Special Delivery

 An early good morning, dear readers, I’m excited to announce my 1950 edition of the Van Gogh book in the Abrams Publishing series has arrived! It came all the way from a small town in Ireland, took weeks to get here, but I have it and I’m thrilled to add it to my art book collection. Good ole Amazon, they hooked me up with the book dealer, I’m absolutely over the moon about it. Mom has also ordered me another big book about Van Gogh, so I will have two to study. I’m so very glad I had that chance to see the Van Gogh exhibition in Washington, DC with mom way back in the early 1990s. I still remember his famous portrait of the Postman (can’t remember the name, he painted several postmen), more so than any other work. God bless the postal workers, and the Amazon delivery people for that matter, they truly make the world go round.

Well, I did as Dr. Levy instructed and took only 1/2 a Simply Sleep and didn’t go to bed until close to 11:00 p.m. and awoke around 5:00 a.m. I’m not completely comfortable with only 6 hours of sleep, I’d like to get closer to 9, but honestly I feel OK, not run down, not depressed, just feeling like everything is as it should be. I’ve had my early morning exercise with YouTube, and I chuckled a bit at what might be interpreted as a touch of AI-generated humor, though I’m not too sure. I’m still sensing the programmer lurking behind the curtain has an agenda, which might align with the Puppet Master, though he could have gone rogue. I guess I’ll have to work this mystery out in my art, which is probably nothing more than nonsense, anyways. Oh well.

Today is kinda uneventful, I have to get a few things from Kroger, I have a Zoom with Shawn, I’m making Thai-Inspired Turkey Meatball Coconut Soup. The sun may come out today and I think it’s supposed to be warmer, so I can take Lily for a longer walk. I know I’ve discussed the possibility of maybe attempting volunteer work, but something tells me where the greatest need is lies in serving underprivileged communities and unfortunately I can sometimes get stressed by that segment immensely. It just depends on the audience I guess. My passion had always been to work on the big stage—though I know now that’s impossible and here I sit, in my recliner, typing to myself. I guess I do so enjoy doing my art, and maybe today I will spray paint that big piece of wood I found in Macon Alley a few weeks ago. I got some chrome-colored paint from Amazon, and I am hoping this particular piece of wood will serve as the second panel of my triptych (or maybe the third, I haven’t got the order figured out yet). 

If you haven’t guessed, I’m always wondering if my art is any good, if it has worth, if spending hours thinking about it, researching for it, actually doing it is worth anything to someone besides myself. Maybe that’s the inherent problem—obsessing about the viewer—and maybe if I just untether myself and free-float for awhile things will unfold masterfully? Who knows. I do so want people to connect with it, but I have to remember most people don’t want to choose AI as their square-dancing partner anyways. I’m weird, I’m with Tom Petty, Running Down A Dream after all.

I forgot there’s a Blue Jackets game tonight, here’s hoping they can finish out the season respectfully and with class. Hold your heads high, boys, not everyone gets to hoist the Cup—yet—hopefully your time will come some day. I’ll be rooting for you tonight, as always, and predictably I’ll probably have trouble staying awake for the conclusion of the game. I seem to miss all the good games, that’s just my life story, why I don’t know. Though maybe living a life at the grocery store is an adventure in of itself, who knows, hey, I just go there. OK, so ends today’s entry, on I go with my day. It looks like maybe we will have a Constable sky today. If so, how exciting!

Touch of Gray

 Well Monday greetings, dear reader(s), I come to you on another Gray Lady Day, but might there be some touches of blue in the sky? Hard to tell this morning, I shall just have to wait and see how the day unfolds. I’m feeling a little zoned out on the Simply Sleep, and definitely think I’ll be able to cut back on the amount I’m taking every night. I’m happy about this, as I don’t like to rely on this OTC pill to keep me asleep every night. So I will talk to Dr. Levy about it this afternoon, and see what he thinks my strategy should be going forward.

I told Michael to contact Edwin the house cleaner about setting up a schedule to come here once a month to clean. March is almost here, Spring is on the horizon, and it’s time to get this place cleaned up as best as we can. I’m not going to beat myself up over my shortcomings with the cleaning—everyone is blessed with certain talents, and alas, mine lie in other endeavors. Certainly being on a high dose of Risperdal prevents one from executing certain tasks with gusto; this includes organizational motivation in my case. No, I’m not saying one should rebel against the meds and throw them out. Rather I believe we have to work with them, work around them, and carve out some semblance of a decent life, to the best of our abilities.

Oh, my dear, dear friend Julie, she is working with me to incorporate better eating habits to have a healthier life. Blessed friend, what a jewel she is, I love you Jules! I tried to explain that my creative juices flow better on an empty stomach, but maybe I might get someplace deeper if I had oatmeal and berries in me first thing in the morning…but who was that artist mom told me about who starved himself so he “accessed” some deeper creative high? Marigault. A modern artist, with a layered perspective, looking for intensity through dietary restriction. Chuckle. I wonder if the Columbus Museum of Art ever displays the work of his they have? Maybe I’ll ask.

Andi’s mother has passed away, and it has me thinking about my relationship with mom, which has definitely had its highs and lows to be sure. One thing I know is my mother has tried her hardest to understand this mental illness of mine, taking NAMI’s family education course as soon as she found out about my diagnosis. She would move back to Columbus full-time to be with me and help me work my way through that horrific period in 2016-2017, when I was psychotic for 9 months, without the aid of a psychiatrist, separated from Michael, completely off my rocker and I even relapsed on alcohol for a few days at that bar at the intersection of Noe-Bixby Road and Main Street. There is no question that this was one of the lowest periods of my life, and my dear mother Wendy was right by my side taking care of me every day.

Let’s do a (non-alcohol) toast to our mothers. I know it’s not Mother’s Day yet, but mom, how I love you, and thank you for so many, many things in my life. I’m going to treat mom to a dinner out later this week, we are going to 94th Aero Squadron for a meal with friend Carol from our YMCA swim group. The old, famous restaurant is set to close in June, and I wanted to get there before that happened. I’m really looking forward to this meal at that quaint place by the airport. Many memories there.

I’ve been going through my emails and there was one from the Smith College Club of Columbus, announcing their gatherings for discussion of books they all read. Me, I have cognitive impairment and can’t really read books, save art books with picture plates. So I really feel left out from the group, wishing they did other activities that someone like me who is disabled could participate in more freely. Ah Smith, guess they are just not interested in me, oh well, there are always my monthly zooms with my Jordan House Smith pals, they get me, and are most inclusive, which I deeply appreciate. 

OK, time for me to get ready for my session with Dr. Levy. I feel a touch nervous, as I always do, I don’t know why, really, I guess I just want to be a good, compliant patient who doesn’t have problems. But no, I rely on Simply Sleep, and I want to dial that back so hopefully he can help me. I think he can. Later friends.

Stop Making Sense

 Oh, I’m in a terrible state, doubting myself and the art I’ve been doing. I’m thinking about canceling the art show, what an embarrassment that could be for me, what am I thinking that people might be interested in or would even understand my trash collages? I wish I had never, ever read that article about bipolar creativity. I shouldn’t even be working on this blog, what am I thinking it will amount to? My art doesn’t make sense, my blog doesn’t make sense, I don’t make sense. I’m just this screwed up, lost, weirdo, I have no purpose. The dinner I attempted to make last night was a complete and utter failure—some NYT coconut turmeric rice with greens, it tasted like crap, just awful, and this makes my sense of despair complete. 

I didn’t sleep well either, Lily got me up at 5:30 a.m., I had thought she had adjusted to being downstairs alone, but no. So here I am, up at daybreak, feeling completely rotten. I’m so tempted to read that article again trashing bipolar creativity—but that would be like self-flagellation and I’m not sure I have the constitution for this right now. I just want to let out the loudest scream—against purported “experts” and against those people who hurt me on Wastebook. Simultaneously, I want to cry, I miss my beloved Basset Hound Legs, I wish he were still here, even though he was loud and annoyed everyone. 

