the 48 hrs i'd predicted before The Crash ended up being about 20. by late last week i was in a bleak state. i'd been having panic attacks with increasing frequency over the last several months, but almost always at night, when trying to fall asleep, left alone with my mind. i can feel my moods -or rather, the precipitous onslaught of the moods- 'come on' like hearing the sound of a trsin from far away (stupid cliche), or birds vacating the wires minutes before an earthquake. and i knew this 'episode', if you will, was going to be ugly. i found myself crying uncontrollably whilst driving, snarling at people who didn't deserve it, not even fucking caring how i was sabotaging my world.
on saturday i arrived at work and had an attack. crying hysterically, hyperventilating, unable to say anything but 'i'm so sorry, i'm so sorry' to the coworker who was kind enough to help me. thank fuck this all happened behind closed doors, before i was clocked in, away from everyone else. mortifying. terrifying. fucking disgusting. i left. i drove around for about 2 hours in the muggy suburbs, chain-smoking, eyes swollen, a somnambulous stranger to myself.
but it was what needed to happen. after a few hours, after sitting in a park and whining to s about my non-issues, i felt normal again. mellow. rather tired. the storm, as they say, had passed.
until next time. (usually this happens in roughly 3-week cycles, varying degrees of intensity; i can predict it fairly accurately.)
is this manic-depression?
or am i, as i have suspected all along, just a fucking daft cunt with no presonal control, maturity, sense of perspective, or ability to ovverride my impulses?
*
i was blithely diagnosed 'manic-depressive' several years ago. went on meds for a few months. didn't help, just made me even more depressed. i blame that era on the concurrent bullshit going on in my personal life. and i don't believe in mood meds anyhow; i find them ethically abhorrent, a grotesque byproduct of a vapid culture that has ceased to properly understand itself.
...but the main reason i went off the meds: i missed the highs. the highs are what i fucking live for. they make me able to regard the 'lows' with the clinical indulgence of a doting counselor, a counselor examining this strange and annoying creature called brynn. the highs let me feel witty and creative and alive, tipsy without alcohol, awake without sleep. the highs justify the lows, except when the lows are actually happening.
things, obviously, are better now.
i talked to HR on sunday. she was incredibly cool. 'you are in good company here' she said. 'i have anxiety issues. at least 5 other people i can think of here are on meds for the same thing.' i was so fucking afraid that i would be seen as an unstable dipshit, not worthy of my job. 'you're going through a lot of crap right now' she said. 'it's a lot to handle. just let us know if you need anything.'
i was 200mph-hellbent on leaving seattle on saturday. moving everything. starting over. new career, living in squalor, just as alone but in more novel surroundings. it was my way, in that mindset, of saying FUCK YOU to MS, my past, everyone else who was moving on, the relentless drizzle, the boredom. but obviously, what i really needed, and what i got when i least expected it, was proof that people actually give a shit after all, even when i completely do not warrant their shit-giving.
and i am fucking grateful. and, still, a bit disbelieving. the crazy part of me has never been able to fully trust kindness.
anyway, enough of that.
*
the motherboard on my computer is completely fucked up. "just get a new computer" the guy told me. he estimated the laptop at about 9 years old. "haven't seen one of those in a long time" he said. and then he laughed.
i drove to shelton today. twas a meandering route. i haven't been here in years. my library card is still valid. what a fucking sad town: in a valley, surrounded by clearcut swaths, tract housing, rusted vehicles and logging trucks. everyone looks miserable. i could not remember where the library was. the markers along the road are all for churches, which i have never seen the likes of before; they mark churches the way most places indicate town halls, courthouses, et al. there was a store on the way into town called "cindy's dog magic". it was closed. a faded mural of a rooster yelling 'taxi!' on the side of a fried-chicken restaurant. a still-functioning drive-in theater, showing a movie i have never heard of.
a woman at the library just came up to me with a phone she;d found. it was ringing and she couldn't figure out how to answer it. i answered it for her; the caller was the owner. she's still talking to him. that just made my day. people are good.
