Stationary Unicycle

Hey there friends. In the past, I haven't been shy about talking about my bipolar II, my near constant depression, and anxiety. Writing about my experiences has been a mixed bag. Sometimes I feel I am reveling too much and that I'm embarrassing myself.  Then there are times when people reach out and thank me for being honest about my mental health struggles. Some folks find comfort or solidarity in the stuff I write and that's good, because that's my hope and intention.  I've been mostly silent though about this most recent episode. It's been so dire I felt foolish discussing it much. It just felt too big to be real. I worried that people would think I was being overly dramatic. I have been tempted to dump it all out there like a bag of old garbage, but I though, who needs that. And frankly, at a certain point it felt like who cares, why bother, it's all a load of shit and in the long run, who gives a fuck. At this point though, I feel like I owe...

I'm reading W.S. Merwin, or trying to. I don't know, but I gather, he was educated in a rather classical tradition, which is sort of uncommon among the common folks especially these days. Not a lot of Greek and Latin scholaring going on if you know what I mean, which I think you do.  I need a translator and an historian to walk me through Merwin, with his references to Greek history and Latin phrases.  It's beautiful stuff though. The most accessible the poem  for me so far is,  The Dance of Death .  A king, a huntsman, a scholar, a monk, a farmer, and a woman (because at the time, a woman would not be anything else but a woman) address the reader in verse, what it is to be alive, but then each stanza ends the same, "Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio"  which I looked up and it's a quote from the Bible, Job 7:21 "For now shall I sleep in the dust, and thou shalt seek me in the morning, but I shall not be." Bible words in Latin. Wowz. Be...

a poem by Louise Gluck  Under Taurus We were on the pier, you desiring that I see the Pleiades. I could see everything but what you wished.  Now I will follow. There is not a single cloud; the stars appear even the invisible sister. Show me where to look,  as though they will stay where they are. Instruct me in the dark.  Isn't that beautiful? That to me is just perfect.  Isn't that perfect? Everything just comes together. Perfect.  Of course, I feel inspired. Under Uranus... easy fishing, that. Low hanging fruit. But can you blame me? I know Uranus isn't a constellation, but it is a heavenly body, so I let it stand.  "Of course,  you 'll have to  know  exactly where to  look  for it. Barely visible by a keen naked eye on very dark, clear nights... Uranus  is...visible during the evening hours among the stars of Pisces, the Fishes."   https://www.space.com/229...

The other day was National Orgasm Day. I missed it. Do I have to wait until next year to observe the day? Questions that keep one up at night. Why do I keep trying to write the word random "randome" ? I have similar issues with handsome, only I try to leave the "e" off. And Awesome. This makes no sense. Sense is a word I often stupidly misspell "sence". It looks wrong, I always catch myself before it's too late. Misspell is another word I often misspell. Not mispell, but mistook, not misstook, right? Missunderstood? Confusing. I can't spell. It's not a secret, but I try to compensate. Spell check is something I'm grateful not greatful for. And I am delighted and fascinated by the etymology of words, you'd think that knowing the origins of words and their evolution would significantly improve my spelling, but no. Yup. What else. I am not a fan of summer, the heat, ugh. I can't stand it. But I have a nice memory of being...

As part of my ongoing homage to Kenneth Koch, here are a couple of little poems, odes if you will. To Life, If Life were a Gift  I didn't ask for this it's the wrong size I don't like the material it's not as advertised I would have been perfectly nothing without you the spaces between people air without breathing To Life if Life were a Fairy Tale rarely if ever Goldilocks' just right spilled farina a broken chair rumpled bed clothes an ungrateful child lost in the woods waiting for bears

I mentioned I was going to borrow from Kenneth Koch's New Addresses: Poems . Every poem in his collection is an ode, a poem addressed to something.  I love that idea, and I've decided to write a series of odes myself, just as a writing exercise, not to steal but just to write something, I've hit a dry spell, and well, whatever. I've written a couple of poems. He wrote a poem called To Life, and I wrote a poem by the same name. It's very different in every way, starting with quality and ending with content.  As far as I know, Koch didn't write a poem to a housefly.  I have.  If he had, it would be better or course, but I beat him to it.  To the housefly buzzing and bouncing off the screen of the open window you are obviously unsatisfied with your surroundings It's clear you'd like to get the fuck out of here you can sense the outside world yet it's confounding illusive elusive  In a few d...

As a long term depressed person, the most compelling material I have is not exactly compelling. I don't get out much and I don't do anything when I stay in. This lifestyle does not make for scintillating content. So I did a simple Google search for blog ideas, and I pilfered. Top 10 lists are big, beauty and fashion blogs are big, these are not my personal go-tos for material, but I found myself oddly inspired. Even when I'm feeling well, the topic of beauty and personal grooming doesn't come up. When people think of me, which, you know, is not exactly often, but if I do cross a mind, I'm pretty sure the first thought isn't, "My, that woman is well groomed and so well put together." Pretty sure. Pretty damn sure. Beauty secrets of the chronically depressed : There is no beauty going on here people, unless you call 16 hours of heavy mouth breathing drool sleep a day "beauty sleep", then there's that. Here's a tip: Shower someti...

You know when life is sort of shitty and most things really aren't going your way, and I don't mean just the little things, but the big things, things having to do with keeping the roof over your head, things having to do with food on the table, those sorts of big things, when those things are shitty, you know, that's when I want to throw everything real aside and sink into my own personal fantasy land.  By personal fantasy land I mean sleep.  When everything has turned to shit, I want to go to bed.  I think that's what I'm trying to say.  I start to wonder, am I ever EVER going to get my shit together?  At this point I don't need a Magic Eight Ball to tell me, all signs point to NO.  And then I have to wonder, does it matter? I'm getting old people. 

To the white cat sleeping on the chair yellow eyed beauty your purpose in this world to be lovely you sleep on the chair spread across the seat, like you were poured there the dog, tiny thing I can pick up in one hand, but you I can barely lift with two as though you double your weight just to make the task more difficult the chair you occupy is mine overstuffed and tucked between the book shelves I scoop at you and push you and you move begrudgingly with palpable disdain as I lower myself into my seat with my book you jump back quicker than a creature of your luxury should be able you spread yourself thick and languid, as though you'd never moved you are certain the laws of gravity will bend to your will you are ready to take your chances certain I will catch myself before causing you harm I gyrate and scramble slapstick  to prevent my awkward bulk from crushing you I concede the chair to the sup...

In his collection of poems, New Addresses: Poems,  Kenneth Koch has written poems in praise of everything from mundane objects to profound states of being:  To Life , To Some Buckets , To Old Age.  The reason I don't read more poetry is that I worry about copying voice or content from others. When I let go of that fear a little and I read some poetry, I realize other people's work can be pretty inspiring and I don't feel nearly as concerned about inadvertent theft. It just occurs to me that these poems are odes (which I keep trying to spell "oads"...because rhymes with toads) which is kind of nice, odes are kind of nice. Since it's a pretty common sort of poem, I thought maybe I'd write some odes myself. I won't steal from good old Kenneth but I will gladly help myself to the ode, because the world is full of things to praise. Poetry isn't for everybody, I get that, I mean, I actually don't get that. But I hear it and I try to accept it. ...

Honest Question Why is poetry monopolized by academic fuckers who make their poems mercury elusive or slick like a noodle you can't pierce with your fork? Reading Koch and Kenyon in the past, I was  afraid to read other poets for fear of inadvertent thievery and lately lately not an idea in my head just my bland life,  And then to read of the bland lives of others, buckets, full and empty,  insects crawling in a book I remember  the big secret everything  every fucking thing is a poem Critique I wander the house  foul bored dissatisfied there is nothing to say I have  nothing  to say "My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..." ee cummings wandering my barren internal landscape,  with that lamment "My mind is a big hunk of irrevocable nothing..." but the shadow of my  arrogant self hiding behind  a tree of charcoal and soot says  ...

I wrote personal essays, I really enjoyed writing them, too. I mean, I still do write personal essays, but it doesn't give me the same pleasure to write them, and frankly, I find myself at a loss for material or bored as fuck. I wonder who really wants to know about what I find funny, frustrating, or sad? I know I personally have a hell of a time reading personal essays. There are people I love to read and I could read their stories every day, David Sedaris comes to mind first and shows like This American Life beguile me. I almost didn't use the word beguile...it was the first word that came to mind and then I was like, "nah, beguile? Really? Isn't that a bit much?" and I realized, no. These stories beguile me. Then there are the personal stories of people I love, and I love to read those too. But then I'll read some other stuff, and I'm bored shitless, and I think to myself, why the fuck should I care? For example, I'll be looking for a ...

I have written about mental health issues in this post and if you're feeling low, you may not want to read any further.  If you are considering suicide or if you are in any kind of mental health crisis, please call the Suicide Prevention Hotline:  1-800-273-8255 or head to your local emergency room. Please reach out and get help. I've been sick for months, too sick to work, too sick to do much of anything.  I've slept a lot like one does when one is ill.  It's embarrassing, because when I say I've been ill what I mean is, I've been depressed. As far as I'm concerned, mental illness is a real thing, and those suffering are actually ill, but there are still folks around who don't think depression is a life threatening disease, or a disease at all, and that those of us afflicted are merely lazy whiny "snowflakes" who'd rather lie around and do nothing than make an honest living.  I am certain I internalized that negative appraisa...