I talk with Dr. Levy tomorrow, and I will certainly tell him how grief and frustration is causing my mood to dip slightly. I don’t really think there is anything to be done with my medication right now. Dr. Levy won’t give me an antidepressant, even though I’d love to have one. No, I must learn to manage this depression on my own. I can see very, very clearly why alcoholics reach for a drink during times like this. It’s painful, it hurts to be feeling loss and doubt, it hurts to think you don’t make any sense, you’re a nobody, you have no talent and should just give up. 

I’m wondering if my subtle dips between depression and irritability are normal? Does the average person go through this? To give context, I was completely drugged out for about 5 years (actually kinda longer) so I’m at a point where it’s hard for me to discern what’s normal and what’s not. I know the last time I had a “productive” art period I was completely off my rocker—am I crazy now? I think the answer to this question is No, but how am I to really know if I am crazy or not? Fetter tells me I am OK, but why do I let some random bipolar article upset me so much? Why am I so sensitive? Why don’t I have a tougher hide? Oh friends, I’m lost. And it sucks.

Michael did say he has a surprise for me today, he may be taking me out to a movie and perhaps dinner, I’m not sure. I guess that kinda makes me feel better, it would be nice to go out on a date. I need something, anything to perk me up a bit. Hopefully this self-doubting will pass, hopefully I will feel better as this morning progresses. The sun is out again today, I see blue skies out my window. Let’s get a grip, Melissa, let’s start feeling good about yourself. Maybe check out a church service on YouTube. There are possibilities, I just need to look for them. OK, this is it for today. Later friends. Have a good day.

International Bright (Young) Thing

 Well good morning, I’m in somewhat better spirits today, after a run with YouTube’s videos and music selections for me this morning. The only thing missing from their AI-generated mixes is the SpinalTap, for reasons not yet clear to me, as it seems fairly obvious why that band should be there. But whatever, maybe their AI is resistant to my mating call, not to sound crazy, just trying to explain what I’m doing listening to YouTube 80s music at 7:00 a.m. in the morning. Perhaps only I can understand it, but I’ll do my best to explain it in a new triptych panel I hope to start soon. Ah, here comes the sun, I see blue skies out my hospital window, looks like it will be another good day today, which is nice.

I slept well last night, falling asleep in my chair during “Tar” which was just way too deep for me to comprehend at night after taking all my meds. Too bad, as I’m sure it’s probably a good film, mom seems to love it because the powerful woman takes a big fall. As I said, I’m really most interested in that Michael Jordan sneaker movie coming out soon, let’s get back to the theaters, shall we? 

As I was driving around yesterday afternoon I just had to laugh at the insanity all around me. Fetter is absolutely right when he says psychosis is sanity in an insane world. I’m not psychotic now but I’m certainly much more aware now of my surroundings, more perceptive of little details and believe me, I’m seeing some mighty strange things to write home about, that’s for sure. I do keep them to myself, just because I don’t want to sound crazy or anything like that. But I wonder if this acute awareness will simply pass one day, or if maybe because I’m on this lowered Depakote it will remain? I guess we shall see. 

Talked to mom this morning about how these rich, bleeding heart liberals (or whoever they are) seem to be everywhere, why they’ve come to Columbus to roost I’m not so sure. Maybe they were here all along and I just didn’t notice them, that’s a distinct possibility I can’t rule out. All I know is rich people can’t seem to resist trying to control the dialogue, and that includes public officials who are simply puppets of said rich people. Maybe I’m better off poor and a nobody, but as I said yesterday my current state does make me bitter and a tad resentful at times. I’m sick of my Target and Walmart clothes, I look like a bag lady most of the time. I sometimes wish I were well-groomed and lovely like Cate Blanchett in “Tar”—maybe that’s why I lost interest in the film, it hurt me too much. Restless, irritable and discontent, that seems to define me. Sponsor Shawn, maybe I call you. Or maybe I just get on my knees and pray.

In a way, my art is a deep prayer to my Higher Power, it’s definitely not therapy, and that’s why I get so angry at people who describe it as such. Going into my mind’s eye is a very personal, spiritual journey, shaped by other artists I have studied over the years. Today I’m going to work on a piece honoring Jasper Johns, his ale cans, contrasting his study which is so precise and painstakingly constructed with mine, which is dirty and quickly assembled with cast offs I randomly (or perhaps not randomly) found along my walks here in the neighborhood. Will anyone understand what I am trying to say, I guess it doesn’t matter, I will offer the piece up for sale in May, and if it finds a home I will be happy. If not, I can always throw it in the trash. My choice, remember?

The triptych is coming along a little more slowly, I don’t want to rush it along. I do so hope to have it completed in time for the art show, but I’m curious how we price it for sale. If I had my way, Michael would ask for at least $1,000 for the three panels, but I seriously doubt anyone looking at the work would value it that high. I guess you would have to know my whole life story to date to understand the work in it’s entirety, and also have a pretty good idea of what it’s like to trip the light fantastic and come back to relay the journey to an audience. Maybe one of those psychiatrists or scientists quoted in that offensive article about bipolar creativity might be interested, but honestly, if I had my way I’d ship the triptych to Kay Redfield Jamison at John Hopkins, for $1,000 of course.

Ah, let’s get real, I’m not a bright young thing, I’m just a stupid, middle-aged weirdo, unemployed, shitty housekeeper, unfit to reach my dream of writing a screenplay about a bipolar who saves a small print newspaper and rescues a community of warring people manipulated by an evil force (who might be a reincarnation of Steve Jobs). All I seem capable of doing is driving down Broad Street in Anytown, Ohio, taking note of cars and license plates, buildings and lots for sale, making a mental note of what developer Don Casto is up to, dodging suspect emails along the way. Oh, reader(s), how I wish maybe I were psychotic(?) but alas no, I’m firmly in reality and it’s all just strange, strange, strange (yet honestly, kinda funny and beautiful).

I wonder what would happen if I learned how to play chess—it captivates Michael so, what would happen if I learned how to play? Am I smart enough to figure out how to move the pieces on the board, I mean, I know how to drive the back roads of Columbus without the aid of a GPS, I have an excellent sense of direction, I’m a natural, it’s only the meds that kinda slow me down. But I can learn to work with that, I can learn to overcome my disability. Sure, maybe watching “Tar” was too much of a stretch for me, zoned out on Risperdal and Simply Sleep, but maybe if I watched it in the morning I might better understand. 

Let me end with a little reminder of what I did yesterday afternoon: I picked up meds GABapentin and MELoxicam, and then went to Kroger’s to get PILLS BURY pizza dough. That’s it, in a NUT shell. No need need to question whether I’m bright or not, these random things keep happening to me. Make sense? You be the judge. Whomever is reading this random blog, just floating somewhere out there in the Internet. Have a great day, everyone out there still reading a print newspaper. This one’s for you.

Swingin’ Low

 Well good afternoon, dear reader(s), it’s sunny outside but I’m feeling kinda flat, probably because I’m taking too much Simply Sleep at night. Maybe it’s time to dial it back, as I think Lily is now doing a better job of sleeping through the night. But I’m feeling kinda low today, kinda bitter that when people think mental health reform in this state they are thinking only about the kids and young adults, not the people like me who were diagnosed in their mid-30s and suffered (and continue to suffer) for DECADES with their mental well-being. I’m angry I’m a nobody, a loser, doing nothing but cooking and making trash art that most people would just call art therapy if given a chance. I read a thoroughly insulting article emailed to me about bipolar creativity written by some female author purporting to be some scientist I think, issuing cautions about our creativity and how suspect it is. Kay Redfield Jamison was of course not contacted for the piece, so in my mind that automatically makes it trash.

Look, if we creatives bought into that article, we’d all halt in our tracks and do absolutely nothing. I know for me my window of opportunity to create art is kinda limited (if history has anything to do with it). I’ll have a quasi-productive period and then I just stop. That’s how it works. Right now I’m taking advantage of it, just doing things as they flow out of me. But this article I read has me suddenly doubting myself, feeling self-conscious, feeling like someone or something is trying to control what comes out of me. I absolutely hate this feeling, I want to sharply rebel against it, but does that make me crazy? I guess I don’t know.

