January 2003 Archives

I wake at 6:46 am. Willi has moved to the top of the bed and his head is tucked in beside mine on the pillow. I feel the hardness of our two skulls touching. I think about what these hard encasements of bone protect and contain. I think about how the brain is to a very large degree an involuntary organ. From the moment I become half conscious I am aware of an endless series of thoughts and half sentences that have been forming quite merrily on their own. Each phrase is about something else. My brain, when it is left to its own devices, quite gingerly vomits up thoughts and half finished ideas at me.

I wake at 7:19 am. Apparently all rhyme or reason has vanished from sleep. Stephen and I get up at exactly the same time. Willi remains cozy at the foot of the bed. Not only is it frozen outside, but my mind is saying that the freeze is deep and extends to the rut I am in.

Perhaps I need to do the hokey-pokey and turn it all around. Wish I had more to say, but sometimes less is more. Anyone else is in a rut? Tell me about it! It's all yours.

And so the day begins…

I wake up at 4:55 am. I stay in bed for a while. Then I throw in the towel and call it a morning. Decaf. Morning pages…three of them. Ah, so that’s what’s floating around in my cesspool of a mind. All these bits and pieces, it’s no wonder I can’t stay sleep.

I wake up at 6:30 am. I go to the kitchen and open a new can of decaf and make coffee. I skip my morning writing…not good. Why? Because I feel hurried? Not a good sign.

I wake up at 4:02 am. Willi’s stomach is gurgling again and he is staring me down. After a week of homemade dog food which I thought had cured his illness, we are at the beginning of his cycle again. This tells me his stomach problems are not coming from the food he is eating. It’s a pattern. His vet has ruled out other more serious conditions which leaves only a few other possibilities. I had hoped the homemade food had cured what ailed him but it has not. One more visit to the vet.

I wake up at 6:45 am, a bit early for a Saturday morning. Stephen and Willi are sound asleep as I make my way down the hall to the kitchen. I make decaf and sit down to write in my morning pages book. A stream of names of people I need to write or phone come through my hand onto the page.

Happy Birthday Alana! Oh my goodness you are as old as me. Well God help us both. Remember...you are not getting older, and in your case I actually tend to believe this. I haven't forgotten, I've just been swamped at work all day. I will call you from home when I get there.

I wake at 6:45 am. Stephen is well underway…almost out the door when I hear him shuffling the cars around in the driveway. The room is almost completely dark, except for the slightest hint of early morning. I am warm under the blanket and would prefer to fall back asleep but of course that is not on the agenda today. Willi has found a cozy spot on the foot of the bed and is sleeping peacefully. Could this be the same dog that was so irritated just a few days ago? What a little home cookin’ can do.

I finally get up as Stephen is heading out the door. A subzero breeze comes down the hall as he leaves for work. The cold is getting to me. It’s been fine until now, but this morning it hit me; it is as cold as bloody Jerry Falwell out there.

I go to the kitchen and make a pot of decaf. I am bored. I am bordering on lackluster but living in dreary. I am as flat and chalky as a pancake at Denny’s minus the syrup and butter. I am not a whirlpool, nor an impending thunderstorm. I am the bathwater someone forgot to empty out the night before. I am an unfocused idea that may or may not hit the drawing board. I am a hand sketch I started but will get around to finishing when I find the time. I am a Will & Grace rerun, or as Rob would call it…Will & Disgrace. I have lost my will and what a disgrace. I am not exactly depressed, I am just recessed. I have swallowed up too many negative disgusting images of late and they are watering me down; I am a self-portrait in shades of decaf.

And so a new day begins…

I wake at 5:30 am. A nightmare wakes me. In the dream I am fighting for my life. Which life is that? The one I've had these past two years or the one before that? In reality, I have forgotten to turn the heat down and am overheating under the covers. It’s one of those dreams that seem real and even probable. I get up and turn down the heat in the house. When I return to the bed Willi has taken my spot.

