— interogate the passion fruit
— condemn the potato
— confront the wild dogs
— harbor the fugitive puffin
— eat locusts & honey
— dance in martian twilight
— watch dawn through obsidian
— breath with a lion's heartbeat
— hear the wind's muzurk
— know which way the wind blows
1.IX.03, Commonplace Book 2
today you'll sip the morning
you'll wear the afternoon in your hair
you'll eat the evening
the mist ponders your heartbeat
an owl meditates on your eyes
the sea breathes through your lips
i come to you as a supplicant
i come through my faded dreams
i light many candles
i rest on your bosom
you open your eyes
the song begins
From the archive,Commonplace Book no. 2
At the edge of fitful dreams
I pray for the trees,
trees in light, trees in dark
I pray for Saturn; and for the moons,
the many moons circling
the Spiro Mounds
I pray for you, my darling,
I pray for your smile
and give thanks for your laughter
14.VI.2023
I am full of worries, and have no peace
I am stressed by the noise of the world
My heart trembles, I fear & tremble
I call upon the Holy One
Morning, noon, and night
And put my trust in the Compassionate One
4.III.2023
Have you forgotten me?
How long must I be perplexed?
Give light to these dimming eyes;
Breath upon these stopped ears
And open them to your voice.
Yet, in my wanderings
I trust in your Word
And will direct my song to You.
From Psalm 13
21.IV.2023
Because I am not gay
I have no fashion sense:
I’ll wear white after Labor Day,
Bermuda shorts, and socks
with my Birkenstocks.
Because I am not gay
you won't find me on the dance floor;
I ain't got no booty,
and I don't know how to shake it.
If I have to dance,
I'll do the white man's overbite.
Because I am not gay
I’ll never love like a woman
or weep like the angels.
I won’t fully appreciate Edith Piaf,
Judy, or Babs, and maybe not
even Taylor Swift.
Because I am not gay
I’ll never know a woman
as a friend.
I’ll never look her in her eyes,
and not her bosom.
I’ll never embrace a man
whole-heartedly.
I’ll never be banned from the bookstores,
the library, the church, or the bar.
Because I am not gay
I won’t know the aroma of the pyre,
but I think I can smell the embers.
It all began Wednesday week. Which is to say, a week ago this past Wednesday, April 19. It was an up day. There was an issue of training that seemed would be helpful to the office, so I spent about an hour and a half creating a step-by-step guide, with screenshots. I confirmed with a few co-workers that the instructions were clear & understandable, and each one said it helped and thanked me for the effort. I then e-mailed the instructions to the entire office, most of whom are working remotely.
That felt pretty good.
The rest of the day was similar. I was hitting all cylinders, as I like to say. Then – an unpleasant experience at a local business, which need not be detailed here.
That contretemps had the potential of spoiling a very pleasant and energizing day. I thought I might break the spell by going to a potent temptation zone: a bookstore. The closest was Half Priced Books.
So, in I go, wandering the aisles — as is my wont. A gentleman was next to me in the fiction aisle. I looked professional (still dressed from work), so maybe that’s why he asked me: “Can you help? I’m looking for War of the Worlds.”
“Try science fiction.”
“Oh! Good idea! I didn’t think of that!”
A few minutes pass. I’m in a different aisle, a few yards north of the cash register. There’s a young lady - possibly a college freshman - and the gentleman hands her the book, and she thanks him. He notices me, points me out and says that I deserved the credit. She smiled; I nodded & smiled in return.
Purely by chance, I ended up in line behind her. She had three books — War of the Worlds, Of Mice and Men, and Huck Finn. I asked her why she was buying these (I had assumed they were school related). She said she was re-reading things she had enjoyed when she was younger, as well as some classics she’d been curious about.
I don’t know what came over me: “Well, if you like Huck Finn, you might also like Pudd’nhead Wilson. It’s like Prince and the Pauper, except the children are slave and free.”
She thanked me, and we each went our way. Oh, by the way, I bought two books from the discount section.
Now, back to that notorious anniversary: my church, St Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral, is about a block away from the original Federal Building. Our church experienced severe damage - the sanctuary was declared unsafe for use, and the congregation held services in the parish hall for about two years.
Two of our members were wounded; one worked in the Journal Record building, the other in the Veterans’ Administration, in the Federal Building. They shared their individual stories that evening, as well as their faith journey from that day to the present. This was also energizing, and uplifting.
So: I was wound up when I got home, a little after 8, and had a restless night. But Thursday went well, though I was punchy. Left work at noon, because a computer glitch prevented me from doing my job. Once I got to Norman, I changed into my lawn-work gear, and mowed Debra’s yard.
By the way, I had brought an impressive stack of books with me (mostly Neruda-related), which ended up piled on a chair in Debra’s living room.
I had a lot of energy through the weekend. I’d balance yard work with creative work with reading. But I was beginning to feel exhausted. I was not sleeping well. I haven’t had my average ~7 hours of sleep since that Wednesday. I felt like I’m running on adrenaline.
March was a challenge for me. As my Primary Care Physician (PCP) has put it, multiple stressors created a “perfect storm.” There’s the on-going stress of my job, the stress of loving someone also stressed (by a relative’s dementia), and the sixth anniversary of Brother Dave’s death. I reported all this in early March to my PCP, and indicated I thought I needed temporary pharmaceutical assistance. He agreed, and prescribed a generic formulation of Cymbalta ®.
At that same appointment, I wondered aloud whether I might be manic-depressive. He did a brief assessment - maybe five questions - and felt that my symptoms did not meet the criteria. And, since I have been going to work every day, and have not had any socially-unacceptable behaviors, I accepted that diagnosis.
By that Friday, I began to wonder if the heightened energy and mood was elevated as a side-effect of the medication. Happily, I had an appointment to see my PCP this past Tuesday. I reminded him of our previous discussion about the possibility of bipolar disorder. Given this more chronic expression of “mania”, he said it was possible I have cyclothemia (AKA, Bipolar Disorder III), and that Cymbalta increases the severity of the symptoms. He gave me permission to decrease how often I take my medication; I’ve been taking it every day, in the morning. For now, I’m skipping a dose every other day.
Yesterday was less manic. But I woke up with a sour stomach, and wonder if it’s adrenaline.
The story continues.
