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Ballroom Dancing Lessons For The Dead
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"In an age where anti-matter matters more and more, anti-heroes matter less and less." Taz Mopula
When you spend a life haunting the dark corridors of mental illness, chemical dependency, and art – well – suicide is always near, rather like those bright red fire extinguisher cases with the label that reads, “In case of emergency break glass.”
Losing a long parade of loved ones to this merciless toll taker eliminates the awe: terror; glamor and luster retreat. (Notably, many people choose to purchase their suicide on the installment plan.)
"If you need mania to be creative, then maybe creativity isn’t for you." Taz Mopula
My generation fell in love with a mythology that linked madness (frequently drug-induced), self-destruction, and the complete abandonment of all our society held dear. Our special gift back to the society so busy attempting to spoil us was contempt. Our battle cry - sex, drugs, rock & roll - simply translates to - hedonism.
(Need I say we had no alternatives to offer?) We romanced nihilism like it was going out of style, (which, thank God, it has at last.)
"Mediocre art misrepresents reality; great art obliterates it." Taz Mopula
This atmosphere proved to be an ideal breeding ground for artistes who perfected the empty pose, and empty prose that went along with it. Kerouac and Burroughs were early adapters, Hunter Thompson threw himself into the fray, and today Tom Waits is a living homage.
Even now these icons of hip negativity and gleeful self-destruction are taken seriously, revered by people who should know better.
"Art matters most when it reminds people they might." Taz Mopula
I am very fortunate in that I outlived my cynicism, sarcasm, and nihilism. Today I find negativity lazy, cowardly, and worst of all – dull. Any imbecile can say no – it’s a trick we all learn at the age of two.
To be fair, I also have no time for those who turn away from the world’s darkness, paint on a photograph smile, and stupidly say yes.
But time is running out, and things certainly aren’t getting better. I seek the people who have looked Satan right in the eye and say yes anyway. They are my heroes.
Ballroom Dancing Lessons For The Dead
A seedy neighborhood in Hades
Shabby streetcars groan
And squeal on Nowhere Boulevard
Madame Putchky winds up a Victrola
Drops its needle into wax and listens
Hissing like a fire made of cellophane
Lester teases blue notes smooth as silk
Slowly they decay into the hall
Empty box with shiny floor
Massive mirrors cloak each wall
Smiling now she wipes away
Some wrinkles from her gown
Soon the students will ascend
On sagging metal steps
Shuffle through the door
What they failed to do in life
They’ll do forever more
Alistair McHarg
New SAT Questions Will Probe Your MIQ – (Mental Illness Quotient)
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New SAT Questions Will Probe Your MIQ – (Mental Illness Quotient)
For decades, mental health professionals have reminded anyone willing to listen that infirmities of the mind are underrepresented in popular culture. They point to a paucity of pithy portrayals in film, literature, television, puppet shows, and motivational seminars. How, they ask, will maladies of irrationality ever shed their stigma, (to say nothing of the cloudy cloaks of ignorance surrounding them), until awareness, like sunlight succeeding a deluge, warms the landscape?
A handful of well-known advocacy groups; YABA (Young American Bipolar Association), DABA (Deranged American Benevolent Association), and DEW (West End Dyslexics), have lobbied tenaciously to insinuate mental health awareness into all aspects of our culture, if culture is really the right word. Recently they scored a major hit in that universally feared arbiter of societal acceptability, the SAT.
It has long been observed that SAT tests do more than measure rational prowess; they also reinforce social values, beliefs, and assumptions. With this in mind, rambunctious, radical rapscallions at YABA petitioned College Board program designers and administrators to include questions demanding at least a rudimentary understanding of mental illness in next year’s SAT test. As luck would have it, I got my hands on an advanced copy and am able to share it with you now.
Here are just a few of the multiple-choice, complex reasoning questions slated to appear in SAT 2013. Note that each one demands not merely the ability to identify common forms of mental illness, but also sufficient comprehension to understand them in context.
1. Malignant Narcissism is to Peter Pan Syndrome as…
a.) A duck-billed platypus is to a beaver
b.) Ernest Hemingway is to F. Scott Fitzgerald
c). The hokey pokey is to the mambo
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
2. Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome (MBPS) is to Compulsive Gambling as…
a.) A trolley car is to a Segway
b.) A duck-billed platypus is to a Tasmanian devil
c.) The national debt is to global warming
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
3. Attention Deficit Disorder is to Sex & Love Addiction as…
a.) The Hindenburg disaster is to Lady Gaga
b.) Technophilia is to devolution
c.) A duck-billed platypus is to a talking gecko
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
4. Asperger's Syndrome is to Pathological Xenophobia as…
a.) A fork is to a spoon
b.) Hang-gliding is to safe cracking
c.) Astrology is to juggling
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
And that, dear readers, is only the beginning! Study hard!
