Eat, Pray, Love

I am past the halfway point of this book, sneaking short reads at work on an e-reader device.  I actually love Elizabeth Gilbert's writing style.  Perhaps because I hear a lot of my own thoughts in her writing voice.  She is very skilled at taking a thought that is normally written in two sentences and spreading it out over two pages.  This is something I am striving for, but blogging formats aren't the best place for such a practice.

Peut-etre when I write my spoof of Eat Pray Love (which shall be called Sleep, Pray, Take Some Pills) I can streeeetttttch out my split second thoughts into two dozen paragraphs.

Je cherche un editor.

And an actress to portray me in the film adaptation.

Seriously, when Liz heads to the ashram in India and achieves an essence of divinity, I was thinking, "Holy Guacamole, that's what schizophrenia is like too!"

I was always told Mary Stuart Masterson should portray me in a film.  She plays, you know, quirky characters.

Autumn Days

Leaf-crunching footsteps and slight chills in the air.
Sweaters and deciding which weight of coat to wear in the morning.
Tall boots and the click click click of the steam heater switching on for the first time.
Salted caramel hot chocolates and soups and chili.

I do believe autumn has quickly won as favorite season in my heart.  Despite the mild illness that always takes over at the change of the season, I absolutely love the change.  That's what it is about autumn...the visible, tangible feeling of change.

I haven't been keeping up on the writing, and I honestly don't even think anyone reads this blog.  But for those who have found me, thanks for reading.  I want to resurrect my writings and focus on the craft of blogging in the chilly months to come.  So it is imperative that I find the time to do so. 

I promise to come up with some fascinating topics, treating each one as a school writing assignment.  I work well with structure.

Happy Autumn, everyone!

fin de l'été

i have been a terrible blogger as of late.  feeling generally uninspired.  booo!

i spent a lovely Sunday just the other day at the Maxwell Street flea market downtown.  i love perusing a buncha junk while sipping a bottle of pure cane sugar Coca-Cola imported from Mexico.  the food vendors were yummy and it is a great way to soak up a different culture or three to break the monotony from a boring, civilized life.  we also strolled through the shops in Wicker Park and sat for hours in a sidewalk cafe sipping mimosas and bloody marys and munching snacks.

after that sunny day, i am officially ready to kiss summer goodbye.

HELLO SEPTEMBER!!!!!

uplift

the long days of commuting and dead-end work and financial strain and 'being stuck' can be unbearable for a number of reasons.  for starters, one is not creating any new great memories to bank on during the hard days.

if one approaches each day with the idea that a New Memory Shall Be Created Each Day, then life is not thrown into the vast wastelands of what is called a RUT. this can be challenging with no extra money to spend nor access to those places and things that create new fond memories, but it can also be part of the game of spinning hope.

i recall back in my early twenties as adulthood fast approached being confronted with a plethora of ideas and options.  i certainly can't go back and take a different road, nor can i confront those who used me and my energies to their advantageous prosperity.  but i can take a deep breath and know not to make any further mistakes.  there is some sick sort of strength to be found  in that.  maybe even a sense of pity that those stronger than me contributed to another's mental downfalls and illnesses.  perhaps they feel shame.  perhaps not.

'it is not my fault.' that's what I'm trying to say.  i am not laying blame, but i am holding Those Who Were Stronger Than Me in my youth accountable for my terrible pitfalls.

the game-players, the never apprehended bosses, the tricksters of the 'art' world and even the doctors or practicioners who let me down rather than built my hope.

but i have a memory of climbing away to Paris and roaming those streets in solitude and thought.  i conquered the bullies of my yesterdays and didn't let them defeat me and Paris had my back 100%.  i picked myself up there and the universe brushed the debris from my back.  they didn't win.  i would never let them win.

Paris is no longer an option in my new life as hard-working wife and lower-middle class lifestyle in a beat-up apartment in Chicago.  but the memory i made there, the LIFELONG memory i made there will always pull me out of a funk.

we'll always have Paris, as they say.

ain't no cure for the summertime blues

Commute. Work. Commute. Veg out. Sleep.  Do over each day.

This weekend in Chicago hosts a myriad of events: Lollapalooza, various street festivals and parades, concerts, etc.  I shall be working and missing them.  C'est la vie.

Had a great visit with French relatives visiting my city a few weeks ago.  Always a pleasure being a tourist in one's own town.

Have put away the paints until the weather cools down a bit.  Have a hard time regulating the tempurature in my makeshift studio aka the Living Room during these humid months.  But I do plan to pick it back up come autumn.

Have been uninspired to write.  Also blame the humidity.

I could make excuse after excuse but my creative outlets will always slap me on the wrists.  Sometimes a little voice inside of me can really start beating me down to pick up the pen or paintbrush or guitar.  I try to listen to it, really I do.  But you know, those summertime blues.  Working all the time yet no money to take spare time and turn it into adventure.

