I am glad every day to "know" those of you kind enough to read this. I feel a real kinship with you, and I talk to you in my head sometimes. Creepy? Oh, yes.
I think at least half of my low mood comes from being between reads. Yes, I have read We Have Always Lived in the Castle and I absolutely love it, so if anyone can think of anything suitably Gothic and involving, do let me know. (I just read The 13th Tale too which, while lurid as all git-out, certainly provided a diversion a la Shadow of the Wind!)On second thought, maybe all this Gothic fiction is part of the problem...
And in AV: El. has strongly recommended The More the Merrier, so that's been added to the queue. I'd love a series, but sometimes I think there are no series in the world that will capture my imagination like the first viewings of The House of Eliott and Berkeley Square, respectively. How I envy people who have that treat in store! It must be like tasting sticky-toffee pudding for the first time.
Mood permitting, tomorrow M and I are going to see The Art of the Steal. Anyone seen it? I'm also interested in Lourdes and The Girl on the Train, but have a sneaking suspicion that I should wait until I'm in the clear, black dog-wise.
Monday, March 8, 2010
I tried, over the weekend, to really explain to my mom what depression - or being bipolar, or whatever - feels like. And I explained that it's more an absence, a void, than something definitive. There is no future; there is no access to happy memories; really, one becomes (I shouldn't generalize, this is how it is for me) unable to conceive of what being happy is. You lose all inner resources. Maybe it's what some would call the absence of God. When I am in this state, it's not that I want to commit suicide, exactly, because expending that kind of energy, and even feeling that intensity of emotion, is inconceivable. Rather, I wish to disappear, to evaporate, to go to sleep and not exist any more.
When I get better, it is hard to access these thoughts and feelings, which is why I am making an effort to get it down now. Indeed, in normal circumstances all this is unthinkable. Intellectually, it is repugnant to me. But self-disgust, at such times, is hardly helpful.
There is a good book on the subject, You Are Not Alone. I find its existence very comforting.
Perhaps it seems funny that I can continue to work, but having a series of small, achievable tasks to do is ideal, for me at least. It is not easy, and my work slows down, and sometimes I have to stop, but I think it's good to continue. It's very important to remember you are accountable to people, be they employers or doctors or whoever. I forgot an appointment with my psychiatrist today, which is the worst thing to do, but it's a bit of a catch-22 that way, since the will to treat oneself grows inversely with the illness.
M is wonderful to me. He brought me a carrot cupcake. He took me on a walk to a neighborhood in Queens to see an old house he likes. He read to me from a Robert Irwin book. And he made dinner of chard and leftover quiche and tomato-avocado salad. I can only resolve, in my mind, to make it up to him when I am able.
What I think of, all the time, is going to some kind of Magic Mountain-style sanitorium - pure mandated nothingness and rest and a total freedom from obligation. Can you imagine it? My mother says that's just running away. Of course it is: that's the whole point of the novel, after all, even if such places did still exist.
I always debate entries such as this since they are dreary and repetitive. But it's good to get it out, to put words to paper, and to stop the reflexive isolation I'm prone to. Besides, I always find reading such accounts comforting.
When I get better, it is hard to access these thoughts and feelings, which is why I am making an effort to get it down now. Indeed, in normal circumstances all this is unthinkable. Intellectually, it is repugnant to me. But self-disgust, at such times, is hardly helpful.
There is a good book on the subject, You Are Not Alone. I find its existence very comforting.
Perhaps it seems funny that I can continue to work, but having a series of small, achievable tasks to do is ideal, for me at least. It is not easy, and my work slows down, and sometimes I have to stop, but I think it's good to continue. It's very important to remember you are accountable to people, be they employers or doctors or whoever. I forgot an appointment with my psychiatrist today, which is the worst thing to do, but it's a bit of a catch-22 that way, since the will to treat oneself grows inversely with the illness.
M is wonderful to me. He brought me a carrot cupcake. He took me on a walk to a neighborhood in Queens to see an old house he likes. He read to me from a Robert Irwin book. And he made dinner of chard and leftover quiche and tomato-avocado salad. I can only resolve, in my mind, to make it up to him when I am able.
