GIDDYAP

late in the afternoon. re-reading some old blog posts before i started on the meds – kind of missing the waves, the energy of a good writing jag. brent warned me about this. “you don’t have to be down, or up, to be creative,” he said.

yeah, ok. maybe i don’t. but it’s just so much easier when you’re riding that fast horse, racing to keep up with the impending train wreck of stream-of-consciousness mania.

i have wondered for years why i can’t remember so much of my life. and not just things i’m aware of having forgotten, you know, like why don’t i remember that cast party (oh yeah i was shithoused drunk, that’s why). my friends regularly remind me of things i did or said years (or even months) ago that i doubt even happened. i do trust them, though. given the amount and nature of drugs i took recreationally in college and in the years immediately following, it does not surprise me that such anecdotes are a common occurrence. marijuana is known to be damaging to one’s short-term memory. long-term? i don’t know. if i ever read anything about it, i can’t remember anyway.

p. and i were talking about The Old Days (really only a few years ago), right before they moved out of state, to their southern bastion of right-wing conservatism and entrenched intolerance. (it doesn’t surprise me that they’re miserable.) she said that before they left, i got all our friends to scratch their names and well-wishes into a big candle for them to burn during their chosen exile, to remind them of those who love them and wish for their return.

“wow,” i said, “that’s a great idea, p. and i really wish i had done it, but you must be thinking of someone else.”

her expression shifted from disbelief to amusement. “oh, no, andi, it was definitely your idea. i’ve still got the candle, by the way. there’s maybe an inch or two left. so it’s a good thing we’re moving back soon.”

“oh. really?” i asked, kinda pleased that i’d thought of something so thoughtful and clever.

“really,” she said.

“was i… was i maybe a little manic at the time?”

p. and i are alike in many ways, so she understood the effects of severe mood swings. she’s also been kept up-to-date about the drama of the last couple of years. she knew where the question was coming from.

“oh,” she said. “y… yeah, i think you were pretty manic at the time.” given that my preference has always been for the manic side of life, that doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone, does it?

the timeline is blurry here, but this may have been around… oh hell, who am i kidding? i don’t have a clue. the only years i can remember with any certainty are my own birthyear and my daughter’s.

i do, however, remember that when i first got married i was absolutely miserable – and that i worked out every day for two hours and wrote about ten pages a day. (they’re doubtless crappy pages, but that’s another subject entirely.)

*please excuse me while this blog entry comes to a screeching halt.*


you know, today i just give the fuck up.

and hey i’m real sorry about the language, dad, but damn, you don’t want to read the f-word, some of my other friends can’t stand the political heat, and i’m boring the shit out of myself writing paeans to my daughter. (who absolutely deserves the praise, but still.)

i’ve seriously thought about putting this blog on a more-or-less permanent hold. and it just now occurred to me that i’m censoring myself, for whatever reasons. trying to please people, maybe, trying not to offend, trying not to push buttons.

now i’m all for spreading around some peace, love, and chicken grease, as my friend sam likes to say, but for the love of dog, how well-behaved can a women be and still be her own damn self?

i find myself typing obscenities in emails at work, just to see them on the screen and giggle. i delete them afterwards, lest i lose this lovely job that keeps me in meds and mortgage payments. then i write clever, amusing little notes to people – and have to edit those, too, because the intended person simple will. not. get it. it’s frustrating and sad.

does my creativity come from mania, or does it come from somewhere else? does it have to be based on rage? what happens to it when it’s at the mercy of self-censorship?

it fucking well dies, doesn’t it?

look, i’m not a writer. well, ok, i write. i write technical garbage, i can rock a flowchart like nobody’s business, and i write this blog. this blog keeps the muscles loose and strong and flowing. this blog keeps things moving in my head and my heart, and i just can’t keep it clean here. i just can’t hold back the anger sometimes. if i can’t vent here, if i can’t jump up and down and send out my own lightning bolts of fury occasionally, what happens to my ability to describe and communicate the glorious blessings of my life?

so ok i guess i could choose to be a Good Girl and shut up about what matters to me.

i could. i could even start a different blog and transfer the rants and political stuff to a different site. (been through that conversation with myself already.) could make it oh-so-easy to pretend that i’m just One Simple Thing – not the rabid eclectic peace-loving murderful serene tempermental outlandish mousy all-knowing ever-ignorant One Complex Thing that i really am.

but i won’t. my blog, my rules. if i try to keep it clean, if i try to make it sensical, i might as well give up entirely. and i’m not ready to do that just yet. i can be outrageous without being violent (i think.) we’ll just have to see.

screw it. i’m not even gonna proof this bitch – i’m just gonna let ‘er ride.