After lying in bed for another twenty minutes I realize that it is a hopeless case to try to fall back asleep again. I missed my early morning writing practice yesterday and perhaps this is why the chaos is showing up in my dreams. I head for the kitchen and write three pages of stream of consciousness anything. Better out there than in here I tell myself. And it helps a bit. I work through the dream and what it is trying to tell me. One of the messages in the dream is simple…to keep my cool. Turn the heat down so that I won’t unconsciously lose my head. That sounds like good advice.

I wake up at 7:12 am. Stephen is all dressed up in suit and tie this morning with a full day ahead of him. A meeting with the client. My agenda for the day: Staying warm. Staying interested.

I took Willi to the vet yesterday because of the irritation in his digestive system. His vet listed a bunch of things it could be, none of which sounded particularly calming or reassuring to me.

I wake up at 6:50 am. I make a mental list of all the things I need to do today, none of which I find particularly wonderful. I do not feel like rising but I do anyway.

Willi has stopped eating again. Two days now he has just refused to eat anything. Time to go to the vet again. His stomach has not been normal for months and he goes through a cycle of eating then getting ill, then refusing to eat then getting better again, eating for a few days until the whole thing starts all over again. Poor little guy. I have been to the vet at least five times with this problem over the past few months but nothing we have tried in terms of diet has made much of a difference. Every time I think we have finally licked the problem, it starts again. Of course the fear I have is that something evil and horrible is lurking.

The course of human relationships seems to consist of a constant dynamic flow of push and pull. To some people we are drawn like a magnet, to others we feel pushed away or repelled. These forces are in play at all times. People will come and go, live and die, push and pull, and out of all this commotion, if we are lucky, with some people we will form deep, eternal attachments.

Attachments are never light or fluffy because they involve the very real potential of loss; the greater the attachment the greater the loss. And this is where the push and pull of relationships comes from, in an implicit awareness that if I love you I could lose you and that would leave me with a hole in my heart. But if I do not take the risk to love, then my heart may be intact but it will be empty. The blood of attachment will not pump through it and my heart will choke and contract onto its own emptiness.

Had a horrible night's sleep. After Gangs of New York, I couldn't unwind, and then when I finally did fall asleep Willi was staring me down again and woke me up. It was 2:30 am when I put my clothes back on and went for an emergency walk with the dog.

When I got back I had lost interest in sleeping. Willi promptly went back to bed and I went to the living room and put on the DVD of Order And Disorder, Episode two: 1825-1865 New York, A Documentary Film by Ric Burns. What a wonderful piece of work about New York. I have always had a "thing" for New York; this might be due to the fact that I was born there, January 5, 1961.

I’d like to look out my window, I really would, but it’s so damn darn cold out there that the windows in this 1961 house we live in are frozen over. All I see are intricate patterns of chaos. Finally the outside matches the inside, not exactly the synchronicity I’ve been hoping for. By the time I finish writing this the sun will have melted away most of the chaos on the surfaces but what is deeper down is not so simple.

I get back in from our surprise early morning walk at around 1:00 am. I am wide awake again. I try to go back to bed but after about twenty minutes I realize that this isn’t going to work. I head out to the living room, blanket and pillow in hand and make myself comfortable on the couch.

I watch a DVD of the old Lucy Show…the episode where Lucy Carmichael tries to get Jack Benny to move his money into the bank where she works for Mr. Mooney. This calms me a bit. The benign, mischievous universe of Lucy always calms me.

In bed by 10:35 pm. Read a few pages of the Dorothy Parker biography I am plodding my way through. Lights out at 11:05 pm. 12:45 am there is a white dog staring at me so loudly that it wakes me from my sound sleep. Guess who needs to go out for yet another walk? This happens when Willi gets irregular.

I wake at 7:05 am. I feel rested. I head for the kitchen and make six cups of decaf which will turn into three mugs. I open my morning pages book and write three pages of stream of consciousness anything. I listen to the yammering in my head and do my best to transcribe it onto the page where it will be out there and not in here.

Writing is how I save myself. Writing is how I navigate my way through my life. Writing is how I gain access to my other forms of creativity. When I stop writing, I also stop singing, and drawing, and composing. The more I write the more creativity comes through me. That’s just how it works for me. Writing is the opening to my creative well. What is yours? What is your trigger?

