Apologetics

To justify to myself the use of Cymbalta, an anti-depressant I have recently started.

The first two days it felt rather like heroin, or some other opiate. This isn't good when I'm depressed: It gives me even more justification to recite Keats, and tell you how "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my senses, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains, one minute past, and Lethewards had sunk..."

But by Day 3 I had settled into a kind of numbness. Is numbness good? My emotions are blunted, though still present. And normally this would seem rather a terrible thing to me, but my emotions have been so intense for so long that I can barely handle them.

It need not be a permanent thing. "Depression" is a natural result of so many pressures from so many directions; when they pass, this can pass.

Last night I slept and woke. I went to sleep when I intended, at midnight; I woke when I intended, at 7:30; this is the first time since I have been in Oregon I have managed this.

My usual strategy: To spend most of my time drinking and socializing. This doesn't work here. The bars of Roseburg are dens of sorrow, broken dreams and lives spent in quiet desperation. Anti-anti-depressants. (That seems hyperbolic doesn't it? But I am completely serious.)

How long has it been since I have known peace, or silence, or solitude, or calm reflection? Years? Ever? How long have I been running?

And ultimately: Since when do I need a justification to take a drug to feel good?

Paradise Lost

Waking on Sunday morning. My dreams forgotten, though I think one at least concerned The Return of the King, which I wish I still had; I would watch it now.

I fell asleep last night reading a hundred-year-old copy of Paradise Lost, which I am enjoying greatly. Thus far Satan and I have woken in the lake of fire; groped our way ashore to call forth our legions of devils; built the city of Pandaemonium; and now we are making our way through the realms of Night towards new-formed earth, as the Father and the Son look down and debate their course of action.

I woke in sorrow and anger, as I do most mornings. I think I have some ideas as to why. When we wake, we wake depleted. In sleep we process emotions, which costs B vitamins, B vitamins that cannot be stored in fat and must be replenished each morning. In addition the anti-depressant I have been taking will have thoroughly run its course by the next day. It is a struggle to get out of bed, but rising I take a pill, a vitamin, chug some superfood, some soy-protein drink: now I feel better.

**

Hours later.

I just returned from a walk, read Milton for a bit. Ate some almonds, which is new: I haven't been able to get anything but liquid down for the last few days, the consequence, probably, of this new drug I am taking.

Thoughts:

The trouble with running from your demons is, they're always there waiting when you arrive.

My hair was where I kept my power. And it was the embodiment of my past. I pictured my past falling away with it, piece by piece. I looked in the mirror and was weak.

I need to be weak.

I am weak. Even wretched.

Learn to let go.

When you let go of everything, you can begin to .

When you let go of everything, you can begin--

When you let go of everything, you can begin.

Just let go.

Metamorphose

and then came the long night of the soul.





Who Know tell us we must die. & the beings tear us apart, & piece by piece we are dismembered.


only to reemerge, reformed, new.

Lethewards

Another day, another

Another day, another.

Day, and I.

a

a day and

day, i

i

have no talk.

the point--

of writing a blog that other people who aren't even me can see when I'm in the midst of a total fucking emotional breakdown:

• Last time I was sad I wrote a whiny blogpost on my MySpace of all places, quoting Pablo Neruda (c.f.) and "sighing into my coffee." Months later and the Steve of Joy once again I read it and said, "My, I was a whiner back then." It's about documenting progress.

• (Although, Steve, perhaps we could be a little bit kinder to our sad-self? If one of our friends said, "My you're a whiner" that wouldn't be very nice of them.)

• (Or would it?)

• (At some point, don't you have to Shut Up and Deal?)

• (Yes. But maybe the point is to get so fucking tired of yourself crybabying all to hell that you do that.)
  

• So it's about records. Records, and tracing progress, and: Looking back and saying "A ha!" and "It does get better," so that when it comes round again you remember, A ha.
  

• But that could have been accomplished through a simple journal, couldn't it have? What is the point it doing it in a public sphere?

• "Public," in the above bullet-point, refers to the three friends who hopefully aren't reading this anyway.
  

• (Don't worry, they'll be back once it turns funny again.)

• I don't know what the point is. Maybe to participate in new media. Maybe because, by "publicly" stating "I am a gigantic sack of cry," one is forced to have a later entry saying, "Fear not, I am once again a gigantic sack of joy."
  

