Good morning, dear reader(s), my mind is off and running this Saturday morning, what with my early morning work-out with the feeble minds at YouTube. I’m trying to remember that song I slow-danced to with Glenn Davis from Carmel, Indiana that summer after Seventh Grade at the esteemed Culver Military Academy—what a summer of young love that was, with Glenn coping a feel of my breast while we were watching “Brigadoon” in the school auditorium/movie theater. How excited I was! Ah, young love in 1979. Nothing like it. There were many intriguing young lads I met at Culver, including the son of one of the Monkees (can’t remember which one and can’t remember the son’s name). But oh, how I remember Glenn. My first true love…wonder where he is now. Perhaps selling real estate in Indianapolis?
This morning I would like to say a little something about “bipolar grandiosity” and whether it is something reserved to us bipolars or if indeed everyone, to some extent, gets a touch of grandiose behavior throughout their lives. I mean, yes, I was told at Talbot Hall rehab outpatient center that as an alcoholic I was cursed with thinking I was “terminally unique” so maybe I’m already hot-wired towards grandiosity, bipolar notwithstanding. But let me ask you, when you have that situation I told you about when I married a quilt pattern to a Wang computer coupled with the time I made love to my British lover through a U.S Department of Energy computer back in, oh, was it 1993 or 1994 (?), you kinda get the feeling that maybe you are a little bit different than the average bear (and in a good way).
Not sure why sex is on my mind lately, perhaps it’s all the old YouTube videos I’ve been looking at, making me remember my younger, wilder years. I’m of course on guard, because when a bipolar gets into hypomania their sexual urges get ramped up, they spend money, they can do very erratic things. I don’t think that’s the case with me, though I did take a rather serpentine drive to get to mom’s yesterday, instead of my usual route down Broad Street. Basically, I wanted to go by dear deceased friend Andi’s old house on Trashborne Rd., because yesterday I finished my first piece for the art show, “Ode to Andi.” I know she would have loved it, and I would of course given it away to her for free.
I also think I’m done with a second piece, “Self Portrait: The Art Of The Deal” though I may still tinker with it in the coming months. The triptych is going to take longer to complete but I’ve got a basic idea in my head what I want to accomplish. It’s basically a love story (aren’t they always?), with numerous characters afoot. I have no idea if anyone will understand it and honestly I don’t care. Like mom says, do the art for me. But please, do not call it “art therapy,” I find that most offensive and I’m sure many other artists would as well. No, I’m not grandiose, it’s just I’ve studied a lot of artists over the years and I think I have a fairly good education in what art is all about. And I of course know beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Like, duh.
So maybe we are all grandiose and I say let’s celebrate that! Definitely Michael, my modern day white Snoop Dog Renaissance Man is grandiose and I love him for it. Perhaps I get more comfortable believing in myself, trusting myself, forgiving myself? See that I have talents and an eye for seeing the world for what it is. I wonder if in the basement is the drawing I did at OSU Harding Hospital of a head, with text written all inside it. I composed it while a beautiful, older black woman was singing and playing the piano (?) I think? But no, how could there have been a piano inside the Harding nut hut? Perhaps I am just confusing that, it happened so long ago, almost two decades ago…
Well, enough of my reminiscing, it’s time to call mom and get the news from the WSJ. Hopefully she is Trusting Her Decisions, though maybe taking a little advice from me, the reluctant Cassandra. Enjoy your weekend, dear reader(s). Tra la la!
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