All I can do is drink water, sit still and concentrate on breathing. Later, I get to go to work, where the A/C will finally be sufficient to relieve some of this horror. Until then, I write things in my head. It sounds fabulous, but I don’t have the energy to put the words to paper (or screen).

Even this has drained me.

–M.

News at 11.

– Mary

It’s been said that it takes 30 days to develop a habit. I don’t recall who said that or if it’s valid, but it serves my purpose. I’m trying to develop a habit of writing. It’s just as much about discipline as it is about balance. This is old news to me. Still, I’m struggling here, at the last moment, to get in a blog about virtually nothing before I have to go to work. This is not the sort of blog that fosters writing. Never mind how tedious it is for the reader. (My apologies, really.)

When I’m writing (sorry, writing), everything else in the universe falls away. Except, perhaps, a thesaurus and dictionary. I’d say it’s like going into a trance, but since I’ve never been in a proper trance, I really don’t know for sure if that’s what it’s like. I can say that it is the entering into a state single-mindedness and intense concentration. Time warps. It’s kind of cool.

When I was younger, I wrote poems that stunned me. I would find them a day or two later and have no recollection of writing them. I have a short story that I do not remember writing. It’s almost not even my style of writing. I suppose that should disturb or frighten me, but instead it thrills me. It’s a confirmation of something, even if I never know what. A falling into a spiritual trance? Demonic possession? Angelic possession?

This is why I’m back here, trying to bang out some writing before I go to work. I’ve got this pretty cool thing and I don’t want to lose it.

– Mary

Wearing a uniform is not really that bad. I never have to think about what to wear to work. I don’t have to spend money on “work clothes.” No ironing. No second-guessing if my neckline is too low or my hemline is too high.

On the other hand, I don’t get to express my individuality. Every work shift is like a lie. Uniforms inspire mediocrity, as we all strive to be only as bright as the most muted unit. Overshadowing another equally points up your strength and the other’s weakness; there’s almost a shame in not dragging up the weaker one. But what if you shine? What if you want to burn blue? You become the object of disdain. The kiss-ass. The creeper.

So I slip on the rags of mediocrity and am thankful I have a job. Maybe this is why I have trouble sleeping at night.

–Mary

Abnormal psychology has always fascinated me. I have a perverse need to understand what drives the minds of those whose actions are horrifyingly alien. Like many people, I can’t look away. But, perhaps like fewer people, I sometimes dwell on the other side — or try to dwell there — to truly see what they must see. Am I successful? I hope I never know for sure.

What I do know — what I understand that many people do not — is the view from both sides of a brain’s chemical imbalance. It’s a fascinating border. On one side there’s an impenetrable wall; on the other side the view is clear for miles. I spent decades looking at that black wall, knowing — knowing — I was looking at the indisputable truth.

Then, I was almost suddenly on the other side. Everything I thought I knew was wrong. The simplicity of the realization was stunning: it was always, and only, an imbalance. It was the sweetest epiphany I’ve ever had. I no longer needed to hold life at arm’s length for fear it would destroy me. Instead, I could pull it close and inhale every moment deeply.

Still, I recall how rational my thoughts had been. How logical I was. I suppose that’s what any other mentally ill person perceives, too. Everything makes sense. How can you know your reality is wrong if it’s all you’ve ever known?

It’s funny where these songs can lead you.

You think I’m psycho don’t you, mama.
I didn’t mean to break your cup.
You think I’m psycho don’t you, mama.
You better let ‘em lock me up.

– Mary

You think I`m psycho don`t you mama
I didn`t mean to break your cup
You think I`m psycho don`t you mama
You better let `em lock me up

Blog 1:

The house is a mess. I had three days off in a row and I lounged instead of cleaning. Do I feel bad? A little. But I can forgive myself. What I am struggling with forgiveness-wise is that I’ve taken no action on a short story I started several years ago. Over the past two weeks I’ve half-asleep plotted the ending, but I haven’t written a word. I haven’t even located the Word file.

For Valentine’s Day, I would like a heart-shaped cattle prod that compels the proddee to write. Maybe I should call it a Writer Prod instead of a cattle prod. Or maybe a Lazy-Ass Should-Be Writer Prod.

Because that’s probably an unrealistic request, I am reaching out to friends who are writers and artists to kick me in the butt. I am also going to read Patti Smith’s book, Just Kids, which was delivered on Saturday. I just have to find some way to see the type. Reading glasses are well overdue.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Well, that was a boring blog. Better luck tomorrow.

– Mary

Any suggestions?

But doesn’t it look pretty!

Today I get to dig out of the snow and go to work. Why would I go to work? Because lots of crazy people want to go to the movies.

Let’s see if facebook picks up this post.

– Mary

– Mary

PS – I’m pretty sure facebook won’t pick up this post either. POS.