• Imagine the embarrassment, after all, of a random newfriend or somesuch coming upon the I Cried for an Hour post a year from now, when we will surely not be crying.

Surely.

blog through breakdown

O vos omnes qui transitis per viam--

(Quotations, meditations, sparks to cling to)

is the cruelest month, breeding

attendite et videte

(Memories, Mnemosyne,
the cruelest god, breeding)

(A typo: "breding." Breading, God!)

Darkling I listen, and for many a time--

(Finish the sentence)

I have been half in love with

With who

You know who

afternoons, I cast my sad nets

si est dolor sicut dolor meus.

(There is, child, there is.)

O vos omnes qui transitis per viam: Attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus.

(Blogalong, blogalong, listen to the Cure, and are we sixteen still, and)

Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath--

Just run until forever.

Peaks, Valleys

Hi Anybody.

Saturday I went to the coast again, to Coos Bay this time, in the company of Gabriel to visit our friend Emily. You can see pictures of it here.

I have just about completely ceased to understand my brain, or my emotions.

Saturday was, maybe, the happiest day I have spent here, in far-off Oregon. Highlights include:

• Running merrily and madly through a forest above the Ocean, leaping over rocks and branches and climbing trees;

• Climbing down a ridiculous cliff to a rocky beach below, and climbing on the rocks and wading in the water;

• Running up an impossibly tall sand dune, then rolling down it again;

• Learning that the bars in Coos Bay are 40% cooler than the bars in Roseburg;

• The company of those delightful individuals, Gabriel and Emily.

And then there was today. Monday. Two days later. This was easily the most difficult day I have had here. Highlights include:

• Learning things I never wanted to know;

• Being terribly upset and leaving work at noon;

• Walking home two miles, running seven miles to Chill Out;

• Destroying things I owned;

• Crying for a solid hour.

The crying was fascinating. I do not cry easily. That's sort of a lie: Powerful images bring tears to my eyes and a seizing to my throat all the time. Movies, songs. Good Friday service (yes, I went to church on Good Friday); reading Keats's Ode to a Nightingale.

But out-and-out crying, with the sobbing, the tears, the snot? Forget about it. But I was exhausted from my run, and had run out of things to break. And on the internet, my friend the Guru said to me, "If I were you I would lay in my bed and cry."

I trust the Guru.

So: Roommate and his buddy, Bro, were in the living room. I went out and said, "Boys, I have made a decision."

"Yes?" says they.

(It's worth noting that Bro was asleep on the couch when I got home. He had already heard a fair bit of shouting.)

"Well," says I, "I am going....to cry."

"To cry!?"

"To cry. I have had it with this feeling; I do not desire to feel this way ever again. So I am going back into my room, and I am going to cry until all of it is gone. Then, I am going to make some spicy food, because that's what the Guru told me to do." (Cry until you're exhausted, the Guru had said, then make spicy food and eat it, because it shocks the senses.) "So be warned: You are going to hear things."

And having said this I went into my room, closed the blinds, turned off the lights. The Guru had said I must lay on my back -- It's your instinct to curl up in a ball, but if you do, you'll hold the feelings in. On your back, with your arms spread, is a very vulnerable position, and it has the effect of releasing the emotions -- and this I did. I spread my arms, pulled a blanket over my head, and began to cry.

It wasn't easy. I felt silly. I had thought silence would be good, but I could hear Roommate and Bro through the walls. So I plugged my headphones into my iTunes. I played all the saddest songs I could think of. The whole of Pet Sounds. Springsteen's Devils & Dust. This Must Be the Place. Everybody Hurts. The Bleeding Heart Show.

I had to force it, a lot of the time. For much of it, my eyes were not even damp, but I forced it out, "A ha a ha a haa!" After a while I noticed that I was actually laughing. So I called every painful image I could to mind. You know what I'm talking about. The first kiss. Summer days by the pool. Dancing and drinking; laughing, talking.

And by god, I cried. I bawled like a little child; I thrashed my arms and legs; I screamed.

After an hour of this, I was completely delirious. My face was tingling like hyperventilation. I was sobbing, my arms spread, repeating the phrase "Behold me Lord as I am," "Behold me Lord as I am," broken; destitute; my arrogance crushed, my postures abandoned; Ecce homo, "Behold me Lord as I am!" Begging a god to see, to comfort me, a god, anybody.

Nobody answered.

