blackbird.jpg (30437 bytes)

2003-09-20 @ 5:06 p.m.
bipolar crash site investigated

I just found this Ghetto Name Generator online. I guess for those of us saddled with hopelessly bland middle class names like John and Mary. My name generated Bookmaster Shizzlemah. Pretty good name for writer.

B.S. to friends.

I put my gay male friend's name in and it came up with Rectal Ice. Don't think I'll be passing that onto him.


Went to some garage sales today. Even though its a stunning day out, there weren't very many. I only found one good sale put on by an artist on the west side. I bought a bunch of postcards for a nickel each. E-Bay fodder. Also bought a large frame, some earrings with a Celtic design, cinnamon soap, 3 candles (a nickel each, how could I pass them up?), a book for Married Guy for Christmas, another book "The New Yorker Book of Cat Cartoons" probably for my friend down in Manhattan. Grand total $2.25. I also bought a double Judy Garland record at another sale for a quarter. Its in good condition. Why not? You just never know when a bunch of gay guys will drop over for a Judy sing-a-long.

Talked to my Mom quite a while on the phone when I got home. I'm having a lot of pain in my neck, so I just set up camp on the couch waiting for the aspirins to take affect, while she rehashed our night at the piano bar.

We go to this country club every Friday night to watch this piano player. He has his little old lady groupies, which includes my mother. But he does play a mean piano, plus he does my kind of music. Gershwin and shit. After about 9 p.m., once most of the diners (the Mr. and Mrs. Howell types) leave, things liven up. Regulars get up and sing. Its just a place to go on Friday night.

But something happened last night. Not sure what. I knew it wouldn't last. The euphoric high from the last couple days just collapsed... like a hot air balloon relieved of its source of heat. Damn.

Last night driving to the piano bar I was already writing the dedication to my new book in my head. Yup. I was going to write a book. A funny book about a bipolar girl. It was going to be my salvation. A way to get out the poverty I live in. And now today, I am once again trapped under the wreckage. Damn.

I tried to write a 300 page book yesterday. Truly I did. I was all confident and fluffed up emotionally. I don't know if it was a chemical thing or something that happened at the piano bar.

Last night, two or three people came to our table of eight and said hello to everyone at the table but me. Was I there? Or was my cloak of invisibility working again? When you're shy, people tend not to notice you.

The way I have always gotten recognition has been through my work. I am an artist and writer. I can say writer, because yes, people have handed me checks for writing. And I made a living as a graphic artist for nearly 8 years, so I guess that qualifies me as an artist. Not the romantic concept. You know, the tortured soul in a bare room full of canvases. I'm tortured all right, but it has nothing to do with art.

I never felt like I had enough to offer. I always had to impress them with my work to be accepted. But its a little hard to walk around with your portfolio dangling from your wrist, when you're looking for a date. That's why I've been dateless for nearly, as my shrink pointedly pointed out this week, twenty years (more like 17, maybe).

This last week though, for some reason, I had had this burst of uber-confidence. I've been working on 2 graphics projects including a CD cover. I had a great piano session with Married Guy's son. I had two guys show interest in me. I'm getting together some photographs for an upcoming art show at my case management place (where people now will somehow LIKE me perhaps for the first time when they SEE HOW TALENTED I AM. I will no longer be the irritable, irresponsible, angry woman they see every two weeks for appointments but rather a talented photographer. They'll say, wow, we want to get close to her because she's cool, and then I won't have to work so hard to make them love me.

See how far I've gotten with 25 years of therapy?

I had even written to my shrink this week, saying how excited I was about having such an energetic and successful week. I told him I wish I could bottle it for the rest of the year. But I dropped the fucking bottle. And I know he will be disappointed. Because he's all into me getting better. Shrinks are funny like that.

0 comments so far << | >>

Older Entries
upsy, downsy, upsy, splat! - 2010-05-22
April sours bring May flowers? - 2010-05-01
when finding a head in the recycling bin is the highlight of your month - 2010-03-28
fifty two chances to be awesome...ok maybe - 2010-02-20
its sorta like "Grease" except there's no musical numbers and I'm really old - 2010-02-05


Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty