Clinical depression is like trying to breathe with a collapsed lung: the harder you inhale, the more you're aware of the futility of even trying. After a few weeks, the decision to give up respiration altogether seems like a good decision, because after all, it IS a decision. But you soon realize the problem is that you don't die, you just continue to struggle for air in an unbearable atmosphere. Indefinitely.
And when you think you're finally asleep, you are awoken by the wet whistle of your damaged organ. Over and over and over. It keeps you company, but Depression is that dull, downward friend who has nothing new to say and will not leave; the friend who watches infomercials until the sun comes up; the unwanted guest who never varies.
Think of tepid graying rice. Think of the ache that doesn't hurt enough to be interesting. Think of an orgasm that's like a half-sneeze during August.
Poet Rodney Jones said of Depression: "If I thought my life had any value/I would have taken it."
It's the disease that you know you have when you truly believe you deserve it.
Peace.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Holiday Excess, or Just Plain Excess?
English mystic, poet, printer and all-around weirdo William Blake coined the phrase beloved by hedonists the world over:
the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Since Blake published this in the late 18th century, artists as diverse as Byron, Wilde, Burroughs and Jim Morrison have embraced it as a clarion call to party-til-ya-puke-and/or-die. (I think most people my age first heard the phrase issue from Susan Sarandon's lips in Bull Durham.) But surely, self-destruction by one's own hand with recreational chemicals leads more often to high-profile rehab centers than any palace of wisdom; if the latter was the case, Ozzy Osbourne would be our generation's Wittgenstein.
So what was Blake referring to? I've always thought, in my uninformed way, he meant an excess of knowledge and experience, not absinthe or acid; nor, in observance of the holiday season, an excess of turducken and gravy. (And certainly not my excessive use of the semicolon.)
As Americans, we tend to pack away food and drink like everyday is Thanksgiving. The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that by the year 2020, 1 out of 4 of us will be clinically obese. As a nation, it seems we literally embrace Blake's words as manifest destiny: while still comprising less than 6% of the world's population, we consume more than 2/3's of its resources. And we're none the wiser for it, having elected George W. twice--twice!--and currently have Sarah Palin looming as a serious-as-congestive-heart-failure candidate in 2012.
So how much is too much? All a matter of personal preference, I guess. For myself, "too much" has always translated into "not nearly enough." Food isn't an issue with me; I could take it or leave it. But it's nothing for me to down, in rapid succession over an afternoon, 12 beers, half a pack of Marlboros, numerous tokes of several different types of weed, and whatever other psychoactive pill, alkaloid, or fungus is at hand. (Granted, I actually have cut down my intoxicants over the years, but in the words of PJ O'Rourke, I ingest "...more than I should, but not as much as I used to.") Some would refer to my intake as "living life to the fullest" rather than "chronic substance abuse;" naturally I prefer the former as it possesses a more epicurean lilt.
But it's not just sensual, chemical excesses I embrace. I can honestly and proudly proclaim myself as a hopeless book junkie. I read with a hunger that borders on pathological desperation; I am indeed depraved in this respect. Once while stranded at an airport with no money, I even pored over a found, battered copy of James Patterson's "Along Came a Spider." (For those non-readers out there, it's the literary equivalent of licking spilled cocaine off the toilet seat in a seedy tavern's restroom, which I also did once in another lifetime.)
As a (sometime) poet, I am also excessive in wolfing down moments. To me, poetry is distilling seemingly mundane, daily events into transcendent metaphors. So it's not unusual for me to become utterly verklempt --antidepressants notwithstanding--while watching a mother take her child's hand before crossing a busy intersection, or witnessing a puppy rollicking in an Alpo commercial on TV. Too much, man, I'll say to myself, as I dab at my eyes with a kleenex, then reach for a pen and another Budweiser. Life is, like, too much.
I admit: I'm just another spoiled white male who has squandered the best our culture has to offer. And given my lifestyle, it's doubtful I'll one day publish a bestseller entitled "Centenarian: How I Lived To Age 100." But enough wallowing in excessive self-reflection. Christmas is just over four weeks away and I've yet to buy my loved ones the overpriced, obsolescent electronic crap they simply cannot live without.
Plus I have to order four turduckens for Hanukkah; the two at Thanksgiving didn't cut it.
Happy Holidays,
Wade Trout
P.S. Does anyone know if I can download Blake's "Marriage of Heaven and Hell" onto my Kindle?
the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Since Blake published this in the late 18th century, artists as diverse as Byron, Wilde, Burroughs and Jim Morrison have embraced it as a clarion call to party-til-ya-puke-and/or-die. (I think most people my age first heard the phrase issue from Susan Sarandon's lips in Bull Durham.) But surely, self-destruction by one's own hand with recreational chemicals leads more often to high-profile rehab centers than any palace of wisdom; if the latter was the case, Ozzy Osbourne would be our generation's Wittgenstein.
