back in my day...

A few weeks ago I was given the opportunity to visit the town I grew up in: Manson, Washington. A tiny apple farming town on a beautiful lake, surrounded by snowy mountains. I have found my mind going back to Manson quite a lot lately. I remember how simple everything was and how easy it was to be happy. I am not sure if it was the town itself or my wonderfully enjoyable childhood, but I am beginning to realize it may not have been as simple and easy as I thought.

When I first moved to Chicago I thought this is where I belong. The big city. I thought I was cut out for a world of "culture," art, music, constant movement, noise, and people. I thought that I would never be happy in a small town again. I actually forgot Manson existed. Until this last year. I'm not sure if it is the fact that I am once again living in Washington or if I am maturing to the point where I am seeing my youth through a new lens, but I can't stop thinking about it.

Going "home" was an interesting experience for several reasons: the first being that I hadn't been there for about five years, the second being the fact that I hadn't been there with my sister in thirteen years, and the third being that I had the opportunity to bring my one year old nephew with me. It was a strange mix of youthful memories and startling realizations of maturity. I am not a child anymore, and it became blatantly clear the moment I started driving my sisters sleeping child past my old house. I felt very emotional, happy, sad, overwhelmed at the fact that I was not the kid asleep in the backseat waiting for my parents to get me home. I thought about how much I have been through since that moment. I thought about how much things have changed and whether my parents thought the same thing when they were driving me around their home towns.

I think one of the things that struck me was thinking about the complexities that I never noticed. I drove around a place that was so full of memories, yet with the feeling that I had never seen any of it before. I saw the poverty, the small shacks that generations of families lived in, and realized for the first time what it meant to live there. When I was a kid I didn't understand what it was like for the families of the kids I went to school with. I didn't understand the extent of the poverty or the wealth of the tourists that juxtaposed it. I am amazed at the things I never noticed. I was amazed at the beauty that I took for granted. I was upset by the new wealth and "summer homes" that surrounded my old house and playgrounds.

I suppose the point to this is that I'm still young, but I think for the first time I really understand what it feels like to be getting older. It was that moment where I could hear my eighty year old voice saying, "back in my day..."

tiny houses

like mother like daughter and other things...

It has certainly been a while since I posted anything. I am nearing the end of finals, and prior to this have been busy writing, editing, and rewriting everything from poems to long non-fiction essays to articles for some teaching magazine. I have one class left for the quarter so I'm beginning to feel a little less pressure. Tonight I have been glueing, folding, and sewing chapbooks which has been fun. I find it nice to make something visually artistic to go along with the words I write.

Tomorrow I head off to a conference on Washington's Hood Canal. It is at quite an amazing hotel on the water. Sometimes I feel spoiled traveling to all these hotels to speak, I hope that it is making some sort of difference worthy of all this luxury. I am looking forward to speaking at this one because I was lucky enough to accompany my mom last year as a guest, and I know a lot of the people putting it on, so it will be amazing to present to them! The picture was taken out of my hotel room last year.

It is really weird when I think about what I am actually doing. I mean, ever since I can remember I have gone to conferences with my mom. I remember coloring in the back of the room, playing "my little ponies" in the lobby, swimming with my dad in the pool. I always tagged along, meeting all kinds of amazing and important people. And now I present to them. It's really funny how sometimes life seems to put you in the last place you expected but the one you feel the most comfortable in. I can't even remember how many people have said, "the last time I say you you were this high..." Its an interesting position to be in, on one level I of course feel natural and comfortable because I have seen my mom do it so many times, and because I know so many of the people, or kind of people, listening. On the other hand I can't help but feeling like a child. Like the child that is still tagging along, just three feet taller.

It's really funny how life puts us in these positions. I never thought I would want to speak at conferences. I never thought I would want to do anything other than play music. Even when I was first diagnosed I never wanted to talk about bipolar, let alone become somewhat of a spokesperson for it. But now I am. And I am going all over the country talking about my illness and the need to help other people learn how to take care of themselves and maybe eventually speak to others as I am.

I don't know where I'm going with any of this, I think I'm just rambling because I'm still in finals mode and a little out of my head. Just thought I would drop a line to say hello. And tell you I'm not dead. I will write more from now on, hopefully when my brain is a little clearer. Goodnight.

a walk in the rain

Phil's Electronics

What do we choose to broadcast? What do we choose to take in? How do we negotiate our media as both individuals and a country. I often find myself having a hard time moving from the tvs in front of me, feeling like a child blinded and enthralled by so many moving pictures. Sometimes I just can't sleep.

(art by Chris Applehands)

Creation and the Lamictal High

Sleepwalkers

-Barbara Einzig-

The moon rises, a vengeance on anguish,

on my own arrogant privacy.

The hands of sleepwalkers,

of their own accord, rise, follow.

The ponderability of daily fatigue-

on wings consciousness runs wild,

transparent creations are flying,

they've heard the reflection of the moon.

It flickers cold, stingy,

not promising anything,

draws out of me distant art,

demands my agreement.

Can the torture and charm of its omens

be fought down, overcome,

can I make out of moonlight

a heavy, tangible object?

Having taken my pills, (a very high dosage of Lamictal, trileptal, and a normal dose of bcp,) and settled myself down to bed, I did the things I normally try to do to calm myself down after another day of breathing, I meditated and read a poem. This day was especially difficult because I was attempting to recover from a horrible cold, and I was also extremely worn down after having been at school for like 12 hours. So, as I was meditating my mind wasn't really slowing down, but instead fluttering more and more. When I finally stopped after about twenty minutes I realized that I should have taken my medicine until after the meditation process because I was really loopy and felt as though I had just had a night of heavy drinking. It was in this mix of exhaustion, frustration, and lack of mind coordination that I began having an amazing drive towards creativity and some form of inspiration. This however was not working out because I could hardly pull myself out of bed let alone make sense, so I went on with the night process and opened my current poetry book to a random page where I found none other then Ms. Einzig's Sleepwalkers.