For decades, mental health professionals have reminded anyone willing to listen that infirmities of the mind are underrepresented in popular culture. They point to a paucity of pithy portrayals in film, literature, television, puppet shows, and motivational seminars. How, they ask, will maladies of irrationality ever shed their stigma, (to say nothing of the cloudy cloaks of ignorance surrounding them), until awareness, like sunlight succeeding a deluge, warms the landscape?
A handful of well-known advocacy groups; YABA (Young American Bipolar Association), DABA (Deranged American Benevolent Association), and DEW (West End Dyslexics), have lobbied tenaciously to insinuate mental health awareness into all aspects of our culture, if culture is really the right word. Recently they scored a major hit in that universally feared arbiter of societal acceptability, the SAT.
It has long been observed that SAT tests do more than measure rational prowess; they also reinforce social values, beliefs, and assumptions. With this in mind, rambunctious, radical rapscallions at YABA petitioned College Board program designers and administrators to include questions demanding at least a rudimentary understanding of mental illness in next year’s SAT test. As luck would have it, I got my hands on an advanced copy and am able to share it with you now.
Here are just a few of the multiple-choice, complex reasoning questions slated to appear in SAT 2013. Note that each one demands not merely the ability to identify common forms of mental illness, but also sufficient comprehension to understand them in context.
1. Malignant Narcissism is to Peter Pan Syndrome as…
a.) A duck-billed platypus is to a beaver
b.) Ernest Hemingway is to F. Scott Fitzgerald
c). The hokey pokey is to the mambo
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
2. Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome (MBPS) is to Compulsive Gambling as…
a.) A trolley car is to a Segway
b.) A duck-billed platypus is to a Tasmanian devil
c.) The national debt is to global warming
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
3. Attention Deficit Disorder is to Sex & Love Addiction as…
a.) The Hindenburg disaster is to Lady Gaga
b.) Technophilia is to devolution
c.) A duck-billed platypus is to a talking gecko
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
4. Asperger's Syndrome is to Pathological Xenophobia as…
a.) A fork is to a spoon
b.) Hang-gliding is to safe cracking
c.) Astrology is to juggling
d.) All of the above
Correct answer is D.
And that, dear readers, is only the beginning! Study hard!
Escape Into Substance Abuse Tempting For Some Imprisoned Primates
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Escape Into Substance Abuse Tempting For Some Imprisoned Primates
When I was a very young lad living in Edinburgh, I would go on perambulations with my mother. Edinburgh is a grand city for walking, and we explored it at length. (As a Dutch woman recently transplanted from Amsterdam I think she found it as exotic as I did.) Edinburgh Castle, with its steep, cobblestone ascent, was a regular haunt. I loved the expansive train station, spewing steam as if the arched glass roof concealed a nest of restless dragons. And then there was the zoo.
It was at the Edinburgh Zoo that I rode my first elephant; and one never forgets one’s first pachyderm; nor do they forget you for that matter. There was no shortage of star attractions, but by far the most popular was Charlie the Gorilla, so named in honor of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Charlie was a 400-pound, silverback gorilla from the Congo. Even as a small child I was moved by his soulful face, power, and imprisonment. But crowds did not gather to marvel at his size and strength; they came to see him smoke.
In post-war Scotland, cigarettes were a scarce and expensive luxury. Even so, working class types would toss lit cigarettes into the cage and Charlie would puff on them furtively, carefully secreting them behind his back when his keeper arrived. (This Heckle and Jeckle routine was as ancient as vaudeville itself. Charlie would exhale clouds flamboyantly, exhibiting satisfaction Bob Marley might have envied. Then, when his keeper looked over, the cigarette vanished into a large, furry hand. The act never got old, and when the keeper knitted his eyebrows in disapproval, the kids howled with delight.)
In those days my parents were barely scraping by, even so, cigarettes were a line item in the family budget. My dad bought them in packs of 5. Later, he smoked the way waitresses chew gum, obsessively, constantly, thoughtlessly. As a youth I quickly came to understand that smoking was something cool people did, and I was physically and psychologically addicted well before leaving high school. Cigarettes were my one, true friend through it all. I smoked in prison and in mental hospitals, on the desolate streets of North Philadelphia at midnight; I even smoked at The White House.
Education, mercilessly delivered at the business end of a Louisville Slugger, pushed vices away from my grasp, as a ship gradually drifts away from the dock. Alcohol and drugs, abandoned over a decade ago, now seem foreign and counter-productive. But smoking clung to me like a tick, it was the last to leave, just a little over two years ago.
I’d like to go back to Edinburgh and tell Charlie, “You’re a 400 pound silverback gorilla from the Congo. You're fabulous. You don’t need cigarettes to be cool. You’re already pretty damn cool.”
The Ugliest Face In The World: Picture Postcards From The Inferno
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The Ugliest Face In The World: Picture Postcards From The Inferno
The summer of 1969 found me in McGrath, Alaska, which is only a little further from the moon than it is from Woodstock, New York. (You may recall that, in addition to the first moon landing, that summer featured a social anomaly predicated on the idea that taking LSD, having random sex in the mud, and listening to music, were the key elements of radical social evolution. Imagine an even more naïve version of OWS. But I digress.)
