flowers fill it. On a stand outside an apartment door rests a small artificial tree. The tree contains handmade natural ornaments that instantly transport us to the Brandywine River Museum, which makes an annual show of teasel- made-mice and other critters, some from pods and cones. The name plaque for the unit’s residents gives their former home address as Chadds Ford; they have come here.

   Almost everyone has a display: a wreath, a vignette, a greens and berries arrangement in an antique crock. Mystery elves have sprinkled the chairs, doors and elevators with cheerful, childlike cards and drawings of the season, some with rhyme, some with reason. 

   We locate a working fireplace in another public sitting room. We watch the flames lick the air. The chess set is not black and white; it is cream and white. A guest plays the piano. People assemble for dinner.

   We bundle up for a tour of the snow-coated garden. Real, colorful scarves accent the bronze statues of children in their summer clothing. The boy is ice fishing! The sundial casts no shadow. Inside we go. 

   Two ladies, Claire and Evanna, say hello to us in the hallway. We meet Claire by the aquarium. Claire is a rare name. Claire wears a warm red sweater with beaded snowflakes and showers my mom with affection. We meet Evanna by the Art Show. Evanna misses her late husband very much. Evanna says my mother is still beautiful. What gems in this setting, what gems!

Moonlight Ski, Get the Daphne out of Me

   Christmas Eve morning: Spot first heron at 8:26 a.m. It alights in the shallow water, near two mallards and the bare bramble. It’s a crane: all stilted legs and angularity. It bows its neck like a dressage horse, beak perpendicular to the water, to fish. Another heron unfolds its wings and flies away in silence, leaving the shoreline. If you were to think of that portion of the creek as a bit of pasta, the herons were at the ends of a macaroni elbow.

  On the final portion of my walk, I see Victor for the first time in a while. Tuesday was difficult walking, he says. Tuesday, he only went so far and turned back. Now that a tractor has laid down some tracks that compress the snow and smooth the way, the going is easier.

    He has shoveled at home the snow that fell there. When he was a boy in Europe, he says, he liked to ski at night in the moonlight.

  “It’s a miracle I’m still alive,” says Victor. “I would ski at night by myself and it was just mountains and snow and if you broke a leg or went off the mountain there was no one there to pick you up or help.”

   When he came here, his father said he would need to go to Utah or Colorado or New England to find places to ski.

   “Where am I going to get the money to do that?” Victor says. “I took my ice skates to the rink in the city and there were 200 people there skating in tiny circles. I needed room to skate in, not to follow all these people in a small space!”

   We trade Christmas greetings and a big warm bear hug. It is better to hug a man than a tree most of the time, I find. It gets the Daphne out of me.

   Speaking of out: Santa is here, in the parking lot. He is a thin St. Nick, dressed in red, talking with a man in black. The patron Santa of runners and joggers?

   At home, my uncle calls to say thank you for the soup, some crab and roasted corn chowder from the Butler’s Pantry.

   “It’s a marvellous collection of flavors,” says Uncle Phil. “I just love it.”

American, Express

   One of the members of my cabinet is the Paper Czar, who rules paper and has been slacking on the job by leaving things unattended, defiled and unsorted. There is a method to this madness. It provides a precious opportunity to go on the paper trail in order to discern the sources, uses and disposition of these items.

   A brief survey of the territory: it looks like some of the papers have declared anarchy. Others sit in silent protest. Some may be ignored, only to be followed up with persistent and insistent reminders that change colors like the terrorist alert. Some have their holding patterns, their right places, their spots. I wouldn’t change them.

    Observe how well the Paper Czar has instituted the pile system!  Advice to  handle things only once has been disregarded. Very good. What does this say? Why be efficient? The mystery deepens. To what system does Paper Czar adhere? 

    A cursory inspection indicates the Paper Czar employs a variation of the determinants: useful, beautiful, interesting  and  in keeping anything that falls into this range  has too few clues as to what to do with it all. Too much of a good thing. Yet, Oscar Wilde has declared: nothing succeeds like excess! You can never be too rich, too thin or have too much paper. Paper is thin. Paper is rich. Newspaper owners are rich.  If  the Paper Czar could get a penny per piece of paper, there would be hundred of thousands of dollars flowing in. (If it’s valuable why don’t you keep it?) If the artist in residence can create a demand, Paper Czar has it made.

   This is a problem in search of a solution and the solution is always in the problem. Now for the work, dear cabinet-maker. Better disposition.