The hospital and doctor bills have been weighing me down as well.  I have a pile of them sitting on the kitchen table and I pick them up every so often and pay a little on each one.  Major headaches and stress.


This, too, shall pass.  As they say.

Time for a song.

Maybe if I find some spectacular outfit, like, say, a cape, all the blues will go away.

Le Retour

it wasn't as glamourous as i imagined it would be.  my return to work, that is.  i had hoped for a triumphunt trumpet sound as i entered the building and a deluge of happy and promising thoughts from coworkers.

i was absolutely brain-dead today.  it was like walking in a haze, and not some majestic purple haze or anything of that nature.  it was more like a dulling, zombified glossiness of everything i came in contact with.  some coworkers offered support and praise, while others asked a million questions of 'Where Have You Been.'  I am always so careful to answer this question, while at the same time I find I want to educate people.

It's about building that filter.  There are those I can speak frankly too about goin' away to the crazy house and they can banter a few lines all their own back to me.  Then there are those who are still left in the dark.  The ones who ask question upon question and still not pick up on one's discomfort in reply.  But I shall manage this, just as I have managed two other hospitalizations and a total of FOUR 'breaks' now.

A break occurs in a strange fashion, almost like a panic attack but more intense than one could imagine.  it's as if life turns into Film Noir.  at least in my own personal experiences.  trust shifts, strangers are suspicious of me and I of them.

But this, too, shall pass.

And how could I possibly survive without these gems:

atmosphere & a return

i am looking forward to returning to an ordinary life come Monday.  being on medical leave for mind predicaments is not what one might imagine it to be.  it's NOT a vacation.  it's alarming to be faced with What To Do With Oneself With No Scheduled Routine.

but come Monday, I'll be back.

the thoughts in my head are atmospheric.

atmospheric.

fingers crossed this rotation of medication will be the cure for my schizophrenia.

fingers crossed.

a simple life

i don't know who reads this or who monitors my internet activity, but may i just say another prayer for a simple life?

one in which my mind is not afflicted by haunting voices and i don't have to explain mind hospitalizations to groups of people who pass judgment on me for being DIFFERENT!?!?!?

i can't even cry anymore.

where's my song?

Today and Everyday

I pray for a kinder and gentler public.  I pray that we will all try and understand one another.

It's really that simple.
Peace.

Je suis mon propre guide.

"I am my own guide."

I often think about the journeys of others, and while that may not always be a healthy activity, I do wonder about many-a-things.

Sometimes I wish I were Philip Glass so that I could compose all that must be said without actually having to say it.  My paintings I am working on are small and ordinary and do not properly convey what is inside of me.  But it's there, and I know it, and it has taken me a long time to realize that it does not matter if others cannot see it.

My relationship with God gives me great comfort.  I find myself alongside atheists and fanatics and opposing religions and righteous Bible thumpers each day and subsequentally feel my own relationship with God even more calming.

In the arena of Mental Health, there is a tendency among some patients to think they ARE God.  And conversely, there are actually some professionals within the field that may even behave similarly.  I still feel stress when I think about the admitting nurse during my 2nd round at the hospital and how JUDGMENTAL she was of me during my 10 day stay.  This was all based on the fact that I said something about 'not sure what to believe at the moment.'  She stood up and metaphorically spit in my face when I answered one of her examining questions.  My heart felt like it was going to stop beating at that moment.  And that is when I learned that Doubt was a metaphysical force.

In any moments of Doubt that I encounter in the future, I shall close my eyes and meditate on some of the purest moments I have ever felt.  I have encountered more than enough moments with God to make me a great believer that there is something beyond us....

Some people find this frightening and scary and too intense to contend with in their daily lives.  Not for me.  It is something that lives inside of me.

And I know that the 'delusion' of the Mexican janitor who came to talk to me in a waiting room of a hospital when I was all alone was merely there to comfort me in a time of need when he pointed to his name tag and it said "Jesus."  I didn't ask him to come talk to me.  He just simply appeared.  When I told him my story and asked him what to do, he answered me by throwing his arms around as if to lift the air up all around him.  He also was feeling a little down on himself for simply being a Mexican janitor and that nothing important or significant ever emerged out of Mexico.  I even counseled him and told him about Frida Kahlo and her important contributions to the art world.

So even if my mexican janitor friend was merely a clinical delusion that must be stopped with MEDICATION MORE MORE MORE MORE MEDICATION, I will NEVER forget him walking down the hall as I went on to write foreign alphabets on the chalkboard with fellow patients, looking back at me with a big smile on his face and waving...

Delusion or not, dear doctor, my imagination did not work entirely on my own to create that experience.

God is with us.  I no longer have any doubts about that.

I also think Jesus may have even had a comical side to him that people never knew about.  He is also a fantastic wedding cake designer.