*
one last thing: i'm starting avonex. a drug rep meets with me in the next few weeks to teach me how to inject myself. i am happy with my decision; it will be nice to exert a semblence of control over what is essentially the core of the aforementioned anxiety. my reticence thus far, other than denial, has been due to the potential side effects: flulike symptoms, liver issues, and... depression!
life, you alluring mistress, do not taunt me so. i should so rather be coming than going.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
fuck yeah
my archaic computer went completely tits-up; it has a virus that makes it impossible to do anything on, and i don't have the patience to toy with it. this is a damn shame, since otherwise i would be posting MY PHOTOS OF THE RACONTEURS!
they were fucking awesome! again. of course.
small venue; i was about 15' away, surrounded by tall guys who knew all the words. 'your blue veins' was much dirtier. 'salute your solution' had everyone jumping. even the shitty sound quality didn't mar the experience. it has led to a mental high that i am still being swaddled in, 18 hrs later, despite the incessant ringing in my ears. it almost made up for the cancelled white stripes tour, of which i still have the ticket for, carefully tended in my wallet- a $50 souvenir.
...now that phish is defunct, it is nice to have another band that i can love while they exist- and, i might add, another band that i am rather embarrassed to admit liking. the white stripes and the raconteurs have been the soundtrack to the last 6 years of my life, consistently.
the only song they didn't play that i wanted to hear: 'together', my schmaltzy '70's-stoner ballad of happiness. but i saw them do it last time.
the fucking nerd shall stop regressing into 12yr-oldy idolation now.
*
before the concert i walked through the rain to the st ignatius chapel at seattle u. it is a marvel of serenity, difficult to maintain an atheistic outlook within. the building radiates kindness- i can think of no more appropriate term. i was the only one there. outside the main chapel is a book of prayers/thankfulnesses that i spent a while reading. some were very fucking poignant; one, in small handwriting, said "please help me. i am so scared." someone else, in feminine script, wrote below it "it will be okay. i am praying for you." the place was softly silent, ambiently lit in shades of ochre; i thought very clearly: "i love my species."
it has been ass-cold for the last month, roughly 10-15 degrees below normal. it snowed/hailed/sleeted/thundered for the previous 4 days. all the daffodils are shriveled and the big tulip fandango in skagit county has been delayed by weeks. trees that should be covered in blossoms are brown and depressing. today is the first in a while over 50 degrees-
tis been a goddamn good week in general. met up with people i hadn't seen in months. played centipide for the first time. was kissed by an adorable boy. finally read 'sybil' (horrifying, terrible, great; i'd had it hidden on my shelf since it looked like a pulpy piece of shit, but fuck. i read it in 2 days. no, i have not seen the movie.) good review at work. and, like, bands.
i'm secreting inanity.
the pendulum is way too high. i give it 48 more hours, max.
they were fucking awesome! again. of course.
small venue; i was about 15' away, surrounded by tall guys who knew all the words. 'your blue veins' was much dirtier. 'salute your solution' had everyone jumping. even the shitty sound quality didn't mar the experience. it has led to a mental high that i am still being swaddled in, 18 hrs later, despite the incessant ringing in my ears. it almost made up for the cancelled white stripes tour, of which i still have the ticket for, carefully tended in my wallet- a $50 souvenir.
...now that phish is defunct, it is nice to have another band that i can love while they exist- and, i might add, another band that i am rather embarrassed to admit liking. the white stripes and the raconteurs have been the soundtrack to the last 6 years of my life, consistently.
the only song they didn't play that i wanted to hear: 'together', my schmaltzy '70's-stoner ballad of happiness. but i saw them do it last time.
the fucking nerd shall stop regressing into 12yr-oldy idolation now.
*
before the concert i walked through the rain to the st ignatius chapel at seattle u. it is a marvel of serenity, difficult to maintain an atheistic outlook within. the building radiates kindness- i can think of no more appropriate term. i was the only one there. outside the main chapel is a book of prayers/thankfulnesses that i spent a while reading. some were very fucking poignant; one, in small handwriting, said "please help me. i am so scared." someone else, in feminine script, wrote below it "it will be okay. i am praying for you." the place was softly silent, ambiently lit in shades of ochre; i thought very clearly: "i love my species."
it has been ass-cold for the last month, roughly 10-15 degrees below normal. it snowed/hailed/sleeted/thundered for the previous 4 days. all the daffodils are shriveled and the big tulip fandango in skagit county has been delayed by weeks. trees that should be covered in blossoms are brown and depressing. today is the first in a while over 50 degrees-
tis been a goddamn good week in general. met up with people i hadn't seen in months. played centipide for the first time. was kissed by an adorable boy. finally read 'sybil' (horrifying, terrible, great; i'd had it hidden on my shelf since it looked like a pulpy piece of shit, but fuck. i read it in 2 days. no, i have not seen the movie.) good review at work. and, like, bands.