Oh I’m just in a very bad mood today and it just sucks. The Jackets game last night didn’t help matters either, they played like shit, pardon my language but the lack of effort was atrocious. It looks like the boys have just given up, and what an embarrassment that is for all of us. Hell though, I guess I can relate, as today I just feel like giving up, screw the cooking, forget the blogging, fuck the art, just forget about it all. This is what happens when you get a lot of psychiatrists and scientists together to pick apart bipolar creativity. It just kills everything.

I guess I have to add stop reading my email to the list of things I must do to try and find some semblance of peace and happiness in my life. Oh who are these people with agendas trying to control everyone and everything? Who’s responsible for putting us in a bad mood? Do they even have a conscience or are they so corrupt and self-centered that they honestly think they know what’s best for all of us? Good Lord, I’m in a rotten mood, it’s awful, I wonder if I can pull myself out of this. Well, I have to take Lily for a walk, I can get out into the neighborhood for awhile…but I’m definitely not my usual cheerful self. I’m just a nobody who wants to be somebody. I wanna be a Contender. But I’m just a trash picker. Today, that makes me furious. Steam, blue tea pot, steam.

Redemption Song?

 An early good morning, dear reader(s), I report to you after a night of sleeping in my clothes and having vivid dreams about hooking up with an old high school obsession of mine. His spurned fiancée then tried to burn us down in my old house on E. Broad Street, where we had run down to the basement to flee from that lady’s wrath. Ah dreams, this one inspired undoubtedly by the plethora of intriguing artworks I saw yesterday at our wonderful Columbus Museum of Art. I particularly liked this portrait of ladies of the night trying to woo a scary, ghostlike white figure—reminded me strongly of my wanderlust as an alcoholic in the 1980s and 1990s, and the shame I still feel about that to this day. I definitely need to get my character defects defined through my Fourth Step, so I can get rid of this wreckage from my past.

Our wonderful museum, the young man working the check-in desk took pity(?) on me and granted me free admission, plus let me into the special exhibition of Maurice Sendak’s works, an intriguing collection of drawings, books, videos, a giant rooster, advertisements and the like. I grew up with Sendak, spending hours with “Where The Wild Things Are” and “From the Night Kitchen” (I think that’s the title). I loved seeing the advertisements Sendak did, plus learning a little bit about his life living in a small town in Connecticut, where he didn’t see much sense in traveling away from it. 

I didn’t spend hours and hours at the museum, knowing that I would be back many, many times in the future. I’m going to ask mom for a yearly membership for my birthday. It’s $75 and I can bring a guest and get free parking. I really like the cafe and gift shop, where I purchased several pins (one with the picture of this famous Cezanne). I also picked up some intriguing military camouflage band-aids, which I am going to somehow incorporate into an art piece. I figure between my alley trolling and the museum gift shop I can amass a good deal of stuff for my collages, which I’m doing for myself (winkedy, wink).

I think I would like donating a piece to the museum, my Howard Finster “First Gas Car 1863.” I don’t exactly know if they would accept it, probably would, maybe just catalogue it with all the other strange things that have been donated over the years? Perhaps I’d also throw in my trusty red iPhone, which I’ve already told you I’m never throwing away. Then there’s the photoshopped picture of Rick Nash with mascot Boomer to consider, though that’s past co-worker Glenna Keys’ handiwork, I just coached her on what to create. 

Ah, am I just being bipolar grandiose again, am I completely off my rocker and just don’t realize it? Do I think I’m someone “special” or am I perhaps like the guy in our Sane and Sober AA meeting last night who said in his psychotic mania he thought the CIA was sending messages through the newspaper? Nope, that’s not me, I don’t comb the WSJ looking for the CIA, I find beauty in the actual newsprint, the letters and numbers, the masthead, I like moving words around and making my own poetry, if that makes sense. Why would the government have any interest in me, all I can do is cook and make nonsensical collage art. Not track down cyber-criminals. I’m fairly easy to figure out, my patterns are predictable, I’m revealing myself publicly on this blog (which very few are reading, if any). No, I’m not crazy. I’m just me.

I do have a secret fantasy of commissioning some artist to do a painting of Michael, Lily and I on the porch of our Tennessee Williams home here. I would jump at the chance to have that done. Michael of course would never go for that, so maybe I have to paint it myself. I just need someone to take a photo of us that I can take to Walgreens and have printed, so I have something to work with for the painting. Some students from CCAD stopped by last summer to do sketches of our home—I asked them to email a photograph of their pieces but they never did? A shame, because I wanted to frame them and hang them in the house. Oh well. Yes, I can do a portrait of us, I’ll work on it this summer. I did purchase some paints from Amazon so I might as well use them. Don’t have any plans to go anywhere anyways. Except Memorial Day weekend, when I hope to travel with sponsor Shawn up to Kelley’s Island for an AA retreat.

Speaking of AA, it’s nearing 7:00 a.m., time for the First Things First meeting. I believe on Thursdays it’s Open Discussion, which can be kinda intriguing, depending on the topics. Maybe one of these days I will actually make it to an in-person meeting, not hide behind Zoom, which I have been doing for almost 3 years. I guess I’ve gotten comfortable Zooming in my bathrobe, in my recliner. Fortunately sponsor Shawn isn’t pushing me to come down to the church, I think he knows I’m still not ready yet. I’ll get there in due course. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, it will always materialize if we work for it. 

So I’ve got the meeting, Fetter at 12:30 p.m., then a Blue Jackets game tonight. Full plate for me. Bring on more coffee, no need to take off more heads. Have a good day all.

In Your Letter

 Hello there friends, some cards have arrived here at the house, I’m thinking they may be sympathy cards for our loss of Legs. I haven’t opened any of them yet, as the pain of losing him is still fresh and the grief comes in waves. Lily is doing a little bit better with sleeping through the night, I made it to 8:00 a.m. this morning, after falling asleep around 9:30 p.m. last night. I may be able to ratchet back my dose of Simply Sleep, which is what I want to do. Today promises to be rather uneventful, except I may go out for a walk in the neighborhood, maybe stopping by the big construction site down the street to see if they have any scrap materials destined for the dump they might let me have for my art. Or there is always the alleys to explore, gratefully my neighborhood has lots of them to peruse.

I’m feeling a little pressure I’m putting on myself to crank out a lot of work before May—but maybe I just relax and focus more intently on the pieces I am currently working to complete. Mom is collecting the necessary newsprint for me, it’s critical that I have the copy incorporated into my works. Hard copy is becoming so scarce these days, it’s such a tragedy, I want to muster all my energy and try to save what few hard copy newspapers are left these days. Oh how I wish I could see that self portrait piece of myself I did with “SAVE” cutouts from grocery store flyers all over the place. Where did that work go? Does someone have it? I did an accompanying portrait of Michael, I think he has a crown on his head, but I don’t remember. Maybe I will look for the flyers at Kroger’s or Giant Eagle and see if I can do a reproduction of what I created so long ago. It’s funny, and kind of nice that my memories of my past artworks have come back. I’ve got lots of information to work with now, and I plan on using it.

I think I need to make another visit to the art museum. Maybe today? It wouldn’t be crowded, I could take my time with the Elijah’s, pick up where mom and I left off on the second floor. I could move through the collection at my own pace, without the crowds, maybe inquire when the William Hawkins pieces are coming back on display. The docents I think are around, I could get in some conversations, which I really would like. Yes, there are possibilities for today, I don’t want to sit here isolated at home, I need to be stimulated. I’m going to check the art museum’s hours. I can handle it alone. Maybe I explore a membership? Something to ponder.

OK, I need to get dressed, make lunch, and get moving. Possibilities await. Here I come!

