Returneth From The Drudgery Of Isolation, In Isolation, I Isolated Myself In.

Let’s try this.

Writing is hard. Not currently, that is a completely different beast. I mean in general. To look into the depths of your stewing think box and extract the exact right verbiage for the situation and to connect over and over again. It is a thankless process too, nothing in me feels an endorphin rush if I do the thing I want to do, it is more knowing that I did the thing that will release me from the panic that slowly starts to build as the words pile inside of me like grain in a silo that is just about full and no market to send it to.

It is not completely without merit mind you, knowing that I have placed a thought, especially a happy one, into someone’s head is a delight for me. I write in a very particular way that people seem to humble me by enjoying, so I try to do my best for myself and them and produce that which I feel would make all of us the happiest we can be with the situation.

You’ve heard the half-hundred metaphors I have used for the words and stories in my head. From the ever-popular airplanes to the less spectacularly worded ‘fuckton-o-things’. They are always there and when they are not pressing against me like a surging tide, they are slowly gathering more and more of themselves so the next wave of them might just break over the lip of the wall of my brain and end up just like the ones you are glancing at now.

I am overly wordy, it is a choice and not a curse. I always have felt the need to say in fifty words what could be said with a non-verbal nod of assent or even an extended middle finger on both hands, preferably after a clever pun about turning something up. I like to see words flow across the page and enjoying them like a multi-course meal that finishes with the perfect dessert of point, or a comical lack of one. It is not for everyone and to them I wish fair feedings at a restaurant that serves their choice of fare, this is mine and I will serve and enjoy what I like, no exceptions.

This morning, which I am fairly certain is a Sunday, the children I call waterfowl are quietly entertaining themselves and the grumpy old man has yet to come down from on high to impart sagacious wisdom on the youth of the world whilst simultaneously telling them to extract forthwith from his front grass patch. Given the state of affairs, it is going to be the same day it has been for months now, and I suppose it is okay because trying to make it anything else is a catastrophe waiting to happen.

My head is firmly attached and, with a little help from a Dragon I know, even shrunk a little. I got a fairly decent amount of sleep so I even feel vaguely human for the first time in a fair bit. Now mind you the cocktail of medicinal powders and tablets I consumed last evening cannot, at all, be repeated for at least another 10 hours, so let us hope the facade of mental and physical health holds up to scrutiny for at least that long.

Speaking of cocktails, while it is a little early for one as I am writing this, mayhap I shall treat myself to one this evening if the pain has not escalated to biblical, don’t look back, proportions. If it has, well, there are always the days that end in Y that come after this one to look forward to.

Tomorrow, with a lot of caveats, I am going to try creativity again and see if I can produce something that I am vaguely happy with. I will try a new thing, as I am wont to do because there are no expectations if I start with a blank canvas.

I’ll also talk about the other thing tomorrow is other than Memorial Day, a very, very not-so-good thing that I need to talk about from time to time.

One thing at a time though.


The Ever Rising Tide

You’ve seen this before, I just thought I would throw my take into the fire I suppose, I have nothing else to do, so I thought I would analyze my mental health for the internet. I have worse things, so at least this is something I am vaguely interested in.

There are no trigger warnings needed here, I am not going to talk about the Bad Dark, just what the face of it all looks like.

Any of you who have ever met me know that I love to both laugh and make others laugh. I am not particularly funny, I know a stand-up comedian, that motherfucker is funny. I am self-deprecating and I suppose that is humorous in its way. I digress, however.

Even when I am in the middle of the deepest laugh I can have, tears streaming down my face and various floods being ejected from various orifices of my body, I am still very, strongly, deeply, clinically depressed.

When I am walking around the supermarket with my new bandana face mask necessity and I am breathing in my self-produced humidity and I am smiling at the pharmacist and the cashier, I am still having a panic attack that I will crash into. Not when I get home, not until much later when I am alone and it is dark. Then the panic will wash over me like waves that bring it higher and higher until I choke on it and curl up in a ball and simply submit to it all.

When I am sitting in my best friends living room, a human being I trust more than nearly anyone who has ever lived, I know the exits, I know how to get home with no money, I have an exit strategy because that is what I have always needed and you don’t shut off decades worth of paranoia, if it were rational, it wouldn’t be paranoia.

You’ve seen me finging right? You know, fingers finging? Tapping the tip of each finger against the tip of my thumb. Sometimes I count, other times I multiply, sometimes I do days of the week or some other repetitive so my brain can match the absenteeism of my hand movements, trying to fight back the things I don’t want just then. The migraines, the panic, the agoraphobia, claustrophobia, or a thousand other things.