I was working for the BLM (Bureau of Land Management) as an EFF (Emergency Fire Fighter), being dropped by helicopters into the middle of active forest fires throughout the state. Specifically, I was on a back-burning crew, traipsing through dry forests with a flamethrower strapped onto my back, fighting oncoming forest fires by depriving them of their fuel. It was the closest I’ve ever come to combat.
McGrath, at the time, was little more than a Government airstrip, some BLM barracks, and a handful of small buildings connected by wooden sidewalks. The pride of McGrath was a log cabin that served passably as a bar in an area where, with no women to be found, blue-collar men could drink to their satisfaction. A massive moose head, antlers adorned with tinsel, dominated the bar area and the opposing wall featured a full-sized stuffed grizzly bear forbiddingly poised next to the jukebox.
One evening, in-between assignments, I was passing time with Jake, a fellow EFF. We had money, time, and absolutely no responsibilities – consequently, the phrase about idle hands being the devil’s workshop came alive until at last we were drunk; not inebriated, tipsy, three sheets to the wind – not even tight as a boiled owl – just good old fashioned, funky monkey drunk.
Jake excused himself to use The Little Firefighters Room and I was left with the moose who, looking even more glassy-eyed than I did, stared at me with the gloomy insistence so frequently observed among the beheaded. Long minutes later I heard riotous laughter to my right and saw Jake emerging from the bathroom. He lunged, lurched back, and threw himself down on his stool, clutching his right hand, which was bleeding profusely
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was washing my hands and I stared at the face looking back at me and it was just so fucking ugly I had to punch it.” He laughed with demented enthusiasm until tears began to form.
The bartender looked on wordlessly. I walked Jake back to the barracks and dressed his wounds.
The summer of 1969 found me in McGrath, Alaska, which is only a little further from the moon than it is from Woodstock, New York. (You may recall that, in addition to the first moon landing, that summer featured a social anomaly predicated on the idea that taking LSD, having random sex in the mud, and listening to music, were the key elements of radical social evolution. Imagine an even more naïve version of OWS. But I digress.)
I was working for the BLM (Bureau of Land Management) as an EFF (Emergency Fire Fighter), being dropped by helicopters into the middle of active forest fires throughout the state. Specifically, I was on a back-burning crew, traipsing through dry forests with a flamethrower strapped onto my back, fighting oncoming forest fires by depriving them of their fuel. It was the closest I’ve ever come to combat.
McGrath, at the time, was little more than a Government airstrip, some BLM barracks, and a handful of small buildings connected by wooden sidewalks. The pride of McGrath was a log cabin that served passably as a bar in an area where, with no women to be found, blue-collar men could drink to their satisfaction. A massive moose head, antlers adorned with tinsel, dominated the bar area and the opposing wall featured a full-sized stuffed grizzly bear forbiddingly poised next to the jukebox.
One evening, in-between assignments, I was passing time with Jake, a fellow EFF. We had money, time, and absolutely no responsibilities – consequently, the phrase about idle hands being the devil’s workshop came alive until at last we were drunk; not inebriated, tipsy, three sheets to the wind – not even tight as a boiled owl – just good old fashioned, funky monkey drunk.
Jake excused himself to use The Little Firefighters Room and I was left with the moose who, looking even more glassy-eyed than I did, stared at me with the gloomy insistence so frequently observed among the beheaded. Long minutes later I heard riotous laughter to my right and saw Jake emerging from the bathroom. He lunged, lurched back, and threw himself down on his stool, clutching his right hand, which was bleeding profusely
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was washing my hands and I stared at the face looking back at me and it was just so fucking ugly I had to punch it.” He laughed with demented enthusiasm until tears began to form.
The bartender looked on wordlessly. I walked Jake back to the barracks and dressed his wounds.
Scotland Gave The World Golf & The World Is Still Waiting For An Apology
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Scotland Gave The World Golf & The World Is Still Waiting For An Apology
A lifelong battle with manic depression (bipolar disorder), 17 years of therapy, two divorces, three weddings, fatherhood, alcoholism and substance abuse leading up to 11 years of recovery in AA – you might think that time and tide had forced spiritual growth upon me. While it has, I am constantly reminded that certain character flaws remain, however altered, up to the present day.
For example, delighting in elitism, flaunting differences when I would be better served by underscoring similarities, and torture. My cruelties are practiced exclusively in social settings; I am a drawing room brute. An example.
My life to date has had multiple passions, but athletics has never been one of them. The only sport I ever cared about is squash, which is virtually unknown outside England, India, and American WASP enclaves. Mainstream sports hold little appeal for me. This is especially true of golf, which I consider less exciting, and much less athletic, than chess.
When I entered the rooms of AA eleven years ago, I did so in a rather swank suburb of Philadelphia. Most of the regular attendees at meetings were financially successful, i.e., lawyers, doctors, financial planners, businessmen. In time I came to understand that golf was a religion for many of them. They spent (not so) small fortunes on equipment, country club memberships, and travel to exotic courses nationwide. These zealots spoke endlessly about the “Zen” quality of golf; even mapping their spiritual progress in AA to their performance on the links. I struggled hard not reveal how ludicrous this all sounded.