What I think of, all the time, is going to some kind of Magic Mountain-style sanitorium - pure mandated nothingness and rest and a total freedom from obligation. Can you imagine it? My mother says that's just running away. Of course it is: that's the whole point of the novel, after all, even if such places did still exist.
I always debate entries such as this since they are dreary and repetitive. But it's good to get it out, to put words to paper, and to stop the reflexive isolation I'm prone to. Besides, I always find reading such accounts comforting.
I went through a strange spate of sadness-induced madness the other day and untagged and erased all the Facebook photos of myself. Today, I put some of them back, so no one would think I was objecting to their photography.
The other night we went to a big party; I didn't wear my glasses for some reason and crashed into two drag queens, an otter and a bear. I thought I'd get the dancing started but no one else started dancing so then it was just me, dancing, by myself, in a jumpsuit. And then I didn't want the DJ's feelings to be hurt so I felt like I couldn't stop, and it all became very Red Shoes, or at least They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and wasn't really fun at all. At one point I varied things by dancing with a helium balloon, just to show you how bad it got.
The other night we went to a big party; I didn't wear my glasses for some reason and crashed into two drag queens, an otter and a bear. I thought I'd get the dancing started but no one else started dancing so then it was just me, dancing, by myself, in a jumpsuit. And then I didn't want the DJ's feelings to be hurt so I felt like I couldn't stop, and it all became very Red Shoes, or at least They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and wasn't really fun at all. At one point I varied things by dancing with a helium balloon, just to show you how bad it got.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Okay so I have two recommendations:
1. If you can (and in NYC, you can't, because yesterday was its final night) do check out In Search of Memory, the documentary about Nobel Laureate Eric Kandel. I'm not saying it's perfect, because it's not (the re-enactments...well, you'll see) but in parts it's fascinating and moving, too, and if I liked it you know the science is pretty easy to swallow.
2. The Roald Dahl Cookbook. I asked for this for Christmas after Simon Hopkinson gave it a shout-out in More Roast Chicken (which, like its predecessor, you should own) and have been holed up with it for the past three days. (I mean, when I wasn't working, walking etc.) It was published shortly after Dahl's death, and is as much a collection of reminiscences as a cookbook. Anyone who's read his memoirs - or, indeed, his fiction - needn't be told that this is a treat. Likewise, anyone who's read them knows about Dahl's keen love of food, chocolate especially, and can guess that the collection is both idiosyncratic and very useful - albeit in that peculiar British sort of way which requires a different set of assumptions. It's also a lovely portrait of his later years and second marriage (his wife Liccy co-wrote and executed) although one can't help feel a little bad for Patricia Neal, who's not mentioned once, especially knowing how Liccy was her best friend whom she took in etc. etc. etc. as the King of Siam (aka Yul Brynner) would have it.
1. If you can (and in NYC, you can't, because yesterday was its final night) do check out In Search of Memory, the documentary about Nobel Laureate Eric Kandel. I'm not saying it's perfect, because it's not (the re-enactments...well, you'll see) but in parts it's fascinating and moving, too, and if I liked it you know the science is pretty easy to swallow.
2. The Roald Dahl Cookbook. I asked for this for Christmas after Simon Hopkinson gave it a shout-out in More Roast Chicken (which, like its predecessor, you should own) and have been holed up with it for the past three days. (I mean, when I wasn't working, walking etc.) It was published shortly after Dahl's death, and is as much a collection of reminiscences as a cookbook. Anyone who's read his memoirs - or, indeed, his fiction - needn't be told that this is a treat. Likewise, anyone who's read them knows about Dahl's keen love of food, chocolate especially, and can guess that the collection is both idiosyncratic and very useful - albeit in that peculiar British sort of way which requires a different set of assumptions. It's also a lovely portrait of his later years and second marriage (his wife Liccy co-wrote and executed) although one can't help feel a little bad for Patricia Neal, who's not mentioned once, especially knowing how Liccy was her best friend whom she took in etc. etc. etc. as the King of Siam (aka Yul Brynner) would have it.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Quick Update
I saw a yellow lab on the subway bound for JFK then Haiti for search and rescue.