I can be talking to you, laughing with you, lifting you in a hug I never want to let go of, kissing your forehead, drinking with you, eating my best friends food, holding the woman I love, sitting with my kids on my lap, or I can be alone in my bedroom.

It will never leave. It is dark when the light goes off, the eeriness of quiet in the city neighborhood, the shock and awe of a thunderbolt.

It is there.

It is always there.

IF I Were A Betting Man, Which I Am In The Worst Possible Way, I Imagine I Would Be Seeing A LOT Of Posts From the Overly Caffeinated Bear Today

It’s funny how many people are doctors when you are afflicted with a thing they believe they know more about than you do. As awkward as the timing is of me writing this, this has nothing to do with the current COVID health crisis, know it is the usual rant that we are going to go into today.

It’s not just a headache. It has never been just a headache. It will never be just a headache. It is not a take a Tylenol and suck it up buttercup situation. It is not something that I can always just power and pose my way through until I get to the safety of my bathroom floor or bedroom darkness.

In the last couple of months, I have been getting a lot better at not retreating like a turtle when it hurts at a certain point. I am. However, when all you can think of is vomit and death, maybe that is when you need to go and lie down for a few and see if you can reset the cranium case to a vaguely normal level.

No, I will not go into how bad it hurts, or any of that. You have ignored me for more than a decade, I think perhaps you would have got the point if you were going to get it by now. So, instead of shaming you and educating you like I have been doing all this time, I am going to pivot in my head, stop writing about this and tell you a plan I have.

I am getting 18 bottles of wine tomorrow because that is what awesome is experienced as by us lowly motherfucking mortals. Terry ordered some bad-ass cheeses that came in just the other day and I am going to act all fancy and shit and have a fucking cheese tray with sweet, literally and otherwise, ass wine for dinner tomorrow night and there is nothing you can do about it because I am a motherfucking adult and if I want to have wine for dinner I fucking will.

The next morning, I will be recording my impressions of the wine in a jovial and light-hearted manner and there is also nothing you can do to prevent me from doing this because that would infer I give a fuck about what you think in regards to my recording preferences.

In addition, like a Warrior Princess I know, I am all up in a Serial Killers podcast and am horrifyingly and yet refreshingly surprised that there are as many of them as there are. That and all sorts of other shit I have been meaning to listen to for goddamn years and for some reason my unemployed ass thought I had “no time” for. Fuck all of that shit in its shiny metal ass. Notice my proper lack of apostrophe use in the last instance of “its”, yeah, English bitches.

In case you hadn’t notice, the goddamn caffeine kicked in about paragraph five and it is fucking on now.

I talk to all of you that I can damn near every single day. Every single one I can. Yup, I forget to message you sometimes, or sometimes I have some shit going on, but most of the time it is me messaging you because that is what I do and anyone who has ever smiled at the stupid RAWRZ! I send every morning makes my motherfucking day. I never actually expect anyone to respond right away, I mean, you are busy people doing busy people things, I GET IT, I do.

Lonely Island is an awkwardly awesome motivator, but now I am on to Lil Jon and LMFAO with Shots so it is on, in all the best ways things can be indeed not off. A hundred some-odd decibels of music an inch or so from your eardrum is probably bad, but you only live, well, however many times it is now, right? It will be Confusion by New Order with that sweet Remix action.

Oh yeah, to get back to the beginning. Yes, I still have a fucking migraine, but in the spirit of doing my life a little differently, I am ignoring the best I can and enjoying my goddamn morning to the motherfucking fullest.


It Doesn’t Matter If You Understand What I Am Saying As Long As You Simply Sit And Let Me Fucking Say It

Since I have not got much approval, or even traction, for my self-termination plan, I am going to go ahead and listen to a techno remix of Toccata and Fugue at insanely loud volumes to try and quiet the inner Bear. later I think I am going to sage my bedroom and try as hard as I can to remember how to assemble an altar the way I have in the past. After that, I will probably try and mentally accept the teachings of Frank Herbert vis-à-vis the Dune universe with emphasis on exponential self-growth rooted in internal desire and possibly psychotropic psychopharmaceutical interactions with enforced solitude and the freeing of an inner-worth based secondary, or perhaps tertiary personality to interface with the basics of the lizard Id and the haughtiness of the superego as described by Nietzsche.

I have never been particularly good at multitasking, I can, it is just infuriating to me to not have things in a form of ordered chaos. It is why each virtual desktop always runs the same programs, why I call my computers the same names and why I make a new email for every format. There is an order to the Chaos I find myself in most times and if I can find it I have discovered that I can very happily adapt to the situation and make sure the things I am supposed to produce are thusly manifested.