Haven't had a compelling thought or written anything interesting in a very long time. On the other hand, my spelling seems to be improving. Not much solace in that though, not a fair trade.

When the kids were younger it was easier to write about stuff. It was easier to write about them because frankly, they didn't care, and it was easier to divulge personal stuff about myself, because frankly, they didn't care. None of it showed up on their radar. But now everybody is older, and I feel there is more at stake. They deserve privacy and their lives are their own, not mine to mine at will, to bend and fashion into something that serves or pleases me or makes a point that I've chosen. That's not fair. And as they get older I feel my public behavior has more of an impact on them. I mean, I'm friends with some of their friends, and if I share some big deep secret or trauma with the world, they are going to know about it, and their friends may know about it, and then I'm just a little too uncovered to feel comfortable. Then there is the very real possibility of being "cringy" which is something to be avoided at all costs. I know I cros...

look my pals, I risk alienating you all, over sharing and generally coming off as an attention seeking pathetic loser, but here's the deal: I've been depressed on and off for the last 42 years and I'm really tired of it. I mean really tired, really really tired. Not to worry. I'm just going to go back to bed and hope tomorrow is a better day, but Jesus Christ, this sucks so hard I can hardly stand it.

Some, I'd venture to say, most people have happy memories of summer.  Childhoods spent at the family camp on the edge of the pine woods  on the shore of some small cool pond. Or maybe weeks spent away at a summer camp with other kids  learning to sail or build camp fires, pitch a tent, singing songs around the fire at night, roasting marshmallows.   Summer might have meant day trips to the coast, trips to the local pool,  pool parties with friends, BBQs.  But for me summer was just riding my bike around the block while my mother was at work, or riding my bike around the block while my mother reclined in her plastic lounge chair, greasy with sweat, in a tube top and shorts with her black coffee and cigarettes in the back yard.  I spent a couple of summers with my dad in New York. That was fraught as well. He worked nights and slept days. Summer to me means being alone and lonely. It means being too hot all the time beca...

We adopted our elderly Maltese the day before Thanksgiving 2017. Summer looked like a well coiffed old lady, sparse closely shorn white hair with a slight wave, her pink skin showing through. She wore a little red sweater. If she had been a human she would have smelled like tea rose dusting powder and kept a tissue up her sleeve. I'd never had a dog of a specific breed before. I was taken with her sad story, her owner had passed away, those who had been tasked with caring for her neglected and abandoned her. Her 17 year old companion, Max, also a Maltese, had been so ill he needed to be put down. I needed to take care of this tiny old lady and so I adopted her on the spot without doing much thinking about what taking care of an aging Maltese would entail. Grooming a Maltese is part of responsible ownership, not just for aesthetic reasons, but for their overall comfort and health. Had I done my homework I would have know that Maltese fur grows pretty fucking fast and is hard to ...

I am unbearably sad right now. My country is a disaster, those who are leading us are leading us straight to hell, and it feels like there is nothing I can do. I know "they" want us to feel powerless. If we're weary we give up. It's hard to think of anything else but the terrible news every moment of every day. I think that's part of what is eroding my will, the constant bad news, the daily tragedies. It's exhausting. I will endeavor to find something to lighten the mood in an effort to ease the heavy burden of our shared reality. It may take a while to come up with something though. I may take several whiles. There's the story of how my son and I shaved the dog. That's pretty funny. Yup. It is. The punch line is, the dog looks like Olivia Newton John circa 1980, you know, skinny with giant leg warmers. Shaving the dog's legs was tricky, Summer the Amazing Elderly Maltese was over it by the time we got to her limbs, and frankly,...

I bought my 15 year old son his first pair of cleats today. He's joining the football team this year despite growing up in a family devoid of interest in sports, despite never having played football before, and despite my past stance on tackle football in middle school. I refused to let him play, he seemed so young. It felt like too much of a risk. Am I worried about injuries now? So much yes. So so much. I know that head injuries, neck injuries, broken teeth, broken bones, did I mention head and neck injuries, are a real concern. And I am concerned. I'm already worried and the season doesn't start for a few months yet. But I'm letting him join anyway. Because he wants to. Because he said he'd do it even if I said no. Because I want to support him in his effort to become stronger, I want to support his need for being a member of a team. Because he's been searching for his place for so long and he feels he may have finally found it. I remind myself t...

I am going to just blather on about stupid shit. My heart hurts from all the terrible news, my head hurts from all the stupidity. I can't believe my country, the people of my country, our "leadership", I just can't . I find myself just wanting to go to bed and never get up again. I try to stay on top of the news even though it makes me ill. There are times though, when I need to hide. I know it's my privilege that allows me to bury my head when I become overwhelmed. I can't help but feel ashamed and weak for checking out of reality long enough to binge watch Queer Eye. I also know if I don't do something silly or enjoyable, I will become totally burned out and even more useless than I feel right now. I am sure there are others who feel the same. But every time I sit down to write something frivolous and funny, nothing comes to mind. It's as though there will never be anything good again. We've turned a corner and we've gotten...