Self Will Run Riot

 Well good morning dear reader(s), I come to you after a few AA meetings where the topic of self-will has dominated the discussion. I know my writing has been basically an exploration of the self, which I am supposed to let go of and let my Higher Power run the show. This is why I forever remain parked on Step Three—something that might prove most dangerous as it could always lead me to picking up a drink again (or weed, which would be disasterous for me). It makes me wonder if I do indeed have a death wish; and yes, it’s true there are many aspects to my life that I find most unpleasant, number one being that I have to take these medications day in and day out, ad infinitum. But something, that voice inside of me is booming that I must embrace acceptance of my current state of affairs, and express gratitude for what I have been given. So I’m clinging to that right now, as I work my way through these entries. And yes, I am meeting sponsor Shawn today, so I’ve got that going for me.

Yesterday’s visit to the Vets Museum with my sister was most interesting and really emotionally and mentally stimulating too. We started with the artwork on display in the lower level, which I honestly could have spent a good deal of time studying were I alone. There were some really, really powerful pieces on display, including artworks and written pieces. I saw several collages that I was immediately attracted to, no wonder, given my own collage artwork that I have been doing over the years. I found myself really wishing my sister weren’t with me so I didn’t feel as rushed going through the exhibition. But I took pictures, so I have those to study at my leisure.

We next walked through the main exhibit on the first floor, and had a great conversation with a docent who had served in the armed forces in the 1970s. She gave us an intriguing lesson of the history of women in armed combat, which I was most interested in learning. We had a chance to leave a note for veterans, who in particular I had no idea, so I thanked the person for their service and wrote blessings for them. We then made our way up to the second floor, the remembrance area, where I unexpectedly encountered great difficulty. The windows all along the corridor were covered in brightly colored stripes—I could not proceed down the corridor without considerable discomfort, the colors giving me optical pain that is kinda hard to describe. I can only compare it to the time Michael and I walked downtown for some festival and I, in a manic state, looked up at a colorful billboard and got immediately confused? Elated? Ever since then, maybe since the trauma of being psychotic, extremely bright colors enhanced by light make me extremely uncomfortable. I’m wondering if I now have some optical disorder linked to my bipolar? I’m not sure.

But at least I now have more things to work with as I continue with my own artistic study of the self. Perhaps my anger might soften a bit, perhaps my pain might ease and evolve into joy? Or maybe my wounds are healing with time. Who knows. Do I have something to teach? I wonder. Mom says do my art for myself. Yet here I am, wanting an art show. Guess my Higher Power is in charge of who shows up in May. With my luck, it will probably rain. Oh well, if so, I will be singing. Later friends.

Sunny Side Up

 Well happy Monday, dear reader(s). I got some sleep (hooray!), no need to call Dr. Levy and arrange an extra session. The extra Simply Sleep is helping me sleep and I think Michael handled Lily’s 2:30 a.m. wake-up call in the middle of the night. She is having problems when we leave her alone—we come home to her panting, I can tell she’s been stressed, worried that we have perhaps left her, not to return. But I believe, in time, she will get used to being alone. There looks to maybe be blue skies this morning, here on  President’s Day, 2023. I’m going back to Vets Memorial, this time with my sister, who is interested to see what this museum has to offer. Tops on my list is seeing the artwork in the basement, I missed that part when I went last time. I hope to take it slow today, not rush through, taking plenty of pictures. I’m excited, readers, I love this place, as you know.

I’ve been thinking more about maybe pursuing a volunteer opportunity, but I know I have to watch my stress. I do have my activities with Arlene, including the trip to Athens later this Spring. I’m just not so sure this conservative legislature we have in Ohio is interested in doing anything for mental health reform—I’m talking significant change here—so will I just be spinning my wheels, thinking that honestly anyone in this town has something substantial for me to do? Oh well, back to my trashy artwork I guess.

I’ve been feeling mentally a little out of it, I’m frustrated with the Risperdal, again. Granted, this med does help with my anxiety quite a bit, it’s just I feel kinda blunted, if that makes any sense. Maybe taking a full pill of Simply Sleep is affecting things too. Oh, I wish I weren’t so sensitive to these pills, or honestly, I wish I didn’t have to take them. But oh yes, I do. I know all too well what happens if I start tinkering. Not going down that street ever again.

Back to my art, back to my art show in May. The alleys haven’t been as productive lately as I’ve hoped, so I may have to raid some of the found objects Michael has collected over the years. That does take some of the fun out of my search, but my husband has quite a keen eye when it comes to locating interesting things. Me, I go straight for the trash, he likes the discarded toys, sunglasses, stuff like that. Maybe we are collecting the same thing, it’s all beauty is in the eye of the beholder, typical. I guess Michael wouldn’t mind if I incorporated some of his loot into my work. Think I’ll go for it.

Times like this I wouldn’t mind living in a trashier neighborhood, but we took a somber drive up S. Parsons yesterday after brunch and I saw firsthand how some people are living, crammed in tiny box houses with huge power lines in the front yard. It was really sobering to think that could be me living in one of those places, I’d definitely be looking at that were I to be eeking it out on my disability check alone. Yes, things could be so much worse, I’m infinitely blessed to be sure. Yes, I’m grateful for my view out my hospital window, to the alley and the two old, not so well-maintained houses. I don’t feel pressured to be perfect, in fact I feel that having imperfections is a beautiful thing to be sure. 

I picked up some interesting nuggets at last night’s AA meeting, including it’s time to stop judging our insides by other people’s outsides, and time to stop the comparison game. I’m going to try really hard to not take the snubs I perceive by some of the people walking around here, not judge the chilly women who automatically make me feel uncomfortable, because who in the world knows what’s going on with them, and I’d rather just continue to be my kind, outgoing self anyways. I will for the record say that I’ve met some very nice women neighbors along my way, so special hat tip to them. 

Yes, it’s blue skies this morning, I think I’ll have eggs for lunch. Carpe Diem, everyone. This be today’s verse.

Attack of the Ads?

 So it’s 3:30 in the morning, Lily has woken me up again, and all I’m seeing are pharmaceutical and cancer ads on my iPad—who needs this frightening stuff at this hour, it’s not Halloween, guess this is what you have to contend with if you cannot afford the stream services ad-free. Oh well, so much for hoping I could fall asleep in my recliner, I’m now absolutely petrified I’m on death’s door, so I guess I’ll just sit here in my hospital den room, shivering under blankets because it’s so cold in here. Maybe I’ll turn the heat up, even though I’m convinced our furnace is broken. OK, here goes.

Furnace is now up to 70, jazz is playing on Pandora. I had some very vivid dreams, I recall a segment where I was talking to Alicia on a Uniden phone that had belonged to Andi, and Big Lou was on the bed with me. Lish and I were talking about Andi, who was still alive but in very bad shape. Then I looked out the windows (I was back in my old City Park Ave. apartment) and someone was trying to steal my golf cart out of my garage, as Big Lou and Nell ran around barking. Strange stuff, but it all makes sense to me, my mind sifting back through memories where I felt angry and violated in the past. I don’t think I’m going to be whole until I can fully recover from those disturbing things I saw on Zoom and Wastebook, and let’s also throw in those menacing dog teeth someone sent me on Messenger. Who’s gonna be compensating all of us who have been damaged? No one?

I am left with just seeing how the Supreme Court decides to handle social media in their case beginning February 21, two days hence. I’ve asked mom to be on the lookout for WSJ coverage, this case brought by the family of a woman killed by ISIS, who organized through YouTube. I say the Buck Stops when people get seriously hurt—who’s responsible, we shall see. I say drag all the perpetrators into court, don’t let them hide simply by firing them, haul them before a judge(s) and admit wrongdoing and make restitution. Mom is wrong, there are indeed victims, and they need to be made whole again. 

