So, here's the usual cycle ... I'm moody to begin with. It takes people a while to realize this, because I'm outwardly quite serene. I'll be literally skipping through my day, privately extolling the virtues of dumb shit like cumulous clouds and door-hinges, then I'll be stopped short by the sight of an oil slick and become oh-so-overwhelmed by its poignant and paradoxical beauty.

Now, I'm not about to cut my ear off or nuthin', nor will any of my artistic endeavors win me any awards (or even buy me a cup of coffee) for some time to come. But I'll admit that creativity is one of my strengths, while stability often eludes me.

The ebullient moodiness is as close as I get to stability. I wouldn't have it any other way.

OK ... but the cycle ...

So, after a period of this wonky moodiness that is how I define my "stasis," I plummet down into a not-quite-depressed, gestaltish attitude, and I find myself unable to focus on any one particular thing. Rather, experiences wash over me to be regarded as a whole and sussed out at a later date. I was quite gestalty this weekend. For example, after my last post, I went to see a series of one-acts by Samuel Beckett**. If you're familiar with Beckett, you can that his existential views, his plays about suicide and voices and disembodied heads, did nothing to help my already crappy mood. You'd think, therefore, that it was all for the best that I wasn't feeling thinky enough to pay attention to the plays.

Nope. It was far more depressing to let the dark and bizarre images wash over me. If I was feeling at all analytical, I could have read something sunny into the package, (believe me, I'm capable of being really stubbornly optimistic even in the face of Mr. Beckett,) or just chosen to regard the plays with an academic mindset. As it was, all I could feel was the overall dismal moods of the pieces. I didn't talk too much for the next couple of days.

FLASH-FORWARD TO TODAY:

I knew this would happen. After those obnoxiously gestalty moods, I always fall into a highly restless, panicky frame of mind. My eyes ricochet from one perspective to another. I become hyper-hyper-sensitive. Colors become brighter, tactile sensations are furry and out-of-control, and smells are so solid I can almost bite them. In addition to this, I become overly aware of my body in my clothes, and my bones in my flesh. I hate the feeling. I hate my reflection. I feel trapped under layers and layers of despised fat, both real and imagined.

I've been on the verge of tears all day long, and it's quite obvious. My complexion doesn't fare so well with these moods. My capillaries revolt. Any zit I ever had resurrects itself in scabs and scars. I can't stop tingling, I can't stop itching.

I know I sound like I'm high; I assure you, however, that I'm just a lunatic.

OK, thing is, these moods haven't lasted long in the past, because I squelched them with the lovely binge-and-purge cycle. Basically, I'm used to shutting myself up by puking my guts out. I'm determined not to resort to that this time around, and to actually ride this out. I'm trying to forget the seductive cleansing feeling of a purge.

I'm rather terrified.

This being the first time in God Knows that I've seen this mood through to its end, I don't know how long it will last. It's exhausting and scary, and I hate it. I don't feel like myself. I don't like being in my body.

I never thought I was one to don a lot of emotional armor. Turns out, I've been bullshitting myself something fierce. You never know how guarded you've been until you find yourself completely vulnerable to your own devices.

So, I've been doing laundry.

I've been forming mosaics on my carpet, using leftover pennies from poker-games past.

I've been seeing how many times I need to kiss my cat before he turns into a handsome prince.

I've been pacing.

I've been doodling. Eyeballs and hands, mostly.

I've been listening to R.E.M. on my stereo, while Yo La Tengo plays in my head.

I've been focussing on the everything and the nothing of everything and nothing. I've been focussing on not focussing too much.

"There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now,

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now."

Or something. So says the Whitman.

I guess he's right. Somewhere in my head, I know he's right. I feel like this little night is supposed to be important. I especially feel the "heaven" and "hell" in this "now," but the "hell" is much more pronounced. I suppose I'm being a little melodramatic.

Anyway, wish me luck.

In other news, my eyes are astoundingly blue today.

* Jeezisgawd, sorry for the obnoxious literary reference.

** Holy crap! Another one!

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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