I wake at 7:10 am. It’s dark out. I make decaf and head straight to my computer because there are some things that I need to say you; remind you of.

You must know that you are important in this life, in the world, that you are unique and precious. There will never be another you, and if you don’t say it and you don’t tell it, sing it, dance it, paint it, build it, write it, then who will? WHO WILL? It will go into your grave with you. Don’t let that happen. Make something that will stay behind in the hearts and minds of those who love you.

I am not going to write anything today. Woops, I just did. What I mean to say is that I’ve been writing a lot lately, and I’m a bit tired. I need a chance to restock my creative pond. This is where you can help me out. What’s on your mind today? How about speaking out about that, just the way I’ve been doing for months. I pass you the mic, and invite you to say what’s on your mind.

For those who leave questions I’ll be checking in periodically to answer them. For those of you who just want to bring up your own stories, by all means...it’s your day today. Feel free. Don’t be shy, this is 2003 and we need all the help we can get.

Any Questions? Fire away.

And so a new day begins…

I wake up at 7:15 am. I feel groggy this morning. Not cozy…groggy. I bypass my morning writing by hand and move directly to the computer. Not a good sign. Did you know the word sign is the dyslexic version of the word sing?

I spent yesterday in the studio working with a young singing talent. A good friend of mine has a daughter with an incredible ear and a nice voice in need of cultivation. What to do at 13 years of age? Show business is tough. Having talent is one thing, and being driven is another and it seems that perhaps a person needs both. “I must sing.” is just as, if not more important than “I can sing.”

I wake at 8:07 am. Willi is still in bed next to me curled up in what looks like a pretty cozy position. It is my deepest wish in life to be able to find a cozy position, and be able to effortlessly curl myself up into it at will, at any given moment.

The last time I felt cozy was in 1979. I was eighteen years old. Since then, what has characterized my days is the type of energy that is usually associated with

Sentimental Reasons
I sleep until 8:30 am. Insomnia will do that. Never mind. The wonderfully supportive and kind words that came in via email about yesterday's post had me feeling pretty up, and I just didn’t want to go to sleep.

Stardust.mp3

I wake up. It’s entirely too dark outside my window. Stephen has already gotten up; I hear him coughing down the hall. Willi is tucked up next to me on the bed, lying on his back, little black paws in the air…snoring. It’s 7:30 am.

“Soblo broke up with his boyfriend Emm.” Stephen tells me a few days ago. How unfortunate I think…”Weren’t they in love?” Then I think, why do I care, I don’t know him personally, or do I? Then Steve also mentions Soblo in one of our recent conversations about online journals, so now I am curious. But what I am not bargaining for is the power of his ability to communicate and the story that just happens to be unfolding. I print out his words and take them to bed to read.

I wake at 4:48am. The room is pitch black. There is only the green light from the cable box clock which I attempt to focus my forty-two year old eyes on in the dark. Focusing in the dark is harder now. 4:48am it says. Hmmm. What fun.

I try to fall back asleep. My mind is racing with a million chaotic thoughts, none of which I find particularly soothing or rest inducing. If only there was a switch on my own brain I could throw when my mind becomes a sea of noise in the middle of the night. I listen to the noise in my head and glance occasionally at the cable box clock for what must be about forty minutes. Finally I decide that there is no point in fighting it…for better or worse, I am awake.

I love this time of year. After the big snowfalls and the world is blanketed in white a person cannot help but be refreshed by all this crystal energy. Memories of childhood joy came flooding back as I walked Willi in the snow.

Today is a day for sorting. Usually the day after my birthday I sort things out. I open unopened mail, I pay bills, and I find the surfaces of my life. Today I realized that I had not filed away any of my bills or statements from 2002.

The phone rang early and it was Alexandre, calling me to wish me a happy birthday. We had a nice talk about things that artists talk about. We must have been on the phone for over an hour.

During my conversation with Alexandre, Dimitri called to wish me a happy birthday. He was in Toronto on a layover but was on his way back to Vancouver. Would have been nice to see him but there was not enough time.

