Disquietude

My computer came home today, perkier, but still not firing on all cylinders.  The tech-docs did their best and will continue to monitor vitals.  At least I don’t have to create posts on my phone anymore.

Perhaps now my vague disquietude will ease up.  I feel like I’m constantly patting my mental pockets to make sure I have my keys.  What am I forgetting?  I start out the day with my gym bag and art tote, then forget my purse.  Once back in the car, I realize I’ve forgotten the letter I need to mail.  Then, my coffee.  Or like yesterday, I left my coat somewhere and still haven’t found it.

I’m discombobulated, constantly ticking important stuff off on my fingers.  Cats alive?  Gas in the car?  Shoes on?  I check my calendar, then look at it again because I can’t remember what was there.  I’m guessing my anxiety is a little spiky.

I’ve been getting about two hours of sleep at night for several months —even taking Xanax, which is usually all I need.  So, my med provider switched me to Clonazepam—same pharm family (anti-anxiety), but with a longer duration plus a heavy weight blanket.  I still wake up three or four times a night, but go back to sleep, which I wasn’t able to do on Xanax.  And I’m not waking up furious.  That alone is a huge relief.  Any morning I can get out of bed not pissed off or in PTSD flashback-mode is already a success—no matter what else follows.

Before Anthony, the tech-surgeon, made his house call this afternoon, I vacuumed and dusted a little—something I haven’t done since summer.  I told a friend, “You know it’s time to vacuum when the carpet is crunchy.”

Like my computer, I’m still not firing on all cylinders, but we’re both making progress.  Two addled brains are better than one, I guess.  It’s a good thing the cats are in charge.

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My Brain Hurts!

“What ‘real artists’ have is courage.  Not enormous gobs of it.  Just enough for today.  Creativity, like breathing, always comes down to the question, “Are you doing it now?”  The awful truth is that there is always one small creative act for which we can find the courage.  As with housework, there is always something, and all the little somethings add up, over time, to a flow.  Courage, after all is a matter of heart, and hearts do their work one beat at a time.” — Julia Cameron in The Vein of Gold: A Journey to Your Creative Heart

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Blogging is so incestuous.  I read David Kanigan’s post from Monday, and knew I had something to say about courage, comfort zones and whacking the scales off our sclerotic dendrites.  At least I thought I did.  Or I wanted to think about those things.  Or my ego wanted to jump up and down screaming about them.  In public.

I feel pretty brave.  Except when I don’t.  Driving out to Artfest in Washington this spring didn’t feel particularly brave.  Except when I got home and spent the next two months rapid cycling and ducking from my brain’s suicidal dodge balls.  Latching onto art journaling to keep from getting hammered by red rubber didn’t seem brave, just a case of self defense.  It never occurred to me that drawing and painting when I used to be too scared to do either might be stripping some of the plaque off my craft.

What really felt brave was buying The Hollow Crown and sitting down to over eight hours of Shakespeare.  It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so dumb.  I listened to the pretty words, knew they were an old form of English, but couldn’t translate them.  I could feel my brain straining, flabby gray-matter-muscles forced to climb a junior high fitness test rope.

Oh, but, the music of the language!  That was the liniment for my bruised brain.  Plus, Great Performances emptied out The Royal Shakespearian Theater to cast these four plays, so all the British actors I adore speak this unintelligible music.

I take comfort that I’ve never read Richard II, Henry IV (either Part One or Part Two) or Henry V.  I have no bits of them embedded in my hind brain next to the passages of Romeo and Juliet Mrs. Christensen made us memorize in ninth grade.

And, yet, it feels brave to be dumb, to be a Monty Python Gumby shouting, “My brain hurts!”

Sometimes, being brave means finding the right anesthesia.  Sometimes it’s embracing my full-out Gumby-ness.  Either way, my art benefits.

And now for something completely different.

Soon

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I have a real post coming.  Really.  Almost ready.

Westward Ho! Day 13

Durango, CO (10:00 AM) to Lamar, CO (4:45PM). 351 miles.

