I fell asleep on the love seat again last night, woke up at 1:30am and was awake all day until about noon, then I fell asleep for three hours. Felt much better afterward, surprisingly better, sort of gleeful even, eager to get up and get out and do some writing.But the morning was hell, one of those awful unbearable ones when everything feels hopeless and dull, when you are crawling out of your skin, when you feel nauseous and dizzy, when your skin is gray and toxic. Oil in the veins. Tar at the back of the throat. When you feel alone and irrelevant. You think, 'maybe in the new year.'Black thoughts.One of those emotional storms the eye of which is my despair, and whose centrifuge spins my mouth shut, threaded lips, sewn. In the whir of it, car parts, two-by-fours with nails in them, a barn full of hooks and knives, and a cow, maybe two, torn apart, split hides, blood and bone, their bodies torn apart by something as unanticipated as wind. Poor broken cows. Dirt in the eyes.A one-ton flatbed truck falls on your back. Glass in the corner of one eye.Nobody cares.But after the nap, I felt good, remarkably okay, wrote for a couple more hours, and now this, writing to you.How is such a dramatic shift possible? This cannot be normal. If I could turn down the volume on these emotional shifts, particularly the despairing ones, I think I could hook into life, find an angle, a loop to hold onto.
Put up signs for esl tutoring a couple of days ago and have already 'acquired' two students. I'm really happy about this, will try to get half a dozen students on board, which would greatly help my financial situation.Just emailed the academic adviser at UVic and set up a self-imposed deadline for completion of my PhD proposal (which I've decided will involve looking at film and literature over time). Deadline is January 4th. Aiming for summer or fall entry date. Maybe the fall because there's no way I could afford to go right now, but then, I've always found a way.I need this in my life right now, the big return to school. It's time to do the PhD.(I could in the future teach writing and film, no problem, would love that).I will write my books and poetry etc at the same time.I realized upon leaving my place this morning, (stepping into the sunshine, feeling remarkably good, woke up feeling instantly cheerful, after a night last night of total despair...the mood swings are just staggering, I cannot be clear enough on this point), that whatever I do, whatever my issues and problems are in this life, it is critical to me that I be successful. I just refuse to stop moving forward.Going to a tuba Christmas Carol concert in Market Square now.
Crashed on the couch last night, woke up all panicky, sweating even, cold palms, at 3am. I had been having the most awful dreams, nightmares I guess. One dream involved my ex-boyfriend's best friend spieling off a bunch of terrible things about me, only I was 'overhearing' this in the dream, was not present in the room. The things he was saying were the worst things I think about myself, from how I look to who I am. This guy, in real life, actually did something like this to me, only I came across it in an email he had sent to the aforementioned ex-boyfriend (who I had in fact broken up with recently). I was out of my mind crazy, paranoid (well, is it paranoia if your suspicions are later confirmed? cheating etc) and so found myself reading my ex's email from halfway across the province. I still knew his password from when we were together. And his best friend wrote of a recent outing I had had with him and his wife (who was a good friend of mine), and he went on about how I looked like I was pregnant I had gained so much weight, (and I had, although he was overdoing it in his description..I had gained maybe 15 pounds), but said maybe it was the loose T-shirt I was wearing, but that when I got changed later in the day, into a dress, I looked 'better.' I hated that little prick for that, that little Micky Mouse man porn surfing pseudo intellectual asshole. Well yeah, I held a grudge.So he was back again in my dream last night, revealing my worst faults.Then the dream shifted, I was back at my old job in the law department, my lowly clerical job working for big shot lawyers and deans of law and so on (the one prof who everyone warned me was a jerk was the one guy I really clicked with, isn't that funny)? People came to me if ever they needed something from him, I liked him right away. He was simply direct and didn't pander or bullshit. A lot of people have a problem with not constantly being socially consoled and having their asses kissed. I didn't really bullshit either so I think he liked me. He had me do all of his scanning and some correspondence for him. Hmmm, I miss that guy.Anyway, so I was back in the law department and the computer tech guy and I were talking, and he kept slipping in zingers, disguised insults, little stingers designed to covertly hurt someone. You know this type of person right? He's actually nothing like this in real life, but in the dream he hated me, clearly thought I was a loser.Is it really obnoxious to talk about one's dreams? I mean, literal REM dreams not "I dream of living the rest of my life at Disney Land." ??Some people think it is, but I don't believe that. I love hearing about what people dream. It's completely fascinating. So anyway, I meandered in and out of sleep and nightmares from 3am till 7am, and so it was not a good sleep again.I felt this pressing need to get the nightmares 'out here' so they couldn't linger inside me.That T-shirt comment from years ago really hurt me. It was after I read that comment that I lost about 40 pounds, was a loose size 4, was running average 70K a week, and hardly eating anything. It really took hold of me. I have been trying so hard to get back to that weight ever since.Have not had an appetite at all lately, which is sort of tricky because it's so easy for me to indulge in that and just not bother eating. I mean, I drank a glass of organic Happy Planet juice at 3am this morning, and I felt guilty about it. It comes and goes.Okay, well, looks like another beautiful sunny day out there.Things to do today:-Work on essay for a few hours. -look into volunteer work for working with street kids and women -do up notices for ESL tutoring -write at least the first paragraph of project description for school, don't make it harder than it has to beWhy do I feel like there's a hundred other things I'm forgetting to do?