And I was exhausted. And disturbed by the burst of religiosity. And also, a little calmer and a little more at peace. I went into the kitchen and cooked rice and chickpeas and potatoes in Masala sauce, had a shower, laid down again.

Did my cry session work?

I'm not sure. I felt better for a time. Then out of nowhere I was overcome by anger. Terrible, overwhelming anger. I cursed and I screamed and I punched my pillows. So maybe it worked: I wasn't feeling sorrow anymore, though rage is hardly more fun (if easier to get out). I napped and woke and was sad again, and am a little sad now as I write this.

But less than before. And you know, crying was actually pretty fun. So I'm thinking: One really solid cry session a day, for the next week. And we'll see how things look after that!

Until next time, Anybody.

Better Gardens

This is my office:





Until the Planting Season, at least, I work in a greenhouse.

Updates on the cat situation to come.

Portland: Redux

And then last weekend my brothers, Matthew and James, came into town, and we drove a car to Portland.



...on the way we stopped at Carl's Jr. In the above photo, they are both sending text messages under the table.

Portland was much better this time than last time. I met up with some old acquaintances, drank, partied, explored. On the way back we took Highway 101 down the Pacific coast and stopped to look at beaches, rocks, and things. The journey begins over here at Picasa.

The Stages of Culture Shock

...from this place.

Stage 1
During the first stage, foreign visitors often feel excited. The new country is interesting, the people are friendly and helpful, and the future looks promising.

Stage 2
Problems! School, language, shopping — everything is difficult. Things that were simple back home require more effort in the new country. It seems hard to make friends, and at this point, foreign visitors may begin to believe that the local people are unfriendly. Homesickness begins, and along with it complaints about the new country. This is the stage we hear referred to as "culture shock."

Stage 3
Recovery. The foreign visitor begins to use the language more fluently, so communication with locals becomes easier. Customs and traditions become clearer, and slowly the situation passes from impossible to hopeful. Minor misunderstandings which were stressful in stage 2 become manageable.

Stage 4
Stability. Eventually foreign visitors begin to feel more at home in the new country. What they do not like about their new country no longer makes them so dissatisfied and unhappy. Life has settled down, and they are now able to find humor in the situations in which they find themselves.

People who are experiencing culture shock worry and complain about all aspects of life — the food, the weather, the people, etc. They worry about minor ailments and pains. They often become frustrated and angry over minor problems, and some even refuse to learn the new language. Overall, they feel helpless and homesick, and want to go home to see relatives and to talk with people who "make sense."

The Land Beyond the Sun

Smoking a cigarette outside in the dark and meandering through the synaptic forests of my memory I made an intensely comforting discovery.

You may have noticed, dear ones, that blog used to be bright and about a happy-go-angry person, but now it's dark and it's about a sad person. And the jokish new subtitle is, "one man's journey in a land beyond the Sun."

And it is dark here. I said to a friend who was gloomy recently, "You're in a place with no sun and no people. You shouldn't be surprised if you feel kind of sad." And so do I.

But. I thought the land beyond the Sun was Roseburg, Oregon: And I despaired! Because I'm here for a long while.

And then I remembered. The Land Beyond the Sun isn't Roseburg. It isn't even the whole of the Pacific Northwest. The Land Beyond the Sun is Winter!

In particular, it is February. You see, I was thinking to myself: "Goodness I'm a sad one. Have I always been this way?" And then I remembered writing this column for the Pitt News some 3 years ago.

It begins:


Februus was the Etruscan god of death, which is why he's given reign over this time of year.

(I know that, as you're reading this, the month is calling itself March. No matter. Februus' reign extends backward into the last weeks of January and through March all the way to the Equinox. He is a greedy god.)

Think about it. Or rather, feel about it. He's everywhere, now, in this miserable year of our lord, 2005. Look out your window into the sunless streets of Oakland and see him.

The sunless streets of Oakland, 2,000 miles from Oregon. It gets even better:

Februus is come for me. He is all around me now. There will be no Jesus, no Holy Virgin Mary, no patron saint of sadness (I don't know who that would have been anyway) to drive away the Rotten God as he reaches out to close his fist around my heart.

Where is there comfort for us, the forsaken children of the endless nights?

Where indeed, 21-year-old Steve?

Here! of course. Because it was less than a month later that the clouds passed, and look! but we were thinking fanciful thoughts and writing,


There are little worlds underfoot that no one stops to visit. Look beneath your feet. You will see a tiny country of ant kingdoms, spider webs and tiny roads through the grass. When you expand your vision, dense shrubs become bustling metropolitan areas crossed by groundhog, rabbit and fox trails, while dozens of birds go about their busy routine above.