My father was from Glasgow, Scotland. Eldest of four, he was alone in leaving the old country for the U.S. Consequently; I have many Scottish relatives and have visited them often. My aunt Joyce married Alec Mackenzie, a golf fanatic. They purchased a summer home in St. Andrews specifically because residents of St. Andrews automatically become members of The St. Andrews Royal & Ancient Golf Club – the first golf course in the world and indisputably the most famous and prestigious.
Many a family holiday to Holland and Scotland featured extended stays in St. Andrews, with romps on The Royal & Ancient, courtesy of Uncle Alec.
One of my favorite dipsomaniacs, a Saturday meeting regular, was a lovely fellow we’ll call Chauncy, (although his real name is Syngen). Chauncy had been handed a very successful company by his dear, departed dad and consequently had the means and opportunity to devote an inordinate amount of time and treasure to his real passion, golf. We became friends and he would extol the many splendors of golf, telling me how much I would enjoy it. (He attempted the same thing with Christianity and failed there as well.)
One day Chauncy asked me if I had ever played golf. I waited, silently counting off the beats in my head. Then I told him the truth, delivering it with flat affect.
“The only golf course I ever played was the Royal & Ancient at St. Andrews.”
I knew full well it was like saying – the only car I ever drove was a Rolls Royce – the only guitarist I ever saw perform was Jimi Hendrix – the only train I ever rode was The Orient Express. But it was true, so I indulged the dark side.
I will never forget the look on his face. All good humor and affability instantly drained away, he was at once incredulous, consumed by molten hot envy, and hatching a ferocious resentment with intensity unique to alcoholics.
We remained good friends in spite of the incident, but he never forgave me.
A lifelong battle with manic depression (bipolar disorder), 17 years of therapy, two divorces, three weddings, fatherhood, alcoholism and substance abuse leading up to 11 years of recovery in AA – you might think that time and tide had forced spiritual growth upon me. While it has, I am constantly reminded that certain character flaws remain, however altered, up to the present day.
For example, delighting in elitism, flaunting differences when I would be better served by underscoring similarities, and torture. My cruelties are practiced exclusively in social settings; I am a drawing room brute. An example.
My life to date has had multiple passions, but athletics has never been one of them. The only sport I ever cared about is squash, which is virtually unknown outside England, India, and American WASP enclaves. Mainstream sports hold little appeal for me. This is especially true of golf, which I consider less exciting, and much less athletic, than chess.
When I entered the rooms of AA eleven years ago, I did so in a rather swank suburb of Philadelphia. Most of the regular attendees at meetings were financially successful, i.e., lawyers, doctors, financial planners, businessmen. In time I came to understand that golf was a religion for many of them. They spent (not so) small fortunes on equipment, country club memberships, and travel to exotic courses nationwide. These zealots spoke endlessly about the “Zen” quality of golf; even mapping their spiritual progress in AA to their performance on the links. I struggled hard not reveal how ludicrous this all sounded.
My father was from Glasgow, Scotland. Eldest of four, he was alone in leaving the old country for the U.S. Consequently; I have many Scottish relatives and have visited them often. My aunt Joyce married Alec Mackenzie, a golf fanatic. They purchased a summer home in St. Andrews specifically because residents of St. Andrews automatically become members of The St. Andrews Royal & Ancient Golf Club – the first golf course in the world and indisputably the most famous and prestigious.
Many a family holiday to Holland and Scotland featured extended stays in St. Andrews, with romps on The Royal & Ancient, courtesy of Uncle Alec.
One of my favorite dipsomaniacs, a Saturday meeting regular, was a lovely fellow we’ll call Chauncy, (although his real name is Syngen). Chauncy had been handed a very successful company by his dear, departed dad and consequently had the means and opportunity to devote an inordinate amount of time and treasure to his real passion, golf. We became friends and he would extol the many splendors of golf, telling me how much I would enjoy it. (He attempted the same thing with Christianity and failed there as well.)
One day Chauncy asked me if I had ever played golf. I waited, silently counting off the beats in my head. Then I told him the truth, delivering it with flat affect.
“The only golf course I ever played was the Royal & Ancient at St. Andrews.”
I knew full well it was like saying – the only car I ever drove was a Rolls Royce – the only guitarist I ever saw perform was Jimi Hendrix – the only train I ever rode was The Orient Express. But it was true, so I indulged the dark side.
I will never forget the look on his face. All good humor and affability instantly drained away, he was at once incredulous, consumed by molten hot envy, and hatching a ferocious resentment with intensity unique to alcoholics.
We remained good friends in spite of the incident, but he never forgave me.
I Am Not Your Friend I Am Your Driver. If You Arrive My Duty Is Discharged.
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MOONLIT TOURS
(A DESCENT INTO TAXI CAB CULTURE)
MOONLIT TOURS
(A DESCENT INTO TAXI CAB CULTURE)
I Am Not Your Friend I Am Your Driver. If You Arrive My Duty Is Discharged.