So what was Blake referring to? I've always thought, in my uninformed way, he meant an excess of knowledge and experience, not absinthe or acid; nor, in observance of the holiday season, an excess of turducken and gravy. (And certainly not my excessive use of the semicolon.)
As Americans, we tend to pack away food and drink like everyday is Thanksgiving. The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that by the year 2020, 1 out of 4 of us will be clinically obese. As a nation, it seems we literally embrace Blake's words as manifest destiny: while still comprising less than 6% of the world's population, we consume more than 2/3's of its resources. And we're none the wiser for it, having elected George W. twice--twice!--and currently have Sarah Palin looming as a serious-as-congestive-heart-failure candidate in 2012.
So how much is too much? All a matter of personal preference, I guess. For myself, "too much" has always translated into "not nearly enough." Food isn't an issue with me; I could take it or leave it. But it's nothing for me to down, in rapid succession over an afternoon, 12 beers, half a pack of Marlboros, numerous tokes of several different types of weed, and whatever other psychoactive pill, alkaloid, or fungus is at hand. (Granted, I actually have cut down my intoxicants over the years, but in the words of PJ O'Rourke, I ingest "...more than I should, but not as much as I used to.") Some would refer to my intake as "living life to the fullest" rather than "chronic substance abuse;" naturally I prefer the former as it possesses a more epicurean lilt.
But it's not just sensual, chemical excesses I embrace. I can honestly and proudly proclaim myself as a hopeless book junkie. I read with a hunger that borders on pathological desperation; I am indeed depraved in this respect. Once while stranded at an airport with no money, I even pored over a found, battered copy of James Patterson's "Along Came a Spider." (For those non-readers out there, it's the literary equivalent of licking spilled cocaine off the toilet seat in a seedy tavern's restroom, which I also did once in another lifetime.)
As a (sometime) poet, I am also excessive in wolfing down moments. To me, poetry is distilling seemingly mundane, daily events into transcendent metaphors. So it's not unusual for me to become utterly verklempt --antidepressants notwithstanding--while watching a mother take her child's hand before crossing a busy intersection, or witnessing a puppy rollicking in an Alpo commercial on TV. Too much, man, I'll say to myself, as I dab at my eyes with a kleenex, then reach for a pen and another Budweiser. Life is, like, too much.
I admit: I'm just another spoiled white male who has squandered the best our culture has to offer. And given my lifestyle, it's doubtful I'll one day publish a bestseller entitled "Centenarian: How I Lived To Age 100." But enough wallowing in excessive self-reflection. Christmas is just over four weeks away and I've yet to buy my loved ones the overpriced, obsolescent electronic crap they simply cannot live without.
Plus I have to order four turduckens for Hanukkah; the two at Thanksgiving didn't cut it.
Happy Holidays,
Wade Trout
P.S. Does anyone know if I can download Blake's "Marriage of Heaven and Hell" onto my Kindle?
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Fat Wet Fish with Eyeballs & Mouth
I blame the brain: prankster, lycanthrope. Electrified gray jelly.
Sure, the message from the heart--although at times deceitful--is pure. But to animate the eyes or mouth, in order to twitch the pen, the message must travel north and through the brain.
Thus lies the trouble. For Mind not only is aware of Itself, but also doubts Itself.
Poet Stephen Dobyns puts it best:
Why Fool Around? (1999)
How smart is smart? thinks Heart. Is smart
what's in the brain or the size of the container?
What do I know about what I do not know?
Such thoughts soon send Heart back to school.
Metaphysics, biophysics, economics, and history-
Heart takes them all. His back develops a crick
from lugging fifty books. He stays in the library
till it shuts down at night. The purpose of life,
says a prof, is to expand your horizons. Another says
it's to shrink existence to manageable proportions.
In astronomy, Heart studies spots through a telescope.
In biology, he sees the same spots with a microscope.
Heart absorbs so much that his brain aches. No
ski weekends for him, no joining the bridge club.
Ideas are nuts to be cracked open, Heart thinks.
History's the story of snatch and grab, says a prof.
The record of mankind, says another, is a striving
for the light. But Heart is beginning to catch on:
If knowledge is noise to which meaning is given,
then the words used to label sundry facts are like
horns honking before a collision: more forewarning
than explanation. Then what meaning, asks Heart,
can be given to meaning? Life's a pearl, says a prof.
It's a grizzly bear, says another. Heart's conclusion
is that to define the world decreases its dimensions
while to name a thing creates a sense of possession.
Heart admires their intention but why fool around?
He picks up a pebble and states: The world is like
this rock. He puts it in his pocket for safe keeping.
Having settled at last the nature of learning, Heart
goes fishing. He leans back against an oak. The sun
toasts his feet. Heart feels the pebble in his pocket.
Its touch is like the comfort of money in the bank.
There are big ones to be caught, big ones to be eaten.
In morning light, trout swim within the tree's shadow.
Smart or stupid they circle the hook: their education.
Sure, the message from the heart--although at times deceitful--is pure. But to animate the eyes or mouth, in order to twitch the pen, the message must travel north and through the brain.