And even Oakland isn't so bad anymore:


Making my way through miserable Oakland on a spring day, I pass trails through bushes, chipmunks and sparrows playing in the grass and ants warring on the sidewalk.

In yards and woods and little places; creek-beds, gardens and between the cracks in the sidewalk; ignored and unnoticed, the World Underfoot remains. It is a resilient place, persisting in spite of industrial poisons and concrete, everywhere a little bit of ground goes unravaged.

You can visit any time you want. To go there one must do only two things: Look to the ground and dream.

And thus Young Steve taught Old Steve wisdom.

We will dwell here for a time, you and I, in the Land Beyond the Sun. But the Sun grows stronger by the day and the days become longer and lighter with him, and Spring will come again and warm rain and flowers, and we'll all go merrily in love down the street humming that e.e. cummings poem that you and I love so much all "wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world," and cynicism will be forgotten and sorrow too, and we'll know that February will never come again,

(even though he will).

And in the meantime since we're all remembering our College Writer days, why don't we all take a moment and admire the finest hour of my career as a college journalist.

100 Days

In 100 days it will be June 10th.

Who will we be by then, dear Cats, dear Gardeners?

Should we have Goals? Like they tell you to have: Lists of Goals, Long-Term Goals, Short-Term Goals, Goals for every occasion.

Give me Ghouls for every occasion!

Meanwhile, Back in the States

Going to Jail for Being a Democrat:

"Don Siegelman, a popular Democratic governor of Alabama, a Republican state, was framed in a crooked trial, convicted on June 29, 2006, and sent to Federal prison by the corrupt and immoral Bush administration."

I don't have enough information to make a judgment, and I've never decided whether I can trust Paul Craig Roberts or not, but if this is true it's pretty horrifying.

$2 Million Homes Burn in "Act of Terror":

It seems a few luxury "homes" on something called the "Street of Dreams" in Seattle were burned to the ground by the ELF. The FBI is calling it terrorism, and I suppose it is (unless it was a "false flag" operation carried out to justify a crackdown on militant environmentalists, or unless there was an agent provocateur involved, both of which are possible). But the question remains, does anyone actually have the right to live in places like these? Aren't there worthier "dreams?"

Update

What I did instead of going and doing anything sensible was to update the look of Better Cats and Gardens to better reflect my state of mind, the fact that I have neither a cat nor a garden at the moment and the fact that I keep listening to Joy Division.

Probably I should now change the name to The Travails of Darkboy McSadness. But I don't think I will.

Saturday in Roseburg

Hi anybody. It is Saturday in Roseburg, and I think I am making the decision not to buy a new cell phone charger today so that I might spend the day alone with my thoughts.

Here are some of my thoughts.

• Last night we went to the Indian casino. I was vaguely excited because I've never been to an Indian casino or for that matter any casino at all, gambling being the one vice that somehow completely passed me by.

• There might be more depressing places in America than an Indian casino in rural Southern Oregon. I have not seen them.

• Nor do I wish to.

• At one point Gabe said to me, "Which circle of Hell do you think this is?" I guessed the third, but I really didn't know.

• I recently bought a copy of the Divine Comedy. Actually I got it free from the good folks at St. Vincent de Paul, generosity being one of the major local natural resources (the other two are beer and coffee), along with a shit heap of other books I should read. I started on The Wealth of Nations, have I told you that yet?, but have not managed to get very far.

• Roseburg, Oregon is profoundly different from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It is hard to know what to do about this fact. I have no idea how to be a Country Boy.

• In my vision, I spend my time being wise in a forest, reading many books, writing thoughtful things and befriending forest animals.

• Instead, I go to the terribly trashy bars here and pretend that it is somewhere else, and it never is.

• This is neither helpful nor productive.

• Perhaps I should go into the woods today. Which woods? It doesn't matter, I can point myself in any direction and be there. It is cold, and wet out. Am I a coward? I could take the Shunryu Suzuki book I got last week and read and become wise.

• Or maybe I will never become wise.

• Songs that I listen to like an angst-some teenager this week: Talking Heads: This Must be the Place; Roy Orbison: Only the Lonely; Interpol: Obstacle 1; Joy Division: Love Will Tear Us Apart. Sighs and LOLs and byes.