In 1976 I returned to Philadelphia after three years in Louisville where I worked for a newspaper and got an advanced degree. (I discovered later that an M.A. in creative writing virtually assures unemployability.) My mother had recently died, my father had taken up with a student of his, and I was well into a prolonged clinical depression. I had no family, no job prospects, and more importantly, no will; so I got a job as a cab driver.
There was an existential purity to that job; it was sublimely meaningless, which was deeply appealing. For 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, a river of unimportant people flowed through the back seat of my cab. I can honestly say I didn’t care about them at all. Some were beautiful, some were ugly, some were entertaining, some were annoying – it didn’t make a difference. They all had one thing in common, the only important thing; they needed to go somewhere and they were willing to give me money if I took them.
One fine spring morning I was dispatched to a Pennsylvania State Liquor Store where I would be collecting a fare and proceeding to The Alden Park Manor, a stately red brick apartment complex abutting Fairmount Park. I pulled up to the curb and there, holding a brown paper bag and waiting patiently, was an attractive, middle-aged black woman with a wooden leg. (She was wearing a skirt and no stockings; the device was in plain sight.) Neatly dressed and perhaps a bit too thin to be healthy, she looked road-weary and yet oddly serene.
It was a short drive and conversation was minimal. She leaned forward to pay me and whispered.
“Would you like to come upstairs?”
“I really should be going.”
“I’ll give you a drink.” She wiggled the brown paper bag.
“Thanks a lot, but, I can’t drink on the job.”
“I’ll take off my leg,” her voice danced musically, “you can have a look.”
“Um. Well. Well. Um.” I simply could not think of anything appropriate to say.
“I’ll let you touch my stump.” Her smile was warm and generous.
“Yeah, I really do have to go.”
“I’ll pay you, I’ll give you $20.”
“That’s all right, thanks all the same.”
“The other drivers like it.” This was offered with a whiff of bitterness. She opened the door and got out.
I had been living in depression for a very long time, my own pain had become alpha and omega. For that instant she had forced me out of my prison and into hers. I felt the wreckage, the doom, the longing – the strange hunger that would cause a person to abandon all shame and propriety in order to be fed. The world is larger than you know, I thought to myself, feeling humbled.
In 1976 I returned to Philadelphia after three years in Louisville where I worked for a newspaper and got an advanced degree. (I discovered later that an M.A. in creative writing virtually assures unemployability.) My mother had recently died, my father had taken up with a student of his, and I was well into a prolonged clinical depression. I had no family, no job prospects, and more importantly, no will; so I got a job as a cab driver.
There was an existential purity to that job; it was sublimely meaningless, which was deeply appealing. For 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, a river of unimportant people flowed through the back seat of my cab. I can honestly say I didn’t care about them at all. Some were beautiful, some were ugly, some were entertaining, some were annoying – it didn’t make a difference. They all had one thing in common, the only important thing; they needed to go somewhere and they were willing to give me money if I took them.
One fine spring morning I was dispatched to a Pennsylvania State Liquor Store where I would be collecting a fare and proceeding to The Alden Park Manor, a stately red brick apartment complex abutting Fairmount Park. I pulled up to the curb and there, holding a brown paper bag and waiting patiently, was an attractive, middle-aged black woman with a wooden leg. (She was wearing a skirt and no stockings; the device was in plain sight.) Neatly dressed and perhaps a bit too thin to be healthy, she looked road-weary and yet oddly serene.
It was a short drive and conversation was minimal. She leaned forward to pay me and whispered.
“Would you like to come upstairs?”
“I really should be going.”
“I’ll give you a drink.” She wiggled the brown paper bag.
“Thanks a lot, but, I can’t drink on the job.”
“I’ll take off my leg,” her voice danced musically, “you can have a look.”
“Um. Well. Well. Um.” I simply could not think of anything appropriate to say.
“I’ll let you touch my stump.” Her smile was warm and generous.
“Yeah, I really do have to go.”
“I’ll pay you, I’ll give you $20.”
“That’s all right, thanks all the same.”
“The other drivers like it.” This was offered with a whiff of bitterness. She opened the door and got out.
I had been living in depression for a very long time, my own pain had become alpha and omega. For that instant she had forced me out of my prison and into hers. I felt the wreckage, the doom, the longing – the strange hunger that would cause a person to abandon all shame and propriety in order to be fed. The world is larger than you know, I thought to myself, feeling humbled.
Paris: Gargoyle With Listerine - On The Ledge With An Unreliable Mind
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Paris: Gargoyle With Listerine - On The Ledge With An Unreliable Mind
The dark forces driving mania also drive depression, indeed, mania and depression are like twins separated at birth and raised by different families. The more you understand them the more you are struck by similarities, not differences.
I have written much more about mania than I have about depression, but depression has consumed a far greater portion of my life. The death of my mother, which occurred when I was a grad student, triggered a long down cycle during which being and nothingness seemed almost indistinguishable from one another – it felt as if all color had been drained from the world.