Overlong I have thought of where I might blend my unique perspective of psychology and vaguely remembered theological dogma. Outside of the rather obsolete form of cult leader that sadly is no longer as profitable monetarily, socially or even sexually as it used to be, I am either forced to abandon the thought altogether, which is not particularly distasteful, or to begin walking the streets wearing a placard and a loin-cloth telling people that the end is nigh and that they would be best suited for survival if they decided cannibalism wasn’t as abhorrent as western thinking makes it out to be.

Occultism, as seen through the eyes of people who view the occult as a type of pseudo-intellectual masturbation practiced by former employees of Hot Topic and soulful poets in need of a dark and forever damning patron, is a thing where people sit in the dark and chant things in rudimentary Latin or the so-called angelic language of Enochian, that was most likely invented by Edward Kelley when he was inhaling things that people of the later sixteenth century usually stayed away from completely or at least had the common sense to call themselves prophets or oracles because of.

This causes people who practice paganism of any stripe to be painted with a vast brush called Satanism that is ironic as the Church of Satan has nothing to do with the Judaeo-Christian angelic figure Lucifer, but rather lots of hedonistic self-expression and cultivation of personal power by disallowing those who would take from you to do that thing in any capacity. From the heady days of the Malleus Maleficarum to the modern televangelist, those practicing the purest of the spiritual avenues have been hounded, blamed and burned because the simplicity of an herbal poultice is proof in the eyes of those who seem to be believers that they are living in a world where perfection is not as easily prayed for as is thought of at first.

However, I have wandered into this particular minefield inadvertently and so I leave you with important words for a few very special people that hopefully read this and know it is meant for them.

Ama me fideliter, Fidem meam toto, Decorde totaliter, Et ex mente tota, Sum presentialiter, Absens in remota. Plus, since I promised my best friend I would never make her look up my Latin again, the English is “Love me faithfully, See how I am faithful, With all my heart and all my soul, I am with you, even though I am far away.”

I Haven’t Done One Of These Middle Of The Night Things In A Long While

Ironically, as I sit here at a quarter to one on a Saturday morning writing this, I have already been asleep for as long as I will be for the rest of the evening. I had a heavy-duty migraine come and punch me in the face about 5 yesterday afternoon and it knocked me out, nearly literally, until about a half an hour ago. While no one wants to say they are up for the day before it is an hour old, I actually got a decent amount of sleep and while not feeling totally rested, I sure as hell feel a lot better than when I laid down awhile ago.

It is nice and dark down here, two of my three children are sound asleep within ten feet of me and it is so very quiet. The chaos of one day forgotten as the buildup for the next slowly gathers form. Normally, due to the rather…gregarious…nature of the neighborhood I live in there is the beat of the music, the cacophony of voices and cars constantly moving back and forth down our little finger bone of a street here on the west side.

Social distancing has thankfully taken root in at least a large subset of the population here and they are doing precisely what it is they should be doing, absolutely and nothing. We stay inside, we stay safe, we #FlattenTheCurve and all the various hashtags that, while annoying to some now, hopefully, will become a memory of a darker time and not a constant thing that we are always shouting into the barren streets around us.

I never knew precisely how much I would miss outside. Y’all know I am nearly agoraphobic as it is. I suppose it is when I was told that I couldn’t, so at least shouldn’t, go outside that I realized how good I have it in that arena. I may not love to go out and do the things, but I COULD go out and do the things and now I am here and all I want to do is to do stupid things like go grab a drink in a bar with some friends, visit my sweetest people and go to the grocery store without hoping I don’t breathe in at the wrong moment from the wrong person.

I have been waxing poetic and getting philosophical about this for weeks now not because I am some great fucking guru of knowledge, but because if I don’t talk about it in the way my brain needs to talk about it I am going to have hundreds of those airplanes inside my skull crashing seconds after they take off and I am pretty sure that the absolute last thing I need right now is a complete nervous breakdown, strikes me as decidedly inconvenient. So I sit and I write and I keep my mind way from existentialism as much as I can and stay rooted in the world that I have decided to call real, even if that world involves some stories where I make up the laws of reality.

Speaking of which, my clever segue will take us to a story based thing.

I am very happy with what I have produced, at least in the fiction department, in the last few weeks and will continue working on things. My production will either skyrocket in the next week because the Eldest doesn’t even have distance learning, or it will plummet for the exact same reason. I am hoping for the former, but truthfully would not be upset by the latter.

So maybe I will go find a thing to do now.