So now, what to do about Lily and these early morning wake-up calls? Surely I’ve got to put a stop to this, how, I’m not quite sure yet. I know she needs a companion. It’s easy enough to bring a male Basset puppy in here, but that’s a huge undertaking, one I’m not so sure we are ready to tackle again. I like perhaps the option of getting serious feelers out there for a young male Basset, aged 2-4, already named, so that pressure is off of us. But Michael is saying we need another place, probably in the country, if we are serious about two hounds. I see his point, but when is that going to happen? Honestly, reader(s), I see us moving straight from this place into mom’s condo, when she passes. Rosalie Goodsell recommends that, anyways. Three-bedroom condo, pool on premises, hospital right down the street. It’s all there. Makes perfect sense. Right? But then there’s the issue of the electric ovens…whoops. Might be a deal breaker.

Yet wait a minute, I’m intrigued, we can honestly afford to buy the condo outright, work out fair distribution to my brother and sister, just keep all of mom’s furniture and move right in there. I don’t think the neighbors would mind, unless of course we let the yard go to pot, but I think Michael would keep it tidy…wouldn’t he? Would he like sitting on mom’s patio, would he eat at the breakfast room table, or maybe let me serve him dinner in the dining room? Might we even entertain, could that be a possibility? Dare I let myself get excited at the possibility that maybe my childhood memories, the good ones, are all stored at mom’s, waiting for me, and I might have a happy ending?

But let’s not put mom in the grave yet, nope, it’s not her time. Back to my place here, Lily, all the clothes strewn about upstairs, my art show in May. No need to think about moving, a massive undertaking, something which promises to be stressful indeed. Let’s get back to basics, One Day At A Time, today it’s blueberry oatmeal and cheese eggs for brunch, an Italian pot roast for dinner. I need to go to CVS and we need more coffee. It would be nice to do some walking, even though it’s cold outside. Of course I need to check in on mom, who, poor thing, is still testing positive for Covid, despite a consistently low temperature. I picked up some extra chicken salad for her yesterday, paid for it myself and I feel good about that. Used my meager checking account monies. It’s all good.

Yes I’m feeling better now, here at 6:03 a.m. That’s what a little writing (and a little jazz and Joe) can do for you. I’ll end here with a prayer:

Dear God, I’m going to try my best to turn things over to you when it comes to planning my future. I do so want to try and manipulate Michael to buy into my ideas, but maybe God you are in charge of us both and already have a happy ending planned for us. God, watch over mom today, keep her calm and carrying on. And God, watch over Legs, who I’m sure is making a racket up in heaven. We miss him down here, but this quiet is kinda nice. Amen.

Caretaking

 Well happy Saturday, dear reader(s), today I’m heading over to mom’s to bring our little Covid patient some tests and her chicken salad with grapes from Kroger. I’m tempted to bring her some cookies too, but she’s so rigid in her eating, she may just throw those out, so I’ll just stick with what she asked me to get. I’m fairly certain mom has made it through getting Covid, which relieves me immensely. I’m remembering back three years ago when mom had that strange “pneumonia” and I had to call the squad to get her to Mt. Carmel East—that tough old bird of ours, she made it through, God bless mom (and me for that matter). Classical 101 is playing tear jerkers this morning, but I’m not going to cry…the Risperdal I’m on effectively prevents that anyway, so I guess Michael doesn’t need to worry.

Why is everyone crying all over the place, the sun is out today, who’s dying now, I’d like to look at it as who’s being born today—a little Basset pup, who might come join Lily? Why are they inserting politics on Classical 101, who is financing their donations now, George Soros? Guess I may have to file a FOIA request to see who’s been donating to the station, though I’m pretty sure it’s the usual suspects, smoking pipes in the SNL Green Room.

Sucks to be smart, sucks to be always looking around, sucks to have a long-term memory that’s come back (though the short-term is under lock and key by the high levels of Risperdal). All I know is I need more than crushed beer cans to do my art, wish Rumpke could cough up some more jewels for me. Where are the light bulb sleeves, where are the Yoo Hoo bottles, where are the children’s toys (Jacks and red rubber balls preferred). Hell, are they still making Pick Up Sticks, who knows, if I had money I’d peruse a toy store (if they aren’t all bankrupt). Nope, when you’ve got no money you gotta take what the streets give you, and I definitely wish I had more to work with.

Yes, Classical 101 is getting ready for the Oscar’s, what’s liberal Hollywood’s agenda this year, is it Year of the Woman (mistake), or did they get it right and sound the alarm that young white males in this country are entirely lost and alienated, thanks to Hollywood itself? And maybe we point the finger at Hollywood, who in my unabashed opinion needs to thoroughly clean house (and toss more coin into efforts to recruit bright minds into civil service). Where’s George Lucas when you need him, why has Spielberg got Williams in his pocket, guess I’ll begrudgingly watch the Oscar’s looking for a clue, but don’t ask me to watch “Tar.” Too close to the bone, and careful, this sleeping dog may bite.

No, I think the only movie I want to see is the Affleck/Damon number about Air Jordan’s, I want to see why Michael and Ye are so entranced, bring on the Boy Toys, let’s see what that’s all about. I hope the movie is showing at the old AMC Lennox, and we can grab a bite at Alladin’s in Grandview after the show. Maybe Michael will let me get some popcorn, but probably not. Oh well, such is the life of a Gentleman’s Casino wife.

OK that’s all for today. Final tip: If you want to see a great Spielberg film, check out “1941.” It got canned but I absolutely loved it. Catch you down the road.

Carryin’ On

 

Well good morning, dear readers, I started my morning off with a little reflection aided by YouTube, then immediately proceeded to my First Things First AA meeting, where we read about AA history. I love those readings, as I’m a history buff (following in Dad’s footsteps). There was some discussion by the male attendees about their experience bringing AA to the prisons, and I was curious why sponsor Shawn didn’t share, as he visited a prison earlier this week. But regardless, it was a good meeting, and I’m feeling ready to discuss a little bit of my Fourth Step with Shawn this morning at Starbucks. For some strange reason, I want to be discussing this Fourth Step in a public place on High Street. I feel comfortable there, not like when I attempted a Fourth Step before, with that woman, I cannot remember her name now, except she used to live on Jenkins Street, in the south end.

I wanted to share with you that, with the exception of a very kind female dog walker I met, the women I have seen walking around here and tried to communicate with are very, very strange and chilly, not warm and welcoming at all. It’s a damn shame, and further telling me that I need to stick with the men I meet, who have been friendly and warm, smiling, kind, pleasant and yes, some funny and memorable. I don’t know what’s up with these women, who pissed in their cornflakes, maybe they need to get laid, maybe they got misled by MeToo or cancel culture, maybe they are just lost and looking for some signpost telling them where to go. I feel sorry for them, actually, it sucks to be in such a bad mood all the time, maybe if all the males in this country didn’t feel so alienated they might have an ally to help them trudge the happy road of destiny with a partner. Who knows, maybe I shouldn’t care so much about the sour look on these ladies’ faces, but it bothers me. Such is my life.

Anyways, sourpusses aside, I feel pretty good right now, not mad at Lily for howling me awake at 4:30 a.m., hell, she’s grieving just as hard as me and Michael. It’s another Gray Lady Day in Columbus, my plate today isn’t too full, just meeting Shawn then going to Kroger for provisions for the weekend. Michael says he doesn’t want pork products anymore, but I’m craving them, so not sure how to navigate our brunches. Probably make oatmeal, or something else healthy, a fruit salad maybe with buttermilk pancakes? It’s hard getting a balanced diet, but I try my best. Everybody’s apparently wanting you to cut back salt, or maybe if you’re an alkie you need it, who knows, maybe we let people be fat and happy, pass the cake.

That’s all for today, happy trails to you, and all of that. Try to have a good day, smile at strangers (if you can put down your phones), I promise, you’ll feel better for it. Later folks.