During this bleak season I went on a European vacation with my brother. At one point we joined forces with a Dutch cousin and toodled through France in a borrowed car. Like good tourists we visited Paris and paid homage to the obligatory icons. Climbing the tower at Notre Dame I had an inspired idea for an ad - Gargoyle with Listerine. After huffing, puffing, and trudging round and round rickety wooden stairs we at last reached the roof and walked into bright sunlight.
Paris lay spread out at our feet like a pornographic postcard featuring men in masks and black socks held in place with garters. Standing at the edge, no railing to protect us, we gazed at the broad cobblestone square far below; remote and yet close enough so that we were able to make out individual faces. It was a lush summer day but I went dizzy and cold, sweat grew on my forehead. Abruptly I backed away; the nausea decreased.
It was nothing so simple as fear of heights, or even the proximity of death. The terror was this. If, for just one instant, my inner, irrational mind had taken control it might have moved one foot just far enough to pitch me headfirst into midnight. The faith I had in my mind’s reliability – to always act in my best interests – was incomplete. Some part of me knew this was dangerous territory.
Later, in mania, I would learn how right I was. Because, dear reader, this is precisely what happens in mania – involuntary, irrational behavior, fabulously self-destructive behavior. If there is a suicidal component to your personality, one second of losing your grip on it can be enough to lose it all.
The dark forces driving mania also drive depression, indeed, mania and depression are like twins separated at birth and raised by different families. The more you understand them the more you are struck by similarities, not differences.
I have written much more about mania than I have about depression, but depression has consumed a far greater portion of my life. The death of my mother, which occurred when I was a grad student, triggered a long down cycle during which being and nothingness seemed almost indistinguishable from one another – it felt as if all color had been drained from the world.
During this bleak season I went on a European vacation with my brother. At one point we joined forces with a Dutch cousin and toodled through France in a borrowed car. Like good tourists we visited Paris and paid homage to the obligatory icons. Climbing the tower at Notre Dame I had an inspired idea for an ad - Gargoyle with Listerine. After huffing, puffing, and trudging round and round rickety wooden stairs we at last reached the roof and walked into bright sunlight.
Paris lay spread out at our feet like a pornographic postcard featuring men in masks and black socks held in place with garters. Standing at the edge, no railing to protect us, we gazed at the broad cobblestone square far below; remote and yet close enough so that we were able to make out individual faces. It was a lush summer day but I went dizzy and cold, sweat grew on my forehead. Abruptly I backed away; the nausea decreased.
It was nothing so simple as fear of heights, or even the proximity of death. The terror was this. If, for just one instant, my inner, irrational mind had taken control it might have moved one foot just far enough to pitch me headfirst into midnight. The faith I had in my mind’s reliability – to always act in my best interests – was incomplete. Some part of me knew this was dangerous territory.
Later, in mania, I would learn how right I was. Because, dear reader, this is precisely what happens in mania – involuntary, irrational behavior, fabulously self-destructive behavior. If there is a suicidal component to your personality, one second of losing your grip on it can be enough to lose it all.
WARNING: STOP – LOOK – LISTEN – BEFORE CROSSING THE LINE
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WARNING: STOP – LOOK – LISTEN – BEFORE CROSSING THE LINE
As a poet I believe:
nothing is frequently the best thing to do
one should remain silent if one has nothing valuable to say
brevity shows courtesy by demonstrating respect for others
Today’s blog consists entirely of Taz Mopula quotes.
"Technology has democratized the tools of creativity, resulting in a tsunami even more cretinous and loathsome than anticipated."
"At what point does communication become air pollution?"
"Our ability to broadcast the wretched detritus of daily life is no argument for doing so; restraint is increasingly precious."
"Why is it called the age of communication when nobody listens?"
"Is the Internet merely a mechanism by which alien life forms can quantify human gullibility and fatuousness?"
"How can you cut through the clutter when the clutter goes all the way through?"
"Pre-Internet scientists were unable to determine if the general population was as dim, dull, and dreary as they feared."
"It doesn’t qualify as listening if you’re busy thinking what to say next."
"You have the right to remain silent, and listen. Might be advisable to exercise it before they take that one away, too."
"In the future, everyone will be obscure for 15 minutes."
"Artificial intelligence will soon be the only kind remaining; thus conclusively proving the failure of human intelligence."
"White is the new black, silence is the new eloquence, and obscurity is the new fame."
As a poet I believe:
nothing is frequently the best thing to do
one should remain silent if one has nothing valuable to say
brevity shows courtesy by demonstrating respect for others
Today’s blog consists entirely of Taz Mopula quotes.
"Technology has democratized the tools of creativity, resulting in a tsunami even more cretinous and loathsome than anticipated."
"At what point does communication become air pollution?"
"Our ability to broadcast the wretched detritus of daily life is no argument for doing so; restraint is increasingly precious."
"Why is it called the age of communication when nobody listens?"
"Is the Internet merely a mechanism by which alien life forms can quantify human gullibility and fatuousness?"