Notables:  Van Morrison’s Keep it Simple (thank you, Robert)

Jim Butcher’s Harry Dresden novel Small Favor (read by James Marsters, for all you Buffy fans)

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Meeting my bloggy friend, Robert, was like coming home.  None of the emotional crap I wrestled last night took that away.  He was the thoughtful, mindful, funny, articulate man I knew from his blog and mine.  His voice sounded exactly as I imagined, his clear gaze looked and saw.

We sat at Durango Coffee Company for about an hour, shedding the distance of friends who only know each other through letters. We asked big questions and dove deep for the answers.  And we laughed.

Robert wanted me to have some Van Morrison for the rest of my trip (I love how music-people know when you need a piece of music).  We strolled down to the music store, still talking, but we were too early.  And I needed to be on my way.  So, we took a detour to his truck where he pulled out Keep it Simple from his CD player and handed it over.

I was so enthralled, I forgot to have a barista take our picture.  Crap.  Next time.  Because there will be a next time.

The rest of the day took me through the Colorado Rockies, through lots of little burgs, and into a scape that looked almost like home.  Rock still juts out of Eastern Colorado’s skin, but the grass and trees are turning Prairie.  Soon all that tectonic majesty will be behind me and the sea of fields will take over.

Tonight, I get to cook my Ramen noodles in a sweet, shabby-chic B&B.  Lace curtains, antique furniture, quilt on the bed, and a retro bathroom all just for me.  There’s a house cat on the porch.  What Traveling Girl could ask for more?

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Westward Ho! Day 3

Billings, MT (6:30 AM Mountain) to Spokane, WA (4:00 PM Pacific). 542 miles.

Pertinent Tunes:  Throat Culture’s Easter Island.

Audiobook: Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife

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This was going to be another full day on the road, and I wanted to get to Spokane early enough to meet my bloggy friend, Linda, before I faded, so I set out before dawn.  Again.

I love that the day worked out just like that.  I love that I’ve been dancing with my bipolar disorder long enough to know what my limits might be and how to bring them into the dance.  I can’t tell you how much I love that.

So, John led me out of Billings under the cover of dark and flurries of snow.  He’s gotten me to every destination with only two hiccups.  Both times he told me to turn around and head back home.  I think I must have accidentally touched the screen, but still, mistakes such as these required proper admonishment and Python-worthy name calling.

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So, properly chastised, he sent me up through the Continental Divide.  No more puny foothills, we were in the Big League today.  We traveled the kinds of roads that required special Runaway Truck Ramps for semis with fried brakes.  And wide places to pull off so one can attach their tire chains.  There we were, switchbacking and trundling along those straining Peterbilts, with snow and low-slung clouds obscuring the peaks.  Ooo, it was an exciting day!

And beautiful.  Majestic.  A complete Jeremiah Johnson experience.  There are no words.  Robert Redford’s “Agh” comes close.

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And then, it was Spokane, and bright warm sun, and Linda singing to me as she drove up the drive.  We’ve known each other through my blog (and my cards, and Facebook) for years, and finally got to hug and squee like proper girlfriends.  She took me to a little park for a nice walk and the beginning of our non-stop babbling. Three hours later, after a scrumptious Thai dinner and a tour of her home, she dropped me off, still singing.

Such an exciting day.

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All Systems Go

Sunday, before dawn, I’ll be on my way to ArtFest and points West.  Just one final checklist to run through.

“Flight Controllers? Give me a Go/No Go for Launch.  Booster…”

We had our glitch yesterday.  Testing a new GPS device on the trip to Des Moines, I left the unit turned off, but plugged in when I went in to my meeting.  Two hours later—dead car.  Controlled hysteria ensued.  But, just like Mark Watney, I got to work.

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The folks at my meeting found jumper cables, and I cancelled two other appointments to hurry home to my mechanic (since I could only hope it was a dead battery).  Even though they were booked solid, Rich, Rose and Jeff at Alley Auto hooked Corvus up to telemetry and determined the battery sound.  Just unplug anything from the USB when the engine isn’t running.  Good to know.