I have been flirting on the surface of sleep all night, cannot seem to fall under entirely. Gave up just now and decided to blog. I've been more or less awake since 4:30am. So I 'got up' just now with burning eyes and nauseous stomach. Just put in eyedrops. Latest Allegra doesn't work at all. Only the Benadryl seemed to snuff out my allergies, but it's too expensive. Dammit.Woke up (before I opened my eyes) with strange calculations and ideas spinning through my mind. This has happened many times before; a litany of thought spins through, seems blazing, exact and correct, feels epic in its ingenuity. But later, upon rereading, it, that blazing litany, seems like folly (nonsensical gibberish).But none the less, I need to get it outside of me.Damn my eyes are allergic.Just had a major dizzy spell while sitting here typing (just a second ago). The brightness of this monitor in this otherwise dark room seems to be the thing making me nauseous, but it probably isn't."If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't." (Alice)Oh I never liked that big nervous rabbit. He made me nervous.So my rousing thoughts this morning as I lay there (or rather, here), trying to fall asleep:I'm drawing a blank.Ha. Ha. Just kidding. I could 'preamble" forever. This pun (the source of the forthcoming retroactive declaration) intended.So let's talk about forever. Everything is already and necessarily retroactive, and all of this is a preamble, even the thing which proceeds the preamble. The 'amble,' if you will.(This is why I love haiku. Haiku takes the infinite and makes it small yet astonishing).The symbol for eternity (mathematically speaking) is an eight turned on its side. I was never good at math, but I always thought math as a principle in itself should end with the sideways eight, or rather, it should begin and end with the sideways eight. What more is there to talk about and how many ways can 'it' be talked about? What's the point? What greater proof can be than this? All other numbers (ie, all symbols) should fall away.I woke up thinking about this. There was a striking point I wanted to make, but it's just beyond the bank right now. It will come to me, something about the mind flipping off a projector wheel, negative film, celluloid, flipping off the reel into infinity.No, it's all fuzzy now. Have I fried my brain? I would not have lost this when I was younger. I understand why (though I am far from being a mathematician...I would be the mathematician's nightmare, but he is also my nightmare) there is a consensus of sorts that suggests great math can only be created in a person's prime. Poetry does not see the point in math, and yet without math poetry could not exist, and vice versa. But poetry, unlike math, has no shelf-life; perhaps the greatest poetry is derived of a long life, maturity, and time.Infinity to the power of infinity minus one.Would not the first 'dot' in space have been regarded as infinity itself? No, this is wrong. Is the space surrounding the first 'dot' infinity itself? Or is it the space surrounding the space that surrounds the dot ithat is nfinity?This is the impossible syllogism.My mind goes back to that dot. The sideways eight feels excessive, an unnecessay flourish, a symbol that longs to be poetic but which is not poetic in itself, but rather it is a symbol through which poetry transpires, or a surface upon which poetry transpires, or the space surrounding poetry, or the sideways eight in the middle of poeticism.I once read about something called the 'anti-knot,' which, were it to be uncoiled, would solve the fundamental question of the nature of the universe. It's a theoretical knot, not a real knot. The thinking upon which this concept is based feels slippery, like a slippery fruit rollup. I want to eat it, but 'it' would kill me instantly.Is it the celluloid of thought flipping off the reel that is real, or is it the reel? Or is it the stuff surrounding the reel? Or is what's real the stuff surrounding the reel and the celluloid?To say something is unreal is antithetical to reason, and yet such a statement (well not the statement, but what the statement means) is a fundamental notion upon which philosophies are based.Even the unreal must be real, strikingly real in its un-real-ness.7:30am exactly.