   The little heron that flies up, complaining of being flushed in the dark at 6:45 a.m. is the only heron spotted this morning. The temperature is about 17 degrees and the sun I see at 7:43 popping in over the hill and shining its gold on the creek, priceless.

Pall Mall Walnut

   Thanks to the nocturnal movement of snowmobilers, the path in the park is navigable today. Thanks to a rise in temperatures, 33 degrees feels like a heat wave. It’s snow country. The land has become a basket to hold the white crystals, the creek cuts a sleek swath in the land. The squirrels are out and about. A red Pall Mall cigarette carton thrown overboard from the overpass “Per aspera ad astra”  appears in the logo with a helmet, two lions and three crowns. This was the brand my father smoked.

   I think about the solitary lives of  Edward Hopper and the life of James Castle. I feel removed.

   When I think about a black and red photo in the archives with CHI lettering, around the bend is Ron, running with a red top and black pants. A heron flew from the bank when I first started out. Much of my concentration is directed to the footing, to be sure.

Things in threes and 3’s in Things

 

  Harness the power. Palindromic 12/21 today! Use Feng shui. Make it divine. Group by threes. Love every minute.

   Have dreaded tasks? Break it up. Three simple steps.

   Errands to run? List top three. Get it done.

   Undecided on something? List three pros; list three cons. Add more notes. Weigh the sides. Get the picture.

   Choices to make? Narrow to three.  Mix them up. Pick the middle. Or the first. Or the third.

   Green light, yellow light, red light. Go to where? Why go there? Travel how fast? Why slow down? Where is danger? Why use caution? Why not stop? Stop on dime. Time doesn’t stop.

   If you add an H to trees, you get threes. Both are green. Both are wood. Muerto is dead. Eliminate dead wood. Travel Rio Grande. Flower is compass. Wellsville in center for health. Finger Lakes, finger tips and tips of leaves making z’s. Never bored. Always happy.

The Path Becomes the Figure

    Snow creates a figure of the path, a ribbon into the distance, up to the next curve. It’s cold.  The mallards and geese pedal and bob in the creek, providing the most movement. They seem to be making a good time of it. Dedicated runner #1 and I greet one other.

    When the phrase creative expression crosses my mind, near the metal pipe above the 10 marker, a heron flies away, low over the murky water, its body is that deep and dark slate and Prussian blue combination they show when it is cloudy.

    Today the path leads all the way to the metal bridge, where a red township truck is poised to dump salt at Palisades road. Two maroon vehicles sit in the parking lot. One is a heavy-duty pickup truck and the other looks like it has four-wheel drive. To whom do they belong?

   Wow, there’s a fisherman chest-high in the water, fishing through the snowfall. It’s 25 degrees.

   Return way: a kingfisher twitters in a tree. A real twitter. The heron that flew away flies away again. By the time I reach the red bridge, am feeling cold. The rest rooms are locked, no relief. One mile more to the car. Have to send myself on a…

    …fool’s errand: need to return furnace filter purchased at Target last night and purchase correct size. In a flash of home maintenance brilliance,  had written the dimensions on an exterior label on the furnace. Had copied this figure onto a piece of memo paper. Had remembered to take paper to store. Had located filters in stock. Made the unfortunate discovery the figure (21″)  was incorrect. They come in 20″ or 25″  lengths. I guessed  20 inch. Guess again. Twenty-five is the final answer. Same price. Even exchange. Edit note.

Just for Snow

   Friday’s puzzle was forgotten because it was all fret work. Snow is is  the forecast and had little to say.

The R in CAESAR

   A recent midmorning errand took me past an Italian restaurant in Wyomissing, where someone from the restaurant, who was not wearing a jacket in the cold I might add and was not Vanna White, brought the letter R to the sign along State Hill road and placed it at the end of C A E S A where it belongs. Caesar salad, Caesar the day. Seize the day. Carpe diem before it turns to crappy. 

    Across the road, at the same time, I noticed a large rectangular mirror set out with the trash. From my drive-by perspective, it looked to be in good condition. Was it a curb alert for Craigslist? At any rate, the direction I was heading was opposite; I had no immediate use for a large rectangular mirror that may have been intended for someone else.

   During my walk I saw two leaves placed on the path so there was an equidistant channel between them. I found this bit of parallelism beautiful. Also found near the public area, a small green thin foam toy truck piece. As I combined all of these into one puzzle, the effect seemed too cluttered and I ceased and desisted and left it unfininshed. Days go better when a clear picture emerges and I was chagrined not to make it work. Sometimes its best just to accept and face these things. Et tu, brute.