“FIDO…”

TomTom took almost two weeks to determine the problem with a celebrity voice I tried to download to my GPS unit, but now John Cleese is officially telling me where to go.

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“Guidance…”

I love how easy it was to book overnight stays at Bed and Breakfasts through Airbnb.  It’s giving the hotels in California such a run for their money, that there’s a new tax on B&Bs there (the bastards).  All the B&Bs along my flight path confirmed and anticipate my arrival with utmost glee.  Or at least they promise not to greet me with a shotgun.

Guesthouse on the Green, Billings, Montana

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“Surgeon…”

The sinus infection is nearly done, just a few sniffles and a mostly-baritone voice.  I’m taking my whole medicine chest with me just in case as well as good trainers for those fifteen minute breaks every two hours to walk off any fomenting blood clots or nasty butt boils.  Too graphic?  Just wait.

“EECOM…”

I’m packing a cooler with lunch supplies, a crate of chips, enough Ramen noodles for two weeks, a bale of bottled water, and everything I need to make my daily Shakeology smoothie.  So, basically my whole kitchen  (Oh, and the seasonal jelly bean or two).

“GNC…”

The wild rapid cycling seems to have slowed the last few days.  Anxiety and mania have mellowed to gentle anticipation. A lot of that has to do with preparation and gnat’s ass attention to detail.  When the car died yesterday, I told my sister I was so glad I tested the GPS unit before Sunday, and that I was thankful Mom taught us to be anal.  My sis texted back, “Yes, it does come in handy.”

“INCO…”

My friend, Ellen, at the library gave me an extension on the dozen audiobooks I borrowed.  Between those, my iPod, and a few additional CDs, I ought to stay entertained.  Since I’ll be driving seven to nine hours a day, I won’t have much time to stop at wayside junk shops, but if one happens to jump in front of me…

 “Network…”

Sue, The Cat Whisperer, will be tending my ground crew while I’m away.  The steely-eyed missile men took to her immediately, and seem to know that she’ll be The Keeper of the Treats.  I’m so lucky to have reconnected with this friend from high school who loves felines as much as I do (and is used to a swampy litter box).

“CAPCOM…”

My friend, Cat, loaned me a laptop so that I can pretend to be Charles Kuralt.  My plan is to settle into a comfy B&B each night, cook up a bowl of Ramen noodles, and write a blog post of the day’s excitement On The Road.  I feel very journalistic and savvy since it’s a Microsoft laptop instead of a Mac.

“Payload…

“I figured the other day that I’d made 87 cards in 81 days.  Since a therapist once told me to eliminate productive from my vocabulary, I’ll just say I’m pleased and amazed at that number.  Some of those cards were special orders or sold on my Etsy shop, but most are going with me.  The vendor show at ArtFest only lasts an hour (Hmmm.  We’ll see about that…), but I’m excited to show my wares and present a funky table display.

“FAO…”

A lot of people helped make this Bucket List Trip a reality.  From Cheryl and Tom loaning me a second suitcase and card displays to my deceased mom leaving me her Honda, I have relied on the kindness and generosity of my clan.  Thank you, everyone.  I am forever grateful.

So let’s go through that checklist one last time.

Five Years Old

A Mind Divided is five today.

5 • 5 • 5

 

To celebrate, I went through every post (946) to make sure the video links still worked and to find lost pictures.  You know WordPress—stuff gets lost.  And videos that were perfectly fine suddenly become “private” (As if you can stuff that genie back in the bottle).

Nothing cheeses me off quite so much as faulty technology (or bad grammar, but that’s a different post).  When I come across a link that doesn’t work, or that little blue square  instead of a picture, I’m sure I’m missing out on something fabulous and now–sadly—lost to me forever.  The mystery of it, the tease, makes my compulsive nature sing a sweary song.

So, in order to be a polite blog host, and to spare any unnecessary Sweary Songs, I tried to fill in any blanks left by You Tube and WordPress (Because everyone will be checking that 2/24/11 Star Trek fan-vid).