"How can you cut through the clutter when the clutter goes all the way through?"
"Pre-Internet scientists were unable to determine if the general population was as dim, dull, and dreary as they feared."
"It doesn’t qualify as listening if you’re busy thinking what to say next."
"You have the right to remain silent, and listen. Might be advisable to exercise it before they take that one away, too."
"In the future, everyone will be obscure for 15 minutes."
"Artificial intelligence will soon be the only kind remaining; thus conclusively proving the failure of human intelligence."
"White is the new black, silence is the new eloquence, and obscurity is the new fame."
Profiles In Psychology: Doctor Zick Meind Pfrawed
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WONDER MORE
Profiles In Psychology: Doctor Zick Meind Pfrawed
These are wonderful days to be whackadoomious! Awareness of mental health issues is at an all-time high, and those of us troubled by unruly squirrels have a cornucopia of resources to draw upon.
But it was not always thus. Medical care specifically targeted towards mental health is a relatively recent phenomenon, and while we all understand our indebtedness to giants like Carl Jung and Oprah Winfrey, (a woman who makes a big impression wherever she sits), lesser lights responsible for pushing the discipline forward are often overlooked.
Doctor Zick Meind Pfrawed is one of these unjustly slighted geniuses. Fortunately, a recent surge of interest in this complex, daring man has revealed that his contribution to the field of psychoanalysis is far greater than originally thought.
Here is a partial listing of Dr. Pfrawed’s accomplishments:
Credited with originating the phrase: “Mmmm, and how did that make you feel?”
First to establish patient/doctor power dynamic by always making patients wait past designated start time, even when patient arrived early.
First to scribble shopping lists, vacation ideas, and peevish letters to the editor while pretending to jot notes referencing patient diagnosis.
First to realize that insanity, (far from disqualifying an individual from practicing psychiatry), actually improves their level of expertise.
First to realize it’s all your mother’s fault.
First to rank patient value using a complex algorithm balancing degree of whackadoomiousness, extent of medical insurance, and entertainment value of psychosis.
First to bill for an hour but only deliver 50 minutes. (This is widely considered one of the most original, and lucrative, innovations in all healthcare.)
First to realize that, if a doctor’s chair is behind the patient, it is possible to nap during interminable recitations of pointless childhood memories. (This breakthrough in itself secured Dr. Pfrawed’s place of honor within the psychiatric community.)
Originator of the now iconic – (“Hmmm” – followed by a chin scratch) – one/two combination move. Ironically, the great Sigmund Freud himself tried to popularize the – (“Hmmm” – followed by a rear-end scratch) – one/two combination move. This was not popular with patients and failed to catch on.
Memorable Misstep
Though justifiably admired for his multiple contributions, Doctor Zick Meind Pfrawed is perhaps best remembered for his controversial white paper – “The End Insight Will Be When The End In Sight Is” – presented in 1902. In it, he asserted that all therapy should be aimed at the point where therapy is no longer required.
Early psychiatrists, busily saving for second homes, sailboats, and life-sized self-portraits, were horrified by the idea that a patient could one day be cured and consequently no longer require costly treatment. Dr. Pfrawed’s professional status declined accordingly.
These are wonderful days to be whackadoomious! Awareness of mental health issues is at an all-time high, and those of us troubled by unruly squirrels have a cornucopia of resources to draw upon.
But it was not always thus. Medical care specifically targeted towards mental health is a relatively recent phenomenon, and while we all understand our indebtedness to giants like Carl Jung and Oprah Winfrey, (a woman who makes a big impression wherever she sits), lesser lights responsible for pushing the discipline forward are often overlooked.
Doctor Zick Meind Pfrawed is one of these unjustly slighted geniuses. Fortunately, a recent surge of interest in this complex, daring man has revealed that his contribution to the field of psychoanalysis is far greater than originally thought.
Here is a partial listing of Dr. Pfrawed’s accomplishments:
Credited with originating the phrase: “Mmmm, and how did that make you feel?”
First to establish patient/doctor power dynamic by always making patients wait past designated start time, even when patient arrived early.
First to scribble shopping lists, vacation ideas, and peevish letters to the editor while pretending to jot notes referencing patient diagnosis.
First to realize that insanity, (far from disqualifying an individual from practicing psychiatry), actually improves their level of expertise.
First to realize it’s all your mother’s fault.
First to rank patient value using a complex algorithm balancing degree of whackadoomiousness, extent of medical insurance, and entertainment value of psychosis.
First to bill for an hour but only deliver 50 minutes. (This is widely considered one of the most original, and lucrative, innovations in all healthcare.)
First to realize that, if a doctor’s chair is behind the patient, it is possible to nap during interminable recitations of pointless childhood memories. (This breakthrough in itself secured Dr. Pfrawed’s place of honor within the psychiatric community.)
Originator of the now iconic – (“Hmmm” – followed by a chin scratch) – one/two combination move. Ironically, the great Sigmund Freud himself tried to popularize the – (“Hmmm” – followed by a rear-end scratch) – one/two combination move. This was not popular with patients and failed to catch on.