Now, I don't know if I was just really loopy and read it one way and can never read it differently again, but all I can think about is creativity and inspiration, and how they always seem to come when I can't handle them, or can't do much of anything with them. I read it thinking "can I make out of moonlight a heavy, tangible object?" I was thinking why, why does creativity come when you don't want it? When all you want to do is go to sleep after a really freaking long day, or when all you are allowed to do is the never ending pile of work before you? I feel like it goes by the same rules as finding a lover: people whine and complain and go out to bars trying to pick someone up, but everybody knows that as soon as you stop looking you'll find them. Bam. Here's the perfect man you've been looking for. I suppose I could go even further and say that when I really didn't want a boyfriend I happened to realize that the man of my dreams was not only interested in me, but also moving half way across the country from me. But we all know how that ended up, Happily Ever After. (Thanks Josh.) So now maybe me and my creativity/inspiration will settle our differences and produce beautiful little creations. And maybe next time I will leave my computer next to my pillow to write that great poem, or play, or ideal piece of literature that I have been harboring deep down in some cavernous hole in my psyche only to be exposed through meditation and lots and lots of lamictal. I'll let you know what happens.

sometimes i feel...

like I'm in a Francis Bacon painting.

why is this for sale?

in honor of mr valentine, or i suppose, my joshua

This is something I wrote two years ago:

A couple cuddling on the couch, warm coffees in hand, are being intellectual, talking about things that aren’t really intellectually challenging but have a moderately impressive use of vocabulary. Another couple is doing that thing in the beginning of a relentless relationship when everything about your partner is overwhelmingly interesting. I sit here on a dirty couch wondering why all the lampshades are crooked. I sit and wonder about the use of vintage furniture and interchangeable art in the creation of the persona that is Gourmand. It’s February 14^th and somehow my relationship status has become more important than my impending piano concert. I am thinking less of Barber and more of boys. Less of Mozart more of men. It is time to live in music again and forget the urges of comfort. It is time to grow back into myself and understand reliability.

Today I sit alone in my living room listening to Beethoven's 7th Symphony, eating chocolate lava cake and drinking a glass of 1% milk. I sit here and wait for my amazing boyfriend to come home from work and think about the changes in my life since I found him, or even since we have been living here in Seattle. I think about the small things, the move to 1% milk as a compromise, and the larger things, like my ability to be happy alone. I sit here now waiting for him to get off work and for the first time in a while, or I suppose ever, that I feel okay being alone on Valentines Day. I find it interesting that even last year, when he had to work and I also spent the day alone, I felt alone and sad.

Why do we make it so important to find someone? To not be alone? I suppose that the reason I am okay being alone this year is the fact that I know he will come home to me just like every other night. But I think I have just been thinking and coming to terms with my understanding and thoughts on loneliness. In the past, when I was having constant struggles with my emotions, moods, and stability, I felt like I deserved to be alone. I thought that I would just drive someone crazy, or make them run screaming thinking that I am crazy. I used to search and search for comfort thinking that if I just had a boyfriend, if I just had someone to hold me and hold my hand when I fall apart, life would be better. But I also knew that I had that with my last amazing boyfriend Charlie, but for some reason my mind drove him away too, (or I did, he wasn't the one to leave.) I always had this conflict in my head over feeling needy and wanting to be taken care of and yet being scared and traumatized by my own patterns.

But now here I am sitting in our beautiful apartment, living a great life. And the best part is that I realized that I can handle life without him. I know that if I didn't have him I would be okay today, on a day where we are all supposed to be in love, or as most think, get laid. I would be perfectly fine and strong and happy. But it is through all of this that makes me know that he makes it even better. In my realizing that I don't need him I always realize how much I want him. And how amazing it is to have a relationship in which we are each our own completely independent selves who choose to be together.

to sleep is to dream

(Image by Chris Applehands)

I have been thinking a lot about rest lately, (if you haven't already figured that out by my last rant about doing too many things.) But I have been thinking about it even more because I haven't been getting very much of it in the last few months. I'm not quite sure what has gotten into me, maybe it is my medication, (lamictal and trileptal,) or maybe it is a small case of PTSD and my fear of something going horribly wrong, again, but I have been having horrible dreams, and horrible anxiety when it comes to falling asleep in the first place.

My dreams are almost amusingly obvious when it comes to symbolism, they have to do with me protecting an innocent child, (probably myself,) or me being attacked or gunned down, or murdered. It is amazing that my body, (though it was me in the past that was close to murdering myself,) remembers and almost prepares itself for some reoccurring trauma. When I think about how I am doing today I don't think about any fears regarding any sudden feelings of wanting to harm myself, but when my sleeping mind thinks about how I am doing it always seems to think otherwise.

Again, I think it is just my continuous process of recovering from the horrible things that I did, and wanted to do, to myself in the past. As for now, however I am keeping a look out for any new symbols or feelings in my frantic dreaming. I am also aware of the increasing pace of my thoughts and the increasing number of dreams, so being aware of past patterns I am also keeping an eye out for any increasing signs of manic behavior.

There is one form of comfort in all of this however, I know what to look for. And I'm not afraid! It's really quite amazing to be comfortable enough in myself and my ability to know my symptoms that I am not in the least bit afraid of mania. In the past I would have made myself manic just by stressing over becoming manic.