And this made me a little cranky, but also amazed at the 946 posts.  In the beginning, I posted a lot.  I think most new bloggers do.  The rush of words going public and the urgency behind telling one’s story dazzles us.  When I didn’t have something personal to share, I posted poetry, my art, anything that felt meaningful or part of me.  That first year I averaged 25.5 posts per month.  This past year, my average was 7.5.

Some folks burn out.  Some run out of words.  The blog runs its course or loses the meaning it once held.  Some folks just get busy or move on to something that provides more meaning.

I’ve found I don’t need to say anything until I have something to say.  Being a “specialty” blog gives me the freedom to not mess about with the statistics page.  I don’t worry about losing readers or what I need to do to tart up my site to attract more.  I’ve never been Freshly Pressed (it’s called something else now…) and never will be.

I get to do what I love here—take my bipolar disorder apart and find any silver linings that hide under the gore.  I get to share my art and my fan fiction.  I get to belong to a loving, funny community that continues to blow my socks off with their comments and kindness.  I get to gush about movies, and books, and pretend boyfriends.  I get to be vulnerable, and freaky, and completely me.

I love this blog.  I love its therapeutic power.  I love the friends I’ve made through it.  And I love writing it.  I love that new readers still find their way here and that, once in a while, they stick around.

Frosting on my bloggy birthday cake.

Astrologically Speaking

I’m working on a custom card order for an old friend—a card for each of the zodiac signs with pithy captions.  I’ve done zodiac cards before.  One batch happened when I ran across a list of traits in an ancient Good Housekeeping and wanted to match them with my funky, Teesha Moore rubber stamps.

Another batch happened when this first series started to sell out.  I was deep into technique at the time and wanted to try a bunch of things.

But, for this new set I need to do some research.  I’m not an astrologer (even though it fascinates me), so I can’t be pithy about a particular sun sign’s foibles unless I know what they are.

I took an introductory class back in October from another friend who is an astrologer and learned enough to get a headache.  The variables seemed endless, convoluted—the pull and influence of all those heavenly bodies swirling around each other in time and space.  It’s a lifetime commitment to study that stuff, and I admire my friend’s scientific mastery of it.

Instead, I’m surfing websites and Pinterest, taking notes and printing out other people’s hard work.  It simmers in my hindbrain.  As I drift between wakefulness and sleep, a perfect image sometimes percolates to the surface.  It will all rise eventually.  It always does.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying little sparks of possibility and delight as I surf.  It could just be that I’m seeing lots of light at the end of my pneumonia/thrush/pajama pants tunnel.  Taking out the trash seems weighty with potential at the moment.

This particular meme made me laugh out loud as I’ve been sort of ruthlessly teasing a fellow blogger about his Scorpio-ness without really knowing what I was talking about.

Confirmation is a dish best served with sarcasm.

This one’s for you, David.

50 Shades of Me

This meme’s been circulating amongst the bipolar/neuro-other community.  The challenge is to find 50 odd facts about myself that (a) I haven’t already blabbed to the world in 919 posts and (b) are remotely interesting.  I’m willing to give it a whirl.  If all else fails, I’ll fabricate.

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1. I hate chickens.  Nightmares that involve chickens rank right under nightmares about clowns.

2. I introduced myself to Senator Paul Wellstone (deceased, sadly) while we stood in line for our Thai take-out orders.  He got curry.  I got flustered.

3. Pam Donelson and I used to make up skits at recess and perform them for our third grade class after lunch.  I think Mrs. Halverson gave us free rein just so she could doze off in the back.  Come to think of it, Pam turned out to be bipolar, too…

4. A pony bit me when I was little.  Now I admire horses from afar.

5.  I’m not sure which I want more: to see elephants in their natural habitat or to make sure people leave them alone.

6. When I was twelve, my granny and I flew to California to visit cousins.  Years later, I realized she took me because I was despondent about my other grandmother, who had died a few months earlier.  That made her gift even more precious.

7. For a farm girl, it took me a long time to figure out how to pee outside without soaking something.

8. I saw Superman (with Christopher Reeve) in the theater 19 times.  That’s still my record.

9. I went to the first cheerleading practice in 8th grade and decided to be co-president of my junior high school instead.