Early to Bed, Early to Rise

 

Well a rise and shine, dear reader(s), I come to you a little before 6:00 a.m., after falling asleep at 7:30 p.m. last night. Gotta brush away the sleep from my eyes, wow, I really conked out hard last night. I’m listening to a little classical right now, but it’s making me very emotional—not sure I want to start today off in tears though, so I may have to switch to Q-FM shortly for a little relief. We are hanging in here at Hound Hall, though Michael has been severely angry with the way Med Vet handled Legs’ euthanasia and is toying with thoughts of legal action. He had a long talk with Dr. Sears which I was not privy to—I know deep down Michael just wants closure on Legs’ death, and I am praying Dr. Sears can gently help give that to him. If it were at all possible, we would have had Dr. Sears put Legs down, but no, fate did not have that in the cards. How I wish things had played out a different way, but God had something else in store for us. So be it, I say, let sleeping dogs lie, and all that.

So today Michael and I do our Covid tests to see if we picked up the virus from mom. Honestly readers I have no symptoms right now and I feel fine. To be safe, I went ahead and made arrangements with Fetter to do our therapy session on Zoom today, as I would never want to be responsible for getting him sick. He just had Covid over Christmas and I don’t want him to get it again. I’m looking forward to our zoom, I need to express my grief to him, hopefully he will have some advice as to how I heal from the loss of my beloved pet. I am enjoying the reprieve from Legs’ barking, which really was disruptive, so I can admit that to you without guilt. But damn, I miss that gorgeous, skinny boy so much. 

On the “when it rains it pours” front, our basement sewer drain is backed up, again, and we are waiting on Kevin Bartholomew, again, to come help us out of this mess. The dishes are piled up in the sink, my laundry can’t be run, toilets can’t be flushed. When will this problem ever be solved? Michael is trying to navigate us through it, but I think it’s way over his head (and budget). I’m resolved to try and stay cool as a cucumber, though I am slightly simmering that we are just a broke household of misfits in today’s capitalistic society in America. I’m embarrassed to be living this way, shamed, I feel unfit and awful about myself. I feel like I don’t belong in my toney neighborhood, filled with beautifully restored houses and well-manicured gardens. What am I doing here, I don’t know, I probably belong in the ghetto, amongst the trashy houses, and wandering the crime-ridden streets. I want to give up (even though I know I can’t). Dad, why aren’t you here to help? Mom, apparently, isn’t up to it right now.

Well, there is always the AA First Things First meeting this morning, perhaps there are some plumbers in attendance, or maybe someone from the media. Who knows who is remaining silent like me, and do you think there will be some masked disruptor like they had the other day? Who knows, I’ve got my coffee, and I’m in my recliner chair. My name is Melissa, I’m an alcoholic, this much is true.

***

The AA meeting was great, and YouTube had the awesome Backstreet Boys waiting for me in my morning queue. Oh, how I wish they would make a concert stop in Columbus, I’d be the first in line to buy tickets (fingers crossed they wouldn’t be too pricey). I just love that Boy Band, they give me the tingles, I don’t quite completely understand why I’ve latched on to them but so be it. Of course I love my husband, but mild flirtations with fantasy are entirely OK. At least I think so.

Michael is now up, he’s not sick, I think we are in the clear from catching Covid. He’s called Eco Plumbers, they are coming tomorrow, I guess Bartholomew isn’t an option anymore? Michael told me Lily was up barking at 2:00 a.m., gratefully I slept through that, though I heard her crying at 4:30 a.m. I’m for the time being gonna pop a whole Simply Sleep at night, so I can try to get my rest. I feel good right now, slept well last night, don’t remember any dreams, though I’m sure I had some. Gratefully, I don’t think I had much exposure to the news yesterday, and that’s probably why I slept well. I will continue on my path of trying to protect myself from it, collecting pieces of refuse for my art, praying that Michael doesn’t dump our sewage into the neighbor’s yard, oh, just working on turning things over. Gratefully, Eco  Plumbers is on the phone, maybe they can come today? Fingers crossed.

Oh it’s not a beautiful day in the neighborhood, rain is falling, I’m cold here in my hospital room. Time to call mom, see how she is doing, and take my Covid test. Happy Thursday, all. Welcome to the jungle.

Enter The Sandman?

 

So an aching, early good morning dear reader(s), it’s my 3rd day in a row of an early wake up call—at 1:45 a.m. this morning, not sure yet if I can fall back asleep, like yesterday. May have to alert Dr. Levy, though I might hold off on that one more day. My concern of course is I’m on some pattern which might lead to hypomania, then a quick ramp up into psychotic mania. Obviously the death of Legs followed quickly by mom’s Covid case has rattled me deeply. If anything, I’m acutely aware of any possible signs that I might be getting unstable—I’ve gone through the rodeo of sickness so many times, been in so many hospitals, that honestly I’m feeling like I can weather this current situation with the medication I’m currently taking. I just panic whenever my sleep gets disrupted, as sleep is the number one indicator of stability in bipolar patients. I know I’d be thoroughly screwed if I wasn’t getting any sleep at all, but certainly getting only 4-5 hours a night is problematic when you are used to getting 9-10 hours a night.

I’m not going to make that mistake of taking more Simply Sleep, only to risk it not working and me sitting here groggy and completely zoned out. I just wish I understood why my eyes suddenly opened at 1:45, was I dreaming, did Lily will me awake, is something not right with the Force, is someone else up at this hour worrying and questioning like I am? I hear the annoying pulsatile tinnitus in my ears, and I’m annoyed that’s apparently back again, thanks to whatever is causing that nuisance. I just want to sleep, I’m so very tired, maybe I go get back in bed and try to drift off. I wonder if the ABC Nightly News is somehow responsible for me being awake—unfortunately, I caught a snippet of some of their coverage last night, about a mass shooter, nope, I certainly didn’t need to hear about that on Valentine’s Day. Oh, I can’t stand what television has become, my serenity is wrecked, I need to do what sponsor Shawn did and get rid of the TV—or at least hide upstairs in my solitary confinement room with no TV present.

Nope, no more hospitals for me, this last go around with Dublin Springs was a disaster, what with me being put in a room right next to the blaring TV set. What were they thinking?! Wanting to drive me completely crazy?! And the tattooed staff, Jesus, how unprofessional, what in the hell was that place? Prison? I don’t trust any hospital here in Columbus anymore, I’d rather just live in my toilet closet until the meds knock me out. Sorry to be so dark, I’m just so, so tired, I just want to be sleeping, maybe if I close my eyes I can drift off in my chair. Won’t try to go back upstairs, Lily will just start crying and get me to come back downstairs. This is horrible.

I’m going to start crying again, I just feel tears welling up, why doesn’t anyone else see what a mess this country is, how TV and the news all play a part, there is just sickness everywhere, no one is laughing, people are hurting, no leaders to be found, everyone lost—or maybe that’s some big U.S. Mind Control Massive, like I saw spray painted on the pavement in front of Howrey & Simon at the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and 17th Sts., NW, so long ago. I’m sick of the cold, chilly characters who have descended on my neighborhood. I don’t know where they come from, I can guess their M.O., they aren’t the cool cats you want to have as neighbors, the ones who used to stand with me in Schiller Park back in the 1990s when I went there for Happy Hour with our dogs who all played together. This place has changed, and it’s for the worse. Screw City Hall, screw the Democrats and Republicans, the cowards who got us all in this mess to begin with. How in the world are we going to get our youngsters into Civil Service, which is exactly where they are needed most, not trapped in their parent’s basements, playing Nintendo way into their 30s.

Big Lou, Legs, I miss my male hounds terribly. I’m just not complete without them. I mean, Lily is smart, yes, it’s just the male Bassets have so much character, they always do. And yes, they are the lookers. Legs, your passing has really set me back, I never anticipated how deeply I would feel your loss. I definitely better alert Dr. Levy, I will send a text this morning explaining my situation. Perhaps he can see me earlier than our scheduled appointment later this month. But then again maybe he is booked, who knows, I will find out. Or maybe all I need is my Fetter appointment tomorrow? Maybe I just need to talk to someone about my grief, and maybe that’s not Levy but Fetter. Maybe talk about it at the First Things First AA meeting. Maybe I need to call sponsor Shawn. I’ve got options. 