Shortly after my conversation with Alexandre, Shad called to wish me a happy birthday. We talked for quite a while. Her 13 year old daughter is showing strong artistic talents, in singing, comedy and imitations. Her quandary: should she encourage her daughter’s artistic talents or should she encourage a more traditional path.

Beate sent me an Happy Birthday e-card which I had already received before I went to bed.

Then Susi sent me a Happy Birthday email wish.

The phone rang and it was my Mother to wish me a Happy Birthday. We talked for quite some time until my mother realized she had a headache.

Hans sent me a Happy Birthday e-card from his entire family.

The phone rang and it was Trude, a good friend of the family’s who always calls me every year come hell or high water. There are few people like her on this planet, she is a treasure.

And that’s my day so far. As I said yesterday, I have made no plans to do anything today…just stay at home and read a book or watch a movie. I’ve wanted to see “Gangs of New York” since it came out but have not been able to get there. Also, “The Hours” which just came out.

And so the day is half over…which is more than I can say for myself.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ve been here 15330 days not taking into account leap years. I’ve never been able to figure out leap years…or leap frogs or Midsummer Night Dreams for that matter. It’s Ok.

This morning, as the sun came through my window for the first time in days, I just couldn’t imagine growing old. I tried to imagine myself at seventy or eighty but none of the pictures I imagined in my head had me in them. I never had a problem seeing myself at forty, but trying to imagine what it will be like in old age is like trying to imagine breathing water. I can’t conceive of it. What on earth will keep my body and soul together for another ten thousand days? I feel so much like a loose tooth from life already; just dangling on some gum tissue…one good yank and BOOM, there I am, meeting the tooth fairy in person. There isn’t anything physically wrong with me but an immense soul weariness.

So, I have decided to keep a low profile. No party or gathering is required. I just want to stay in and read a book or dream of living in New York, or what it would be like to have blue eyes for a day. I want the peace in which to contemplate my prospects. Perhaps if I can focus the strands that keep me attached might grow sturdier.

And so, a new day begins…

Well, I’m getting my refracted light requirements; it snowed, or rather is still snowing. Why is it that I don’t seem to have a snow blower? I live centimeters from the North Pole but fail to realize this simple fact: Winter…Snow. Winter…Snow. Na, it’s not resonating. It’s as if I have a slight “snowism”, you know, as in "autism" only fluffier and decidedly less problematic…but here you go, and who wouldn’t want to.

Never mind; it all makes sense on the Planet Debbie.

Interviewer: “So thatmark, tell us once again what ten years of psychotherapy and teams of psychologists around the clock did for you?”

Thatmark: “Ummm…well it wasn’t exactly ten years. (thatmark is counting fingers and switching to toes). The good news is that I have incredibly accurate premonitions which come to me in dreams; the bad news is that I suffer from insomnia, and wake up thinking about business, and how I should really be minding my own, if only I could figure out what that was.

Interviewer: “hmmm.”

Thatmark: “Yes, exactly…hmmm.”

Remind me to tell you all about the time I was dreading the whole idea of taking my clothes off in public. Not an issue anymore…I like my clothes now.

Interviewer: “Back to therapy…”

Thatmark: “Always heavenly. As a matter of fact, I’m one of those strange people who actually enjoys therapy and who wishes he could do it for a living."

Interviewer: “You like therapy.”

Thatmark: “Yes…love it. (Somehow insert breathless enthusiasm).Who in their right mind wouldn’t? In all honesty, I’d love nothing more than to be a professional patient, and be paid twice as much as the psychiatrist. I would prefer to have a session once a day, always in the afternoon, and with lit cigarette in hand and blue smoke billowing, I would tell my “therapist” all about the things I swear to God I remember...especially about my memories and dreams of the future. Also, what I love about one-on-one sessions is that I’m usually not the most peculiar person in the room. Sometimes it becomes difficult to pinpoint precisely which one is the patient, and which one is the therapist. We love that when that happens!"

Interviewer: “So…what about the future?"

Thatmark: “My sentiments exactly.”

Interviewer: “Riveting!”

Thatmark: “You bet your sweet ass it is! You’ll always get your money’s worth around here!”