10. I hate practical jokes and have been known to bloody the noses of those who prank me.  “Poor Sport!”  “Jack-ass!”

11. I joined Speech Club because I was hot for my eleventh grade English teacher (who coached us).  I won State my senior year.  Inspiration takes all forms.

12.  I don’t drink much now, but my current alcoholic beverage of choice is Angry Orchard.

13.  I hate rollercoasters.  Probably because I hate to puke.  But I did ride the Matterhorn at Disney World with my ex and had fun.  That’s what I tell people anyway.

14.  I love gladioli.  Whenever I see them, I think of Gramma and her garden.

15.  On our farm growing up, the hog lot was south of the house.  Whenever a southern breeze blew through the open windows, Dad would say, “That’s the smell of money.”  And I wonder why I have a twisted sense of finance.

16.  I buy myself flowers, especially white roses.  Because I love them.  In the absence of a Valentine, be your own.

17.  I have the same attitude about children and dogs—I’m happy to pet you, just don’t slobber on me.

18.  I took three years of Russian in high school and college.  Now I wish I’d taken Spanish.

19.  I played piano and saxophone, and I taught myself a teeny bit of guitar.  All past tense.  I still sing, though.  And every once in a while, someone sitting in front of me at church will turn around and tell me what a nice voice I have.  It fuels my fantasies of being a background vocalist for Sting.

20.  I dated a fireman.  He made me a latch-hook rug.

21.  In Chicago, I got locked out of my hotel room.  Security took me to the lobby because they thought I was a prostitute.

22.  I taught children in Viet Nam to sing “Old MacDonald” so they would quit staring at me.

23.  I’m a second-degree Reiki practitioner, learned Sacred Sound from teachers in Colorado and Boston, and had my own healing touch practice for a time.  I can “Om” the shit out of you.  Literally.

24.  In an elevator at the 1994 World Fantasy Convention, Harlan Ellison told me the short story I’d published was “beautiful writing.”  Watershed moment.

25.  Farts are hilarious.  I come from a hilarious family.  My dad could never fart without a comment.  My favorite was, “Catch THAT and paint it red.”

26.  When I was a senior in high school, my best friend and I went to Iowa City to hear Robert Redford talk about the bald eagles.  At least I think that’s what he talked about.  We weren’t really listening.

27. At the height of Star Trek: The Next Generation’s popularity, Brent Spiner (Data) made a personal appearance in a small Minneapolis hotel.  My friend and I got front row seats to hear him answer questions and dish trash on the rest of the cast.  His Patrick Stewart impersonation was spot-on, but the guy was kind of a dick.

28.  I don’t think of myself as particularly girlie, but I tend to wear a lot of pink and coral.  They make me feel like a gladiola (see #14).

29. One of the highest compliments I ever received was at a mostly-lesbian birthday party.  A young woman said, “You’re straight?  Nah.  You’re in denial.”  I laughed.  “No.  Really.  I like men.”  She handed me a beer.  “Well, you’d make a great dyke.”

30. I don’t have a favorite color, song, movie, book, food, or celebrity.  All those joys change constantly (not counting Richard Armitage, since he’s my pretend boyfriend—not a celebrity).

31.  The first farm kitty I named was Pussywillow, a sweet little calico.

32. I love Jimmy Carter.  He’s the first president I ever voted for, so I always felt responsible for him.

33.  When I was little, I used to drag my puppy, Rebel, out to our gravel drive and make him write his name in the soft dirt.  He didn’t like school as much as I did.

34.  Forests rather than Oceans.  I will get to the Redwoods in 2016.

35.  I taught myself to wake up out of nightmares by screaming.  It’s more of a tornado siren, starting down in the lower register and ramping up into a full screech.  My ex-husband did not appreciate this extraordinary skill, but my cats do and often join in.

36.  I flunked Art in high school.

37.  I don’t have a single piercing or tattoo.  To be fancy, in my youth, I would wear clip-on earrings, but I’m too much into comfort for those anymore.  Ditto for pantyhose and heels.  I don’t own a dress or nail polish, though I do have a little box of make-up that’s probably all past its due date.  What’s left of my jewelry is a tangled mess in an old pot.  Like I said—not girlie.