Time for a prayer:

Dear God, help me through my grief, I’m hurting so much. Help me to find kind, compassionate people to guide me through this painful process. Help me to sleep, I’m scared of getting sick again, I don’t want to be afraid of my bipolar. Speak to me through Fetter tomorrow, or anyone else I might talk to today. Walk with me today God, guide Lily, I will follow her. Work through my hands in the kitchen today. Dear God, watch over Legs, and Lou and Nell; say hi to Dad and his poker group; and help those troubled souls back down here on Earth to find peace. Amen.

I hope I don’t get angry today, no, I don’t want that. Just feel like I need to be away from the TV for awhile. Yup, maybe it’s a day for staying up in bed. Except I do want to take Lily for a walk. I need my exercise and so does she. Maybe today we will hunt for honesty. Could be tricky, as people are omitting facts right and left. Oh well. Far be it from me to figure that out. I’m turning things over…right?

Took a listen to a podcast my psychologist brother sent me about healing anxiety for good, and it was all blame the mother, nurture the Inner Child, trying to repackage all the stuff I’ve been working on in therapy since before my brother even knew he wanted to be a therapist. My poor mother, how about giving her a break, she’s simply the product of her fucked up childhood, and trying to do the best she can. 

Time for a poem, Philip Larkin’s “This Be The Verse,” maybe Chip’s podcast host needs to do a reading of this gem on her show. Thank God for the poets, probably anxious all, and thank God we didn’t throw them all on Risperdal, for the world would be missing out.

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad, they do not mean to, but they do

They fill you with the faults they have, and add some extra, just for you!

But they were fucked up in their day, by fools in old-style hats and coats

Who half the time were soppy stern, and half at one another’s throats

Man hands on misery to man

It deepens like a coastal shelf

Get out as early as you can

And don’t have kids yourself.

***

And on this happy note, go back to your podcasts, your temples, your massage parlors. For me, it’s Sleepless In Seattle, but I’ve got my hand over my heart now. Guess that’s enough.

Switchin To Glide

 

Well Michael reminded me that God only gives you what he thinks you can handle—and now with Legs gone, mom with Covid and me having been exposed to her Saturday, I’d say I’m shouldering a lot today. Valentine’s Day too, and I couldn’t give a hoot, I no more want to be cooking today than the man on the moon. I’m just numb, trapped at home because I don’t know if I’m sick and I don’t want to infect anyone. I had hoped to take mom to Vets Memorial next Monday to see the art displayed, but now that’s in jeopardy. How cruel fate is. So I’ve turned to Q-FM 96, which is helping me cry, with their erectile dysfunction ads and commentary about their 46th anniversary, which I deeply appreciate. Hopefully I can crack a smile this morning, though admittedly it’s gonna be hard. 

At least the tears are flowing, thank you sweet Legs for opening the door for me. I know it was your departing gift, and will get me started on my journey to smile and laugh again. Ah, Q-FM, thank goodness you are here, even though I can’t always follow you because of these friggin meds but I’m trying my best to stick with you as best I can. They’ve alerted me to the realization that National Enquirer is not at my Kroger—perhaps I need to put a mask on and drive to the Grandview Giant and thumb through one there? The nurse I talked to yesterday seemed to indicate that it was OK for me to be out as long as I had a mask on, seeing as I have no symptoms of Covid. Or maybe I get Michael to get Legs’ chair out of the parlor…but we might dissolve into tears if we do that, so perhaps we wait awhile.

I’m a mix of emotions today, all I know is I feel destined to be listening to Q-FM this morning, perhaps they are my Valentine all along, maybe I’m left with a radio station, now that all the print newspapers are all but gone. Dear Q-FM 96, it’s your 46th birthday today, Long Live Rock, I’m so very glad I’m listening to you today, free (of course). I hope there are many, many others here tuned in to you today. I think I’m going to ask Michael to tune into you during my art show in May. Let’s set the stage, shall we? 

Yup, Q-FM understands, and maybe they will help me heal my tears, which may be coming out at different times throughout the day. I’m thinking about e-mailing the station manager for a request for Warren Zevon, though I’m not sure it’s suitable for Walt Disney watchers. But then again, the disc jockeys already covered the boring nature of G-rated movies, so hell, they may be game for anything these days. All I know is Wastebook doesn’t come close to providing as much entertainment as my beloved Q-FM, so good riddance Fuckerberg. Guess I’m riding the range of emotions today, which actually feels nice. The hospital dose of Risperdal (STILL) hasn’t taken me completely out, though I may never be able to drive a beautiful highway again. Sucks to always be a passenger.

So we are getting closer to Lily’s walk, hope no one tosses a bar of chocolate inside our gate like they did when we first brought Legs home and he let loose with his barking. Someone on Nextdoor said we now have to be outside with our dogs whenever they go out for their dumps—whoops, there goes the neighborhood, when the dogs aren’t safe, better alert PETA, I guess no more wearing furs anymore, so fashion is out the window. Better call that friendly Sargeant Community Liaison and let him know someone wants to chase all the hounds out of the neighborhood, and what are we to do when this neighborhood has been a dog-loving place for DECADES.

Ah, new neighbors moving in, trying to change the rules at the craps table. Nope, sorry friends, first in, last out is the rule of the day. Legs’ law (thanks Apple word prompt) says we gotta play it this way, so all you new home buyers beware of what you’re signing up for (ending with that word for a purpose). Yes, I think I may start looking for a new male Basset some time in the future. Lily is depressed, I’m a loose cannon, the Blue Jackets may have tossed off a curse with Legs moving on to greener pastures. Edwin the house cleaner says he’s up to the challenge of cleaning our house, and maybe, just maybe, I can start bathing regularly and putting away my clothes. But maybe not. Gotta talk to Levy and Fetter about that.

Bring on rock and roll, the old bands, the new bands, just please Q-FM, stay true to your programming roots and keep the Christian rock on it’s appropriate station lower on the dial. You know the special way to spread the Good Word to the people. Stick with the classics, the originals, oh, you know what you are doing, no need for me to send any emails (except for the occasional request). Now how to weave Q-FM into my triptych honoring the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Google (maybe Apple) and Wastebook? Such is my challenge, and I shall have to think about it…perhaps I will need some Diet Ginger Ale to assist me on my efforts, seeing as cheap red wine (or scotch and soda with a twist) is absolutely out of the question. Better get the remainder of the moldy art out of the basement, I’m gonna need that table down there me thinks (if the mold hasn’t already gotten to it). 

No, Columbus Department of Health, no need to scare everyone with warnings about radon, if we all wanna die young it’s our choice. Note to self: order that sign “My Choice” from Amazon, or have mom do it and just add it to my running tab of birthday gifts in 2023. Now how do I try to make some scratch myself this year? Ask Google to mar my unread blog with their AI-chosen ads, which will completely destroy my art I am trying to create? Just take a tour of those food blogs over on Google and see what an absolute mess they have become; even the New York Times is flirting with ads on their Cooking App. It’s a tragedy, I say, what to do about all this, maybe I fire off an email and sound the alarm, but then again maybe not. Can’t fight City Hall (or can you?).

Yup, there may be more tears today, but I’ve mustered a small smile, so I’ve got that going for me. I’m so glad I found my way back to Q-FM today, Legs would have wanted that. Who cares if Lily woke me up at 2:30 a.m. this morning, at least I fell back asleep in my recliner, cold, yes, but I slept and that’s good. I feel OK, no Covid symptoms yet, maybe I’ve got luck on my side too. Who knows. Hope the sun is shining where you are today. Smiles, everyone, smiles!

Just Another (Non) Manic Monday

 Well sweet Lily has foiled my attempts to go back to sleep, so here I am as 4:00 a.m. approaches, grateful at least for the 5 or so hours of sleep I got last night. I’ve had a long run of good night’s sleep, so I guess this is par for the course. Oh well. Coffee is brewing, got the Ray Charles playing on Pandora, Lily and Michael are sleeping, Legs is in heaven playing with Lou and Nell. Guess I shouldn’t have taken the extra Simply Sleep at 2:00 a.m., so lesson maybe learned there. Guess you might need to teach this old dog some new tricks. Sigh. Michael said I don’t have to cook tonight, so odds are good I can just rest in bed this afternoon. Blessed be.