Memorable Misstep
Though justifiably admired for his multiple contributions, Doctor Zick Meind Pfrawed is perhaps best remembered for his controversial white paper – “The End Insight Will Be When The End In Sight Is” – presented in 1902. In it, he asserted that all therapy should be aimed at the point where therapy is no longer required.
Early psychiatrists, busily saving for second homes, sailboats, and life-sized self-portraits, were horrified by the idea that a patient could one day be cured and consequently no longer require costly treatment. Dr. Pfrawed’s professional status declined accordingly.
There’s A Man Who Leads A Life Of Danger: Every Day He Gets A Little Stranger
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INVISIBLE DRIVING NOW!
INVISIBLE DRIVING NOW!
There’s A Man Who Leads A Life Of Danger: Every Day He Gets A Little Stranger
For many years I hid, in order to keep from being discovered and exposed as a fraud. My flaws were not visible; I “passed” for normal and learned to provide the public with a convincing show. (Much later I would learn that the hideous flaws I sought to hide were imaginary, I was, in fact, no worse than the average Bozo.)
Like thousands of lost souls who eventually find themselves in the damp church basements of AA, I avoided intimacy as others avoid influenza. For reasons too dreary and predictable to enumerate, I imagined that – if you truly knew me you would be disappointed and ultimately repulsed - so I saved us both the trouble.
I was like a John le Carré character in deep cover, impersonating a person, blending in, hiding in plain sight. Writer is an ideal occupation in a case of this type; we are a bit like voyeurs and spies anyway. So I honed detachment and isolation down to a fine art.
This luscious anonymity was ended by the eruption of mania and a subsequent, highly public, battle with manic depression (bipolar disorder). As I struggled back from the rubble that remained of my former life and brick by brick rebuilt and built anew – reinventing myself as I did so – I found that I now had a very real, and very dangerous, secret which had the power to wreck my hard won recovery. I understood the stigma; I understood how people fear mental illness. Even criminals fear crazy.
In Alistair V.2 I guarded information jealously, revealing only what was absolutely required. I shielded my employer and new friends from my past; every day was spent on eggshells. But, after two cataclysmic manic episodes I realized that I had to know, and kill, this hideous monster, and for me, that meant writing a book about it.
Bear in mind, this was 1990; at the time there was no such thing as a bipolar memoir to be found anywhere. (“Call Me Anna” by Patty Duke was as close as the curious reader could get). I knew that, by writing my memoir, pitching it to agents, and publishing it – going “bare” for all the world to see – I was making myself incredibly vulnerable to ridicule, contempt, marginalization, prejudice, misunderstanding and worse. But it didn’t matter; I had to do it. It was both my emancipation, and my gift to the afflicted and their loved ones.
At that moment I ceased being a spy, my double life ended. The polar extremes were integrated into one completely imperfect entity. That is my joy today, just one of the many gifts bestowed on me by manic depression.
For many years I hid, in order to keep from being discovered and exposed as a fraud. My flaws were not visible; I “passed” for normal and learned to provide the public with a convincing show. (Much later I would learn that the hideous flaws I sought to hide were imaginary, I was, in fact, no worse than the average Bozo.)
Like thousands of lost souls who eventually find themselves in the damp church basements of AA, I avoided intimacy as others avoid influenza. For reasons too dreary and predictable to enumerate, I imagined that – if you truly knew me you would be disappointed and ultimately repulsed - so I saved us both the trouble.
I was like a John le Carré character in deep cover, impersonating a person, blending in, hiding in plain sight. Writer is an ideal occupation in a case of this type; we are a bit like voyeurs and spies anyway. So I honed detachment and isolation down to a fine art.
This luscious anonymity was ended by the eruption of mania and a subsequent, highly public, battle with manic depression (bipolar disorder). As I struggled back from the rubble that remained of my former life and brick by brick rebuilt and built anew – reinventing myself as I did so – I found that I now had a very real, and very dangerous, secret which had the power to wreck my hard won recovery. I understood the stigma; I understood how people fear mental illness. Even criminals fear crazy.
In Alistair V.2 I guarded information jealously, revealing only what was absolutely required. I shielded my employer and new friends from my past; every day was spent on eggshells. But, after two cataclysmic manic episodes I realized that I had to know, and kill, this hideous monster, and for me, that meant writing a book about it.
Bear in mind, this was 1990; at the time there was no such thing as a bipolar memoir to be found anywhere. (“Call Me Anna” by Patty Duke was as close as the curious reader could get). I knew that, by writing my memoir, pitching it to agents, and publishing it – going “bare” for all the world to see – I was making myself incredibly vulnerable to ridicule, contempt, marginalization, prejudice, misunderstanding and worse. But it didn’t matter; I had to do it. It was both my emancipation, and my gift to the afflicted and their loved ones.
At that moment I ceased being a spy, my double life ended. The polar extremes were integrated into one completely imperfect entity. That is my joy today, just one of the many gifts bestowed on me by manic depression.