38.  I love my hair.  It’s coming in silver, not gray, and in a streaky pattern that other people pay big bucks for at salons.

39.  I will never go on a cruise.  One word: Jaws.

40.  My speaking voice is my best feature.  Other people comment on it from time to time.  All that speech training, I guess (see #11 & 23).  I think I’d make a great audio book talent.

41.  I have been told I’m a good driver.  I never get lost.  Taking a wrong exit or missing a street sign doesn’t constitute “lost” in my book.  I always get where I’m going and don’t get flustered in traffic.  I do tend to get tickets for not wearing my seatbelt, though.  Ironic, considering #43.

42.  I loved my wedding dress.  It made me feel gorgeous (So, okay, maybe a little girlie).

43.  A drunk driver hit me one morning on the way to work.  My face went through the windshield (This was in pre-historic times before seatbelt laws).  When the plastic surgeon came to the ER (because, you know, face), I said, “Oh, good. Maybe you can do something about my chins while you’re at it.”  No reaction from the guy sewing my forehead together.  I figured flat-on-my-back comedy was maybe not my forté.

44.  First concert:  Elton John at the Ames Coliseum, 1973.

45.  My brother is 6’7″.  Based on my growth as a kid, old Doc Sinning predicted I’d top out at 6’2″.  My brother also describes himself as “somewhat OCD” (lots of neuro-endocrine booby prizes in our family).  Even though I stalled at 5’5″ in fifth grade, I still found other ways to sit on our genetic joy buzzer.

46.  I’ve got mad drywall skills.  My taping and mudding rival the professionals.

47.  When I woke up from the drunk driver accident (#43), my knees were pinned on either side of the steering wheel, and I couldn’t see because of the blood and glass.  Before panic set in, my door opened and a smooth, Texas drawl said, “Are you all right, ma’am?”  “I don’t know—do I still have my teeth?” I tried to grin in the voice’s direction.  “You look just fine,” he said.  Considering what the surgeon did later, I was probably on the nightmare side of fine.  A warm hand grabbed mine.  “I called the police.  Help’s comin’ so just hold on.  I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  He disappeared once the ambulance came, but I still have a fondness for cowboys.

48.  My nephew was born a week before my wedding.  This is my favorite picture of us.  It’s a conversation-starter with people who don’t know our family.

49.  When people see my handwriting, they think I’m left-handed.  I love this because my sister, who is left-handed, taught me how to write.  It’s like I carry her around with me—sorta like a tattoo, but not.

50.  I love crossword puzzles—the harder, the better.  I do them in pen.  And while it’s fun to actually finish one, I love the feeling of leaving a bunch of blank spaces and just jumping to the next puzzle in the book.  Because fun shouldn’t be programmed for failure.

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Ugh.  I’m all sticky with narcissism and over-sharing.  Wait, that’s one of the definitions of blogging, right?

Happy long-weekend.  You all deserve it.

Prototype Redux

I’ve never reposted an old post.  I figure I either have something new to say or I don’t.  And if I don’t, then this platform stays quiet until I do.  But Leonard Nimoy died yesterday, and I can’t find new words.  This man/actor/character has been a part of me since Star Trek aired on September 8, 1966.  I was nine years old—impressionable, starving for attention, a little fan-girl waiting to happen.

So, I offer, again, the collage piece I made about him in 2011.  Prototype.  All the images used in this collage are original, pictures I saved from entertainment magazines as old as Star Trek’s first TV Guide cover in 1966.

I’m excited to present this finished piece.  It carries so many layers of meaning for me.

As all fathers do, mine created the template for all subsequent relationships with the men in my life.

As a tween, I transfered my longing for attention and protection from my dad to Spock, the ultimate unavailable man.  In my fantasies, I found the secret pathway to Spock’s heart.  Of course he would never demonstrate his affection, never claim me as his, but I knew he would protect me.  It seemed more than I could ever ask for.

My affection for Leonard Nimoy is deep and abiding.  He was, after all, my first.