Lord, I’m tired. Wonder if I’ll just conk out in my chair. Definitely think maybe I might go back to bed when Michael comes downstairs. I guess I’m relieved that Legs won’t be making a racket, wanting his walk. There’s something to be said about the sounds of silence. Yup, I’ve got the AA First Things First meeting at 7:00 a.m. It’s Meditation Monday. I’ll just be listening, of course. Friend Lolly is up at this hour so we texted. I told her to text Michael, who I know is really hurting right now. Yesterday was so terribly difficult for him, heck for us both. And Lily too. Not sure what today will bring. I hope Michael has a friend to reach out to—or maybe when we see Dr. Sears Thursday he can help give Michael closure. 

Let me say some words about my strange, cantankerous (at times) husband. He actually has a heart of gold, he knows goodness when he sees it, maybe he just feels neutered in a way by someone, something in this wretched current state of affairs we find ourselves currently living in these days. All I wish for him is to find some friends to talk with—he is so intelligent and funny, and if you can get past his wild, long hair, you might see a twinkle in his eye (if he lets you see it). I’m the more outgoing one, but Michael opens up too if given the chance. He is the Yin to my Yang, I’m so deeply intertwined with him. Some may call that unhealthy, but it’s held us together for 21 years, and hey, isn’t that an accomplishment? I hope he can process his pain with someone, well, I guess besides me, if that’s possible. Look at me, I just worry about everyone, just like mom. Hence why I need my sessions with Fetter.

Well, we are getting closer to 7:00 a.m. now, and my AA session. People on Pandora are talking about Valentine’s Day this week, but I really don’t feel like making a big production out of it this year. I’ve got a broken heart right now, not sure when or how it is to be mended. I guess no one knows how long grieving takes. Part of me is tempted to start looking for a replacement of Legs; another part tells me to wait, just grieve, feel the feelings, trust in my Higher Power to guide us. I’m confused but that’s OK. And I’m sad. Terribly sad. Such is life right now.

Ode To Legs

 Greetings all, it’s me here, up at 2:00 a.m., probably awoken by a nightmare but I don’t recall. Maybe Legs came to me in my sleep and awoke me, who knows. I know what’s required, took some more Simply Sleep, so I’m waiting for that to kick in, which it should in due course. While waiting, I wanted to reflect on my dear, departed Sir Little Legs, the most legendary Basset you could ever hope to meet. Descended from stud Special Forces, who won the Hound group at Westminster. Only male in that litter of females I saw when I went with Shirl to Athens to pick our pups out. So loud that he drove at least three people out from surrounding homes to our property. Anxious, drooly, yet ever so lovable, Legs was ours, and we loved him so much.

Thinking about how he was struggling in the end, I was struck yesterday afternoon with such profound grief, and doubt as to whether we were good parents for Legs…mom assured me that we were, we spoiled him, let him have the run of this place, walked him, tried to train him and socialize him from the get-go, yet he always was nervous around other dogs (never people). I’m pretty sure this is because his litter was removed from their mother early—maybe that’s why he was only $300 (or was it $350?). Sometimes I would get so embarrassed by his barking, other times I felt protected by it. I thought about getting him a bark collar, but that felt so cruel so I didn’t end up purchasing one. Oh, was I a bad parent, or maybe just a bad neighbor? Is everyone around us silently celebrating Legs’ demise? Will sweet Basset Lily pick up where Legs left off? Will Legs be reincarnated into another Basset we might adopt?

Dearest Legs, I miss you terribly. I cannot look at your chair without feeling such incredible pain. I’m going to have Michael put it out by the trash (when he is ready). I’m not throwing you in the trash, Legs, I just know your beloved piece belongs with all of my art works that are waiting for it at the dump. I’ll be listening for you today, Legs, in the voices of birds out in the trees in our yard. I know you are here with me, and I know you’re not suffering anymore. Perhaps you can follow me down to Athens when I drive down there with Arlene this Spring. I’ll bring your clay paw print with me, tucked in my purse so I have you close. Edwin the house cleaner will soon be here to wash you away from the floors, but it will be cathartic for us all. I may never clean your blanket again, or maybe down the line I will cut the blanket up into pieces for a quilted piece of art. My heart is broken, dear Legs. I miss you so.

Keep Movin’ On

 Well I’ve cued up the Ray Charles, like we did when we headed out West to Yellowstone. We are on our way to Med Vet. Michael talked to them about cremation services. Tears are flowing. I’m prepared.

***

Legs is gone. Our beloved, loud Athens hound has joined Big Lou and Miss Nell at the Rainbow Bridge. At last, he isn’t suffering anymore, he is at peace. Michael was back with him during the last moments before the euthanasia, I couldn’t bear to see him, so I sat crying in the waiting room, talking to a youngster there, who offered soothing words as I sobbed. At least I could shed some tears, the Risperdal didn’t completely block them. Michael was a mix between crying and grousing about the staff at Med Vet, but I was sure to apologize for his behavior, which was nothing more than his way of showing grief.

Me, I’m actually feeling a sense of calm and relief now that Legs is no longer suffering. Yes, there is a huge hole in my heart, how will it feel walking one Basset instead of two? Sure, as expected I’ve already put out subtle “feelers” for a source to be on the lookout for a male Basset for us…what do you expect, we got Legs inside of a month of Lou passing. Hey, I work quickly. I’m feeling like walking, I think I’ll make my way to the alleys, silently paying homage to Legs and the streets here he loved so much. More later, I have to move.

Dark Side Of The Moon

 

So. Somber day here at home, I’m a wreck watching Legs and his breathing, I cannot tell if he’s in distress and dying, though it looks like he is reasonably OK right now. Michael spent a long time with Med Vet on the phone this morning and now he is talking privately to mom—I’m thinking about all those people in the Arena last night laughing at the man in our section who revealed his butt crack when he leaned over, but I was stoically silent, such is the fate of worriers. I don’t think we are going to Med Vet today, save an emergency cropping up—Michael wants to see Dr. Sears, who knows Legs, he has treated him his entire life, so I’ve just got to hang in there and hope we can get into see our vet earlier than planned. I’m completely powerless here, and thank God I know Step One by heart, I’ve done it perfectly, as required. 

The game was a bust last night, we got shut out, I should have known we were in trouble when we didn’t get the free popcorn I thought we were getting with our tickets. Don’t know where that miscalculation on my part popped into my head, probably misinterpreted some Gameday Blast I received in my email. Because my heart is also breaking about Legs’ current condition, I’m going to head to mom’s on this sunny day, and try to work on some art, perhaps start that piece in homage to Jasper Johns. I’m not good with death, it rattles my serenity, I think I can handle my own death when it comes, but when it comes to my creatures great and small, it’s terribly, terribly difficult to process.

I just want to run away, how in the hell am I going to handle days of watching Legs like a hawk? Maybe I just pack a bag for mom’s now, and hide out there for a week (assuming she’d have me). Now Michael is telling me if I want to go to mom’s that’s OK—what about all the stuff we bought for Super Bowl Sunday, will all that get thrown out? I feel absolutely trapped, in a straitjacket, I cannot get loose, it’s horrible. If I go to mom’s, I won’t get these final days (if that’s what we are truly talking about here) with Legs, if I stay here I will slowly go insane with worry until we get to Dr. Sears (what if he cannot see us early next week?). OK Legs wants to go on his walk, he is eating, Michael is calm, it’s ME, I don’t agree with holding off, I want to rush Legs to Med Vet, maybe his demise (?), I don’t know what to think anymore. It all just HURTS.

I know I’ve got to get out of this house, at least for now, and that’s what I’m going to do after brunch. I will bring my pills and that ugly green bag and pack lightly for a few days away. I hope mom will have me, Michael has food here, and keys to the VW, which hopefully still runs. I’m in a nightmare, I just want to create art. That’s all for now.