The sky is violet, will brighten to blue.
The last faint star is out there, on the rise above the blue recycling bin filled with newspaper and empty bottles of rum.
There is a big fluffy orange cat curled up asleep on my feet (he is literally sleeping on my feet, stretched out across). I will try to slip down under the covers again without disturbing him. Wish me luck. He just meowed, a question marked meow. He speaks English in kitty vernacular. There is nothing I would not do for this animal.
The day before yesterday I was on a bus that drove by an accident scene; pedestrian down. The traffic slowed. There was an ambulance, police, paramedics kneeling by a man in the street (on Douglas, near Paul's Motor Inn), but the man was already covered with a blanket (or something...body bag? but it looked just like a white sheet) pulled over his head. He was a big man, appeared to have a big barrel chest, the heart attack kind of chest, or belly, the kind that means high blood pressure.A high risk barrel chested big bellied man reduced to a mound under a white sheet in the middle of Douglas Street.He was tall. His feet were sticking out the end of the sheet. Just those two feet, pointed to the heavens, to the washed out industrial sky, the kind of sky you choke on, the kind of sky that makes me think of empty wine bottles and gutters, serrated tuna fish can lids and fishing rods. I don't know why that is.I have a strange fuzzy memory of a muddy pond, bleak white sky, cold feet, fish bait (roe), and a hook and line.This man died on an industrial kind of uninspiring day that evokes in me the sense of a hook and line.No sinker.The bus crept by. I sort of lost my breath when I saw that body.That was the first dead person I've ever seen.
Oh I have so much to say about the American Music Awards this year. For now I'll keep it short with a few observations, but I'll pick up the thread later, and will likely include video feed and so on. so...-Favourite transitional moment during an acceptance speech:Germaine Jackson accepting an award (one of several) for his late brother, Michael."I'd like to thank Allah for blessing us....and I'd like to also thank Dick Clark....etc."-Carrie Underwood, country diva incarnate. Could she get any hotter? I mean, she's all country and loves Jesus (and maybe horses too?), she's a good girl no doubt, but her four- inch heels muddle the Christian good-girl stereotype. Is she supposed to be the blessed virgin or the whore? It seems the good lord has come a long way, thus allowing the blessed virgin-esque diva slash sweet country tart...to encapsulate the essence of both the virgin and the diva (whore is perhaps too much, when referring to Carrie Underwood but not if you are flailing scriptures around from a little town in southern Texas...or dueling banjos on the riverbank in the movie, Deliverance (God works in mysterious ways). Hmph.What would Jesus think of her hot pants?Excuse me for a moment while I go burn my bra, right after I fuck the football team.moving on....-Lady Gaga rules. I love her voice and her theatrical performances. Loved it when her piano caught on fire. She's a kind of popular culture savant who has something new to say and who could kick Carrie Underwood's little country ass.-Adam Lambert? WOW. I mean, I got the sense the audience didn't quite get the deeper message behind his performance, his deliberate exploitation of sexuality (lewd and crude but beautifully stylized...people are stupid), his commentary on bi-sexuality, and damn, that boy can sing. He's ahead of his time. If the planet survives, if humans survive, we will look back upon this guy as an oracle or a prophet. Mark...my...words....-I love you Whitney Houston.-Taylor Swift. What the hell?-MJ...RIP.
