#@$%^ (translation: summer of ’16)

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So as I hop around on my newly fixed MacBook Air, I enjoy reading old documents, even if they’re sometimes painful to remember that point in time. It’s a Catch 22 type of situation in that I have the documents (yay!) but they are written in difficult times (ugh). So I wonder how to somehow moderate this imbalance, and writing these lines, at this time, somehow helps to assuage past pains.

 

I have really solid support structures, though they were wildly rocked at their base this summer. When I think of this summer, most of it, at least; all that comes to mind is a string of expletives that hurl from my mouth in anger, and disbelief. I have no good words to describe my state of