And so, a new day begins with a blanket of the white stuff, some fairly outrageous make- believe and the occasional stray telemarketer calling me and asking me whether I would enjoy reading their shit-ass newspaper for a couple of weeks, which I of course would most certainly not! I’ve been telling them for years…but they just won’t listen to reason.

Thatmark: “I do not want the “Sun”, or Jupiter or Mars for that matter, on my front door step no matter how incredibly robotic, inconsiderately persistent and idiotically well rehearsed you may drone on about it! And don’t tell me it’s your job honey, ‘cause then I’ll just have to tell you it’s my phone line. Hello! If I could only just get a word in edgewise…thank you; I would tell you that I would just be compelled to fling the “Sun” with great velocity into the recycle bin. I prefer the “Sun” up in the sky where it belongs and fewer unnecessarily murdered trees in the forest where they belong. Now please, I’m begging you, do not call me anymore or I shall be forced to say nasty unpleasant and horribly authentic things to you at this moment!"
So, once again, with shovel in hand, a new day begins…

There is some snow coming; supposed snow. Not a moment too soon. I need some refracted light…my brain does. January without snow is like Simon without Garfunkel, Edith without Head, and Elizabeth without Taylor. The whole thing just doesn’t make a catspoop worth of sense. Ok, so now I am inventing things, making things up, giving haphazard nonsense makeovers to my boredom zones.

Bloody snow enough already!

I can hear Yvette cursing me right now. ‘How the hell do I translate that into German.’ she is thinking.

The spell check thinks I misspelled GARFUNKEL. I’ll give you a garfunkel in a minute! Ah, but if I use capitals I can fool it into thinking I know what I am doing, which is more than I can say for a lot of people in higher places.

I just want to take a moment and thank everyone who reads the doohickeys I write. I am so impressed by you. Thanks for making the time, for taking the time…because after all, time is our greatest gift of all. If you have some more (time), check out Stephen’s New Year’s Resolutions…they made me laugh.

There are so many things that need to be on my list of New Year’s Resolutions that I’ve decided that it would take a couple of years just to jot them all down much less actually do them, and by that point the year would be over…so in an effort to maintain a certain kind of simplicity and brevity, I will take up the peculiar yet necessary art of basket weaving.

Don’t shake your head like that. Not everyone on earth can possess a shining genius.

And so a new day begins…

Today must be the greyest day of the year…well that wouldn’t be hard to do since it is the only day of the year up until now.

We stayed in, watched some of the festivities on television and then called it a night shortly after 1am. I did not toast the New Year as I scarcely wanted anything to do with the last one…so I was more than content to slip through into the New Year without debacle and a modicum of radar visibility.

Despite my obvious pessimism I do feel strangely optimistic. If I scrape down past all the static that has been in my life for the past two years…I remember that I trust color, and that I can still be wildly seduced by the shapes of things; that I hear music…mighty fine music in my head, if not anywhere else, and that there will be spring, and buds, and tulips…and the smell of melting grass and earth in the air. And there will be birds chirping and making nests, and laying eggs…and I will curse myself up and down because these blackbirds that make these nests come back every single year, thinking we own them something, which we probably do.

They rudely show up uninvited and take up residence in the Austrian pine tree at the deep end of the swimming pool.Then, from late April into early June they fly over head and relentlessly poop all over the patio furniture and pool area. Big gobbing white globs of bird poop. Stephen will say, “We can’t have nice things.” And this will be a fairly accurate assessment of the way the world works. I will be power washing the poop from everything or avoiding the pool area altogether.

I don’t want to hear any one say…”Well, you have a pool, I don’t feel sorry for you.” Pools are ideal playgrounds for hyperactive children who possess no real goals in life, migrating ducks, and nest-making, egg-laying, poop-bombing blackbirds. I have generally found that mature adults have nurtured and honed finely developed aversions to swimming pools. Massive flying bird poop does not generally endear anyone to anything; of course, unless there is the smell of charring meat on the BBQ and a smart cocktail or three in hand, in which case a swimming pool can provide a sense of “being on the water”, even when one is in fact hopelessly landlocked.

So all this to say…
And so a new year begins…God help us all.