"And Jesus wept." I am not a religious person, but these words moved me.  My county's leaders are corrupt and immoral. Some of them are truly evil.  Nothing else seems to matter right now. Children being torn from their parents and kept in abandoned buildings behind chain link fencing like animals is almost more than my brain can comprehend and my heart breaks.  I will put my body on the line, I will raise my voice, I won't quietly sit in the background. This is the time when our moral fiber is tested and we must all be strong, stand up, speak out or forever be on the wrong side of history. To stand back is shameful. If you don't do something, be ashamed.   Silence is complicity. 

I am writing in public. When writing in public, I use the smallest font I can. I hate the idea of someone reading over my shoulder. Not that they would, why would they? But what if they did? Horrors.  Inevitably they would catch a glimpse when I've spelled something wrong, like GLIMPSE, which I just a moment ago spelled GLIMPS but then I caught the error and fixed it, but what if someone saw that before I noticed the mistake? Would they think I think there is a singular GLIMP? God forbid.  Out of context, anything can be embarrassing or damning. Also, fruit salad should be cut into smaller bits because eating it in public alone is sort of gross. Do you take the bigger chunks in smaller bites? If you stuff the whole thing in there, you can't chew it and sometimes it gets wedged on the roof of your mouth and the only way to save the day is to pry the food out with your your finger. So then, smaller bites it must be, but what if you're afraid you'll bit...

Writing a poem can take me years.  The first draft usually comes to me quickly and it's heady stuff, exhilarating. After that, editing the thing, that is where the real work lies, and that can take years.  At some point I need to let it go.  Lately I haven't had a glimmer of a poem, except for that haiku like thing I shard here on the blog, or was it the other blog? Anyway, even though it was only three lines, that was stewing for a couple of years.  I didn't change it much from the original, but it did take a long time for me to recognize it's poem-ness,  I carry a notebook with me most of the time. I was flipping through an old one, from 2013, and I came across only one line in the entire book that really stood out.                                                                ...

If you are considering suicide or feel hopeless and helpless, please call the Suicide Prevention Life Line.  Call 1-800-273-8255 Available 24 hours everyday https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ please don't kill yourself. I spent the winter and spring seriously contemplating suicide. I managed not to do it. I beg you not to do it too. Don't do it. It's easier right now not to do anything, so do that Do nothing. Just lay there in your bed and cry or don't cry if you are out of tears, But I beg you stay put, don't do it. stay here. Don't go. Stay put. Tomorrow might suck but it might not. And a week from now might not suck too. And there are sunrises and sunsets and puppies. Also flowers, music, and the smell of sweet grass. Really, those things are worth living for. It's the small stuff. There's lots of small stuff. Much of it beautiful. Even some of the ugly small stuff is beautiful. Some people...

I changed most of the posts on The Unicycle to draft before I said goodbye the last time a couple years ago. But after making an effort to write The Unicycle again, and in an effort to get some inspiration, I decided to check out some of my past posts and drafts. Seems like I'm always depressed. That's the one thread that holds everything together.  It seems I'm always depressed and have always been depressed. I cannot think of a time in my life when I was not, to some degree, depressed. It is tedious living like this, and I can only imagine that it's tedious reading about someone living like this.  Maybe that's why I can't think of anything to write about.  My recent major depressive episode was severe and though I now find myself sort of able to cope I still carry with me the weight. It's a lighter burden, no doubt about it, a lighter weight, but it's still draped over my shoulders like a heavy wet wool shawl. It's a weighs on m...

Here's a little something I wrote recently that I have no recollection of writing: Why is poetry monopolized by academic fuckers who make their poems mercury elusive or slick like a noodle you can't pierce with your fork?

I wrote this blog a long time ago. Then I quit writing, I just ditched the whole thing. Recently I thought, hey, I wrote more when I had a self imposed and semi-public deadline, so maybe I should jump on the Unicycle again. But I couldn't log in, so I just let it go and started Remedial Gym. For someone not interested in fitness or sports my choices of titles are silly, but moving on. Now, for whatever reason I can not log into my new bloggityblog. So, here I am again. Frankly, I missed the Unicycle and I am happier to be out of Remedial Gym. I wrote some pretty funny things here, and I'm glad to have access to it. The stuff on the other blog was lackluster and tiresome. So that's the long way around a very boring topic. Hopefully I can pick up some of the old momentum I had when I first started Stationary Unicycle. I worry that my last depressive episode ate my brain, sort of like emotional syphilis, which is not, by the way, a sexually transmitted disease. Ju...