And
I thought the White Ribbon was super heavy-handed.
And
Why am I always the one stuck playing the tambourine with the old oom-pah band?
And
I thought the White Ribbon was super heavy-handed.
And
Why am I always the one stuck playing the tambourine with the old oom-pah band?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
I got so many kind responses from people on that last post - some, it must be said, of frustration from loved ones, but I think you guys know what I was getting at, yes? In any case, I want to talk about it more in future, and with permission, quote some of your remarks? You said some things far better than I could.
Weekend: Saturday I covered a Brooklyn wedding fair, which was a lot of fun and, while I alternated between despair (at the knowledge that I'd never have the energy nor money to give each one of my guests an NYC Moleskine notebook) and elation (at all the delicious samples and gorgeous flowers), it was extremely useful: Slim and I loved the old-fashioned camera setup one of the photographers had, and I like the picture of us enough that I will even show it to you, here.
And Sunday we did indeed get to Philly, packing a book on tape, to catch the Gorky retrospective at the Philadelphia Museum of Art which, you will be glad to know, does indeed sell a $500 foot-high sculpture of an exultant Rocky-in-training. The Gorky was okay. I mean, the exhibit was great, and if you're a fan, it's probably essential. I liked some of his early work very well, but the evocative descent into crippling depression and suicide was not really to my taste and probably not what anyone fragile-minded should see (along with Nick Drake's "Place to Be.") So I sort of rushed through the last two rooms and examined the thoroughly baffling exhibit gift-shop, wondering at the Gorky-print kimonos and long-sleeved tees (of the semi-transparent varietal favored by Julie on Felicity)and then overheard two older middle-aged ladies exclaiming over a little "make-your-own shrine" kit that came with a selection of little Gorky prints for one to, presumably, revere at home. "That just looks like a fun, creative thing to do," said one.
"And I don't need to use their picture," put in her friend. "I could use one of my kitty!"
"Absolutely," said her companion encouragingly.
We made it to the Rosenbach Collection with barely an hour to spare and so, said the eccentric docent with the chestnut-colored toupee, he would give his spiel in double-time. He was as good as his word. It was impressive, albeit unintelligible. I didn't get much time at all in the Mary Ann Moore room, which was really the purpose of my visit, but did manage to lie down on the floor and take a closer look at the slipcovering on this one sofa before we were ushered out. The room (which was recreated wholesale from the West Village home where she lived out the end of her life after Fort Greene became dangerous) is wonderful: equal parts family things, un-self-conscious mid-century and the animal figurines that friends gave Moore to accompany her fauna-themed poetry. Altogether cozy, elegant, full of personality and perfect for both intellectual spinster living and literary salons.
I was eager to either follow-up on a friend's rec of a nearby Turkish place or try out some dingy Little Italy joint, but Slim had his own ideas: he'd read about, and fixated on, some highly-dubious sounding spot that combined Peruvian and Chinese cuisines. He claimed this had a basis in historical, ancient trade routes, but I know Asian Fusion when I hear it. Nevertheless, it's rare that he gets so excited about a place, and I supposed I could stand to eat somewhere under 75 for a change, and plus we've never been to this "silk road" spot he's always wanted to try in Gravesend, so I acceded with poor grace and we found the restaurant pretty easily. Worst fears immediately confirmed: a red-lit bar, black-clad waitstaff, a youthful "professional" crowd and some low-pitched thumping music. I turned furious, accusatory eyes upon my dining companion, who said he'd "thought it would be more historical." We ordered - oh, did I mention it was "tapas-style?" - a selection of innocuous-looking stuff (which is good because we were perched at a very tiny laquered table) and Slim was dissuaded from getting some awful-sounding kimchee and crab empanada. I was, it must be said, extremely bratty, asking snidely if afterwards we'd be hitting some velvet-roped club and getting bottle service, whether he wouldn't care for a lichee martini, and to be sure and finalize that Buddahkan reservation for Valentine's Day. I was somewhat mollified by eating (I am furious when hungry) but maintain that the pork belly bun was a pale shade of Momofuko, that the lamb thing really could have done without that wasabi mayonnaise, and that, well, okay the shrimp ceviche was fine, actually.
Weekend: Saturday I covered a Brooklyn wedding fair, which was a lot of fun and, while I alternated between despair (at the knowledge that I'd never have the energy nor money to give each one of my guests an NYC Moleskine notebook) and elation (at all the delicious samples and gorgeous flowers), it was extremely useful: Slim and I loved the old-fashioned camera setup one of the photographers had, and I like the picture of us enough that I will even show it to you, here.
And Sunday we did indeed get to Philly, packing a book on tape, to catch the Gorky retrospective at the Philadelphia Museum of Art which, you will be glad to know, does indeed sell a $500 foot-high sculpture of an exultant Rocky-in-training. The Gorky was okay. I mean, the exhibit was great, and if you're a fan, it's probably essential. I liked some of his early work very well, but the evocative descent into crippling depression and suicide was not really to my taste and probably not what anyone fragile-minded should see (along with Nick Drake's "Place to Be.") So I sort of rushed through the last two rooms and examined the thoroughly baffling exhibit gift-shop, wondering at the Gorky-print kimonos and long-sleeved tees (of the semi-transparent varietal favored by Julie on Felicity)and then overheard two older middle-aged ladies exclaiming over a little "make-your-own shrine" kit that came with a selection of little Gorky prints for one to, presumably, revere at home. "That just looks like a fun, creative thing to do," said one.
"And I don't need to use their picture," put in her friend. "I could use one of my kitty!"
"Absolutely," said her companion encouragingly.
We made it to the Rosenbach Collection with barely an hour to spare and so, said the eccentric docent with the chestnut-colored toupee, he would give his spiel in double-time. He was as good as his word. It was impressive, albeit unintelligible. I didn't get much time at all in the Mary Ann Moore room, which was really the purpose of my visit, but did manage to lie down on the floor and take a closer look at the slipcovering on this one sofa before we were ushered out. The room (which was recreated wholesale from the West Village home where she lived out the end of her life after Fort Greene became dangerous) is wonderful: equal parts family things, un-self-conscious mid-century and the animal figurines that friends gave Moore to accompany her fauna-themed poetry. Altogether cozy, elegant, full of personality and perfect for both intellectual spinster living and literary salons.
I was eager to either follow-up on a friend's rec of a nearby Turkish place or try out some dingy Little Italy joint, but Slim had his own ideas: he'd read about, and fixated on, some highly-dubious sounding spot that combined Peruvian and Chinese cuisines. He claimed this had a basis in historical, ancient trade routes, but I know Asian Fusion when I hear it. Nevertheless, it's rare that he gets so excited about a place, and I supposed I could stand to eat somewhere under 75 for a change, and plus we've never been to this "silk road" spot he's always wanted to try in Gravesend, so I acceded with poor grace and we found the restaurant pretty easily. Worst fears immediately confirmed: a red-lit bar, black-clad waitstaff, a youthful "professional" crowd and some low-pitched thumping music. I turned furious, accusatory eyes upon my dining companion, who said he'd "thought it would be more historical." We ordered - oh, did I mention it was "tapas-style?" - a selection of innocuous-looking stuff (which is good because we were perched at a very tiny laquered table) and Slim was dissuaded from getting some awful-sounding kimchee and crab empanada. I was, it must be said, extremely bratty, asking snidely if afterwards we'd be hitting some velvet-roped club and getting bottle service, whether he wouldn't care for a lichee martini, and to be sure and finalize that Buddahkan reservation for Valentine's Day. I was somewhat mollified by eating (I am furious when hungry) but maintain that the pork belly bun was a pale shade of Momofuko, that the lamb thing really could have done without that wasabi mayonnaise, and that, well, okay the shrimp ceviche was fine, actually.
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