i'm secreting inanity.
the pendulum is way too high. i give it 48 more hours, max.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
nectar on my calyx
the first discarded television of the season!
it was warm enough today to briefly shed my jacket and walk uphill with my sleeves pushed up. i needed the optimism of spring more than i realized.
so i went to my happy place, the conservatory at volunteer park. i have several happy places- that is, locales. this one, unfortunately, has fairly limited hours. i got to play with the macro on my camera.
a fabulous succulent, encroaching:
cupping a willing fern:
an extraordinarily phallic vessel, dangling at eye level, filled with water. i believe it is called something prosaic like 'water jug plant'- the pendulous part is about a foot long, tethered by thick vines.
and an especially sexy, sexy flower.
it was warm enough today to briefly shed my jacket and walk uphill with my sleeves pushed up. i needed the optimism of spring more than i realized.
so i went to my happy place, the conservatory at volunteer park. i have several happy places- that is, locales. this one, unfortunately, has fairly limited hours. i got to play with the macro on my camera.
a fabulous succulent, encroaching:
cupping a willing fern:
an extraordinarily phallic vessel, dangling at eye level, filled with water. i believe it is called something prosaic like 'water jug plant'- the pendulous part is about a foot long, tethered by thick vines.
and an especially sexy, sexy flower.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
just like there, but i am here
i am fundamentally american. i smile too frequently, i laugh too raucously. i listen to the melodies before interpreting the lyrics. i want things done immediately, at my convenience. i take hot showers and never allow myself to run out of toilet paper. i have animals for pleasure, plants for aesthetic beauty, and all manner of knickknacky clutter. i expect stores to be open 24 hours, an exposed arm to not attract attention, the ability to operate a vehicle and be employed and curse loudly and receive sanitary medical care and have sex for mere enjoyment. i love idioms and bumper stickers and sarcasm and emotions and being able to, however abashedly, skate through life with a veneer of vapid comprehension without fact-based intellect.
*
was just squirreled away at the odious chain bookstore, reading 'expat' whilst drinking a grossly corporate drip coffee out of a wasteful paper cup. 'expat' is a collection of women's experiences living elsewhere... obviously... and it clarified for me how, every time i have travelled to other countries, i have done so as an American, having my American Experience, filtering these new environments through an onlooker's interpretation and never becoming part of my surroundings. most of my time spent in france (that being my longest time in any 'foreign' place), for example, involved writing in my journal, introverted, creating my own universe, thinking of how i would describe what i'd seen or heard to friends back home. i blame most of that on my inability to communicate. i would be sitting on the beaches of the meditteranean, marvelling at the lack of vegetation and seagulls, admiring how people carry themselves, the way everyone has a calm assurance, smelling the lavender/kabob/galoise blanc/piss patina that would waft along on a single inhalation no matter where i was- and when i was approached by a local, i could only muster "oui, la mere est tres jolie." my american sensibility of "if it's not easy and instantaneous, it doesn't need to happen" tainted what should have been a much richer everything. that is merely one example.
my lifelong 'je voudrais habiter a paris' fantasy involves me, sequestered in a grimy room, writing the most devastatingly fucking beautiful novel ever. in english. about someone like me. writing it alone. in france. still not taking anything in, just letting the rest of the world riccochet off of me.
this isn't a fantasy in this respect. it is the horrid reality i fear i would allow it to become. and it's the largest reason (the other dissentions are rooted in practicality) why i haven't done it.
about a year ago i spoke with b for the first time since he left. i didn't recognise his voice at all. there was no sense of anything. i felt a vile emptiness, as if part of my life had never fucking mattered, had never existed at all- one should, at the very least, be able to remember, be able to relive some sort of sensation towards someone one was married to, in love with, believed in, slept beside every night- but there were, and are, only vague and dismissive anecdotes.
"you sound so american" he said. the scorn in his voice was palpable.
"i am american" i replied. and so are you, you pretentious west texan fuck, i thought. but i didn;t say it. and it still annoys me: that he said it and i didn;t, that i still had the ability to let this stranger make me react.
there comes a point when you have to stop running and revel in what you are and what you have. this is only just becoming blatant to me; i am learning to stop snorting contemptuously at such cliched treacle.
no edit.