I think my mental health may be on an upswing these days, which I attribute to the steady flow of writing and working towards various deadlines, with some degree of success, at least in terms of actually completing projects (although calling writing a 'project' has never sat right with me, feels so 'corporate,' or something...), so yeah, why did I say it that way? Anyway, all I can do is write, complete it, submit, and hope for the best, learn from the rejections if that's what happens, and well, the acceptance rate for publication in your standard literary journal or magazine is (or was a few years ago), 2%.I'll use an essay, creative non-fiction, as an example here, also called personal non-fiction, memoir, true story, and so on... and there are so many interpretations of 'true' in creative non-fiction... Before we begin, a word on 'truth.'Forgive the following digression (but truth is not linear and neither am I):(no pavilion or doctor or man will make me believe otherwise)...Creative non-fiction is not status quo journalism or reportage. I would never venture to tell a story under the journalism mandate because it is, for me, way too limiting. I like to break rules. Truth emerges from lies, or from falsehood. Almost everything is a lie, even this statement. Therefore, truth emerges from this statement. Insert syllogism here:Truth emerges from Falsehood. (Almost everything, including this statement), is Falsehood. Therefore, Truth emerges from This Statement.A stems from B C = B therefore A emerges from C(Is that right?) fuck.Main Entry: syl·lo·gism
Pronunciation: \ˈsi-lə-ˌji-zəm\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English silogisme, from Anglo-French sillogisme, from Latin syllogismus, from Greek syllogismos,syllogizesthai to syllogize, from syn- + logizesthai to calculate, from logos reckoning, word — more at legend from
Date: 14th century
1: a deductive scheme of a formalargument consisting of a major and a minor premise and a conclusion (as in “every virtue is laudable; kindness is a virtue; therefore kindness is laudable”) 2: a subtle, specious, or crafty argument 3:deductive reasoning
— syl·lo·gis·tic\ˌsi-lə-ˈjis-tik\adjective
— syl·lo·gis·ti·cal·ly\-ti-k(ə-)lē\adverb
Life is one long syllogism. Or if you prefer, life is a quick fleeting syllogism.I like to make truth out of footprints and the angle of the sun against the side of a building and penguins, and so on.FACT is FICTION, even insofar as a noun (an apple) is only the essence of an apple as it is 'regarded' by each individual who knows what an apple is, or what it (the apple) is not. My step-son pointed out to me, using a whole different set of phrases than what follows here (he's only 18 and seriously smart) that as time passes, history evolves, therefore history and any element of it, does not and cannot, remain fixed. I love this.As the berth surrounding a fact, (and facts are so far off from true, it fucking kills me), *note built-in almost-a-syllogism, again, but I did not say facts didn't exist, I said facts are not true,* even that which surrounds a date in time, an apple, or World War I AND II, widens, so too does our understanding of said date or apple or war, and so on.My old non-fiction teacher once said, paraphrasing here, that as history evolves, World War I and II and all the wars in between, will not be regarded as separate wars, but instead will be regarded as one long enduring war. This is a man who revolutionized my understanding of writing, one Stephen Hume, the man who shredded, literally, cut up with scissors and re-attached with clear tape and held up in front of the class for all to see, a non-fiction piece I had written.Hey Stephen Hume, seriously, thank you for that. History is the thing which resides at the centre of things.History equals:PI R SQUARED(there is no pi symbol on this keyboard)...hmmm...I wonder if there are mathematical keyboards...there must be...OR: Everything is Chaos. Choose your radius and let us begin.This is history in the making.
Now getting back to the writing process and publication, and using the personal non-fiction essay as our subject, (and of course, I am basing the following on my own experience only), so here we go:-Writing of the essay from beginning to end: two weeks to a month, averaging 8 hrs. per week. So, 32 hours.-Administration (preparing cover letters or queries, licking envelopes, postage etc): a couple of hours, although apply an extra hour for every multiple submission.(so let's say 5 hours)-Waiting for the journal to get back to you: anywhere from 1 month to a year. (let's say 6 months)-Turnover time between acceptance and hitting bookstore shelves: 1 month (rarely) to a year. (let's say 6 months)-Payment: a $100 honorarium to $1500 (<-- ie. the heavyweights), OR some stipend in between, maybe $300 for publication in a good-standing typical Canadian journal.Total Time the writer spends in publishing one essay (writing the essay, submission, and waiting for its formal publication in a journal which appears on a bookshelf) = 12 months + 37 hoursaka1 year + 4 weeks + 5 hoursTOTAL TIME = 1 year, one month and almost a day Payment: probably $100
Main Entry: Sis·y·phus Listen to the pronunciation of Sisyphus Pronunciation: \ˈsi-sə-fəs\ Function: noun Etymology: Latin, from Greek Sisyphos Date: 14th century
: a legendary king of Corinth condemned eternally to repeat the cycle of rolling a heavy rock up a hill in Hades only to have it roll down again as it nears the top.
This journal tracks my mental health issues, with the broader goal of arriving at some kind of truth that transcends me and includes you.
