I don’t know what to write this morning, having missed posting yesterday, I’d hoped to be more focused, but it’s been a difficult week that sucked big time, and here I go talking about myself again. Somewhere in the deeps of the gnarly week that was I came to a clear understanding and acceptance of the fact that I have been out to sea for over a year now. I didn’t mean to set up a metaphor, but the sea is a good one. There has been a bit of using my bipolar disorder as an excuse to continue drifting, rudderless, careless, hopeless, and whatever other form off less-ness I can muster. Which brings us back to the gnarly week that was. It popped out of nowhere, but I recognize a proactive desire when I see one. Doing something about it or with it is a different song, melody, whatever. I see the psychiatrist today so I can ask her some questions about the hazy line between expressions of the mental illness and surreptitious behavioral patterns. That’s not a question for the therapist, who I see this coming Wednesday, and I say this because I am looking at the illness, looking intently, in a way that might reveal any subjective structural patterns that might operate as a drive train of sorts, that might just lead me to learn to ride the illness as if it were no more that a wave carrying flotsam, man-o-war jellyfish, and other less distinguishable things, and this all leads me to the possibility of becoming some kind of surfer dude of the soul, and do not doubt me when I say that it is my soul that aches first, then comes my heart, my head, the muscles, and them friggin old bones. Speaking of surfer dudes . . . ummm, Mathew McConaughy, dude d’you like ever get depressed and stuff? Let’s talk. Drop by the animal shelter a qui en Taos and well do lunch, k? The shelter could use a healthy donation as well. Dude, I’m serious. Come on down.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.