*
was just squirreled away at the odious chain bookstore, reading 'expat' whilst drinking a grossly corporate drip coffee out of a wasteful paper cup. 'expat' is a collection of women's experiences living elsewhere... obviously... and it clarified for me how, every time i have travelled to other countries, i have done so as an American, having my American Experience, filtering these new environments through an onlooker's interpretation and never becoming part of my surroundings. most of my time spent in france (that being my longest time in any 'foreign' place), for example, involved writing in my journal, introverted, creating my own universe, thinking of how i would describe what i'd seen or heard to friends back home. i blame most of that on my inability to communicate. i would be sitting on the beaches of the meditteranean, marvelling at the lack of vegetation and seagulls, admiring how people carry themselves, the way everyone has a calm assurance, smelling the lavender/kabob/galoise blanc/piss patina that would waft along on a single inhalation no matter where i was- and when i was approached by a local, i could only muster "oui, la mere est tres jolie." my american sensibility of "if it's not easy and instantaneous, it doesn't need to happen" tainted what should have been a much richer everything. that is merely one example.
my lifelong 'je voudrais habiter a paris' fantasy involves me, sequestered in a grimy room, writing the most devastatingly fucking beautiful novel ever. in english. about someone like me. writing it alone. in france. still not taking anything in, just letting the rest of the world riccochet off of me.
this isn't a fantasy in this respect. it is the horrid reality i fear i would allow it to become. and it's the largest reason (the other dissentions are rooted in practicality) why i haven't done it.
about a year ago i spoke with b for the first time since he left. i didn't recognise his voice at all. there was no sense of anything. i felt a vile emptiness, as if part of my life had never fucking mattered, had never existed at all- one should, at the very least, be able to remember, be able to relive some sort of sensation towards someone one was married to, in love with, believed in, slept beside every night- but there were, and are, only vague and dismissive anecdotes.
"you sound so american" he said. the scorn in his voice was palpable.
"i am american" i replied. and so are you, you pretentious west texan fuck, i thought. but i didn;t say it. and it still annoys me: that he said it and i didn;t, that i still had the ability to let this stranger make me react.
there comes a point when you have to stop running and revel in what you are and what you have. this is only just becoming blatant to me; i am learning to stop snorting contemptuously at such cliched treacle.
no edit.
Monday, April 07, 2008
a fortnight, condensed
this may belie the fact that it was 40 degrees outside and blowing rain sideways:
a lamppost in fremont, after the monthly poster removal.
a fitting electric candle, out of focus on the bar at bleu.
'twas a daylong clusterfuck to post these. more soon... (undoubtedly more bombastic)
a lamppost in fremont, after the monthly poster removal.
a fitting electric candle, out of focus on the bar at bleu.
'twas a daylong clusterfuck to post these. more soon... (undoubtedly more bombastic)
Saturday, April 05, 2008
i'm already home
last night j and i went to the r crumb exhibit. i was waiting for him in the vestibule, playing with my camera, oblivious to my surroundings- and looked up to see a fishnetted ass pointing at me, undulating clumsily to gnarls barkley: interpretive dance by a woman dressed as 'devil girl.' i almost started to laugh, but went outside instead. the array of art was impressive- rough drafts on ruled paper, visible pencil lines- and one in particular, a strip from the early 70s of a charlatan hippie 'leader' convincing the lambs that the way to enlightenment is by sucking his dick and "transferring life", then stabbing them in the back as he's coming, and all his followers raving about how transcendent an experience it is to witness- was amazingly daring and disturbing as fuck. but then... more performance art. i am not a fan of aw-shucks overacting, and luckily j isn't either, so we left.
*
every woman should read "this is who i am", the new book of photographs of women's bodies with a caption by each. the letter from the mother to her two daughters almost made me cry. i thought "why didn't my parents ever spell it out so explicitly? why is self-respect something you are forced to learn by default?" this was thursday. afterwards i went to the pioneer square artwalk, drinking bottom-shelf free wine from plastic cups, especially fond of a ($750) tapestry of a woman being vaginally taken by a bright pink octopus.
the spaces i saw in one labryinthine building reminded me of the environment i'd always imagined for myself as a kid. brick walls, sloping wood floor, exposed pipes, huge industrial windows looking out onto the twilit viaduct. sills covered with succulents. oriental rugs underneath filthy sawhorses. indigenous music and half-finished paintings. i felt a flutter of relief that my dreams weren't so unrealistic after all, since here they are, being ably utilised, albeit not by me- and briefly, but incredibly sad, resigned, and jealous.
a cheap-wine buzz floated me outside, where it was starting to drizzle and the lights seemed especially lovely. everyone i passed smiled back.
*
every woman should read "this is who i am", the new book of photographs of women's bodies with a caption by each. the letter from the mother to her two daughters almost made me cry. i thought "why didn't my parents ever spell it out so explicitly? why is self-respect something you are forced to learn by default?" this was thursday. afterwards i went to the pioneer square artwalk, drinking bottom-shelf free wine from plastic cups, especially fond of a ($750) tapestry of a woman being vaginally taken by a bright pink octopus.
the spaces i saw in one labryinthine building reminded me of the environment i'd always imagined for myself as a kid. brick walls, sloping wood floor, exposed pipes, huge industrial windows looking out onto the twilit viaduct. sills covered with succulents. oriental rugs underneath filthy sawhorses. indigenous music and half-finished paintings. i felt a flutter of relief that my dreams weren't so unrealistic after all, since here they are, being ably utilised, albeit not by me- and briefly, but incredibly sad, resigned, and jealous.
a cheap-wine buzz floated me outside, where it was starting to drizzle and the lights seemed especially lovely. everyone i passed smiled back.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
settle down!
discovered a fabulous new site today. ich liebe das krauten.
http://pundo3000.com/werbunggegenrealitaet3000.htm
it reminded me of this one:
http://www.thewvsr.com/adsvsreality.htm
i don't often eat prepackaged meals- never frozen shit- but i am also one to eat soup cold, out of the can, with a fork, so anything i have to say about culinary matters is bullshit and should be treated as such. but i work with a lot of people (that is, everyone there) who rely on microwavable sustenence. things i have noticed over the years:
-i have only met one person who takes her food out of the package after it is cooked and plates it, as if it is an actual meal
-guys use paper towels as plates far more frequently than womenfolk (especially true with microwave burritos)
-most common: guys- aforementioned burritos, the huge flaccid ones seen in the convenience store cooler. doctors- annie's naturals. chicks- smart choices/healthy whatever/lean cuisine- ALWAYS the "diet" variety.
what do i eat at work? whatever candy is there. yesterday there were jelly bellies. i fucking LOVE those- they are on the list, along with (dry, unadulterated) cinnamon toast crunch and (dry, unadulterated) golden grahams, of foodstuffs i am helpless over. the best jelly bellies: coconut, popcorn (original and caramel), root beer, kiwi, the green one with the blue flecks that tastes like freshly mown grass, blackberry, oh what am i saying? they are ALL delicious and extraordinary in their teenily-encapsulated flavor bombast; it is easier to cite the ones i always toss: peanut butter, most of the fruity ones, chocolate, tutti-frutti, peppermint. the ugly colors.
*
i got on a tangent there.
*
am now distracted by the odd look of "tangent"; it looks misspelled. tangant? no.
http://pundo3000.com/werbunggegenrealitaet3000.htm
it reminded me of this one:
http://www.thewvsr.com/adsvsreality.htm
i don't often eat prepackaged meals- never frozen shit- but i am also one to eat soup cold, out of the can, with a fork, so anything i have to say about culinary matters is bullshit and should be treated as such. but i work with a lot of people (that is, everyone there) who rely on microwavable sustenence. things i have noticed over the years:
-i have only met one person who takes her food out of the package after it is cooked and plates it, as if it is an actual meal
-guys use paper towels as plates far more frequently than womenfolk (especially true with microwave burritos)
-most common: guys- aforementioned burritos, the huge flaccid ones seen in the convenience store cooler. doctors- annie's naturals. chicks- smart choices/healthy whatever/lean cuisine- ALWAYS the "diet" variety.
what do i eat at work? whatever candy is there. yesterday there were jelly bellies. i fucking LOVE those- they are on the list, along with (dry, unadulterated) cinnamon toast crunch and (dry, unadulterated) golden grahams, of foodstuffs i am helpless over. the best jelly bellies: coconut, popcorn (original and caramel), root beer, kiwi, the green one with the blue flecks that tastes like freshly mown grass, blackberry, oh what am i saying? they are ALL delicious and extraordinary in their teenily-encapsulated flavor bombast; it is easier to cite the ones i always toss: peanut butter, most of the fruity ones, chocolate, tutti-frutti, peppermint. the ugly colors.
*
i got on a tangent there.
*
am now distracted by the odd look of "tangent"; it looks misspelled. tangant? no.
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