Thus lies the trouble. For Mind not only is aware of Itself, but also doubts Itself.
Poet Stephen Dobyns puts it best:
Why Fool Around? (1999)
How smart is smart? thinks Heart. Is smart
what's in the brain or the size of the container?
What do I know about what I do not know?
Such thoughts soon send Heart back to school.
Metaphysics, biophysics, economics, and history-
Heart takes them all. His back develops a crick
from lugging fifty books. He stays in the library
till it shuts down at night. The purpose of life,
says a prof, is to expand your horizons. Another says
it's to shrink existence to manageable proportions.
In astronomy, Heart studies spots through a telescope.
In biology, he sees the same spots with a microscope.
Heart absorbs so much that his brain aches. No
ski weekends for him, no joining the bridge club.
Ideas are nuts to be cracked open, Heart thinks.
History's the story of snatch and grab, says a prof.
The record of mankind, says another, is a striving
for the light. But Heart is beginning to catch on:
If knowledge is noise to which meaning is given,
then the words used to label sundry facts are like
horns honking before a collision: more forewarning
than explanation. Then what meaning, asks Heart,
can be given to meaning? Life's a pearl, says a prof.
It's a grizzly bear, says another. Heart's conclusion
is that to define the world decreases its dimensions
while to name a thing creates a sense of possession.
Heart admires their intention but why fool around?
He picks up a pebble and states: The world is like
this rock. He puts it in his pocket for safe keeping.
Having settled at last the nature of learning, Heart
goes fishing. He leans back against an oak. The sun
toasts his feet. Heart feels the pebble in his pocket.
Its touch is like the comfort of money in the bank.
There are big ones to be caught, big ones to be eaten.
In morning light, trout swim within the tree's shadow.
Smart or stupid they circle the hook: their education.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
First Thanksgiving with My Girlfriend
No lie: I would rather undergo annual hemorrhoidectomies than face the dreaded holiday season. Nothing like Thanksgiving and Christmas to remind one of chronic family dysfunction, personal shortcomings, and the general shittiness of humanity. This was always the week that I stocked up on narcotics, refilled my lexapro, and retrieved my spare liver from cold storage: weathering the storm.
But today, two days prior to turkey, I'm actually feeling a spring in my step (or rather limp, due to a touch o' the gout) as the season looms; for this will be the first Thanksgiving I'll be spending with my girlfriend.
Simply put, she's pretty amazing. She's smart, beautiful, funny, sweet, sexy....all the best adjectives. We've been together for about seven months and we just seem to be getting better and better, happier and more in love as time goes on. She works hard, raises four kids, has a great outlook and loves life.
I guess if I'm truly Thankful this season it's for having her in my life. I never expected to be this happy and this much in love at age 45. I mean, we have a great time whether we're doing groceries or folding laundry. I joke that we could have fun being held hostage, as long as we're together, and she agrees. She makes a hot breakfast for me every morning and packs me a lunch even though she's doing the same for four (other?) adolescents; she makes sure I have clean clothes; she tolerates my insanity and bad habits, and makes love to me on a nightly basis (literally). I seriously cannot comprehend my good fortune.
And the best part? When I tell her how absolutely crazy I am about her, she tells me she feels the same way about me.
How..lucky...am...I?
But today, two days prior to turkey, I'm actually feeling a spring in my step (or rather limp, due to a touch o' the gout) as the season looms; for this will be the first Thanksgiving I'll be spending with my girlfriend.
Simply put, she's pretty amazing. She's smart, beautiful, funny, sweet, sexy....all the best adjectives. We've been together for about seven months and we just seem to be getting better and better, happier and more in love as time goes on. She works hard, raises four kids, has a great outlook and loves life.
I guess if I'm truly Thankful this season it's for having her in my life. I never expected to be this happy and this much in love at age 45. I mean, we have a great time whether we're doing groceries or folding laundry. I joke that we could have fun being held hostage, as long as we're together, and she agrees. She makes a hot breakfast for me every morning and packs me a lunch even though she's doing the same for four (other?) adolescents; she makes sure I have clean clothes; she tolerates my insanity and bad habits, and makes love to me on a nightly basis (literally). I seriously cannot comprehend my good fortune.
And the best part? When I tell her how absolutely crazy I am about her, she tells me she feels the same way about me.
How..lucky...am...I?
Monday, November 22, 2010
Darvon RIP
The bleak fall weather outside was made even bleaker when I read that Xanodyne Pharmaceuticals, the last company to produce Darvon, stopped production last week of the fat pink painkillers. Any substance abuser who attended high school in the late '70's and early '80's remembers these little gems hiding in Mom's medicine cabinet when no weed, acid or 'ludes were available at school. Although no match for its successor Vicodin, two or three Darvs did the trick when mixed w/Southern Comfort while listening to Led Zeppelin II at full volume in your basement bedroom at 4:00pm before your parents got home from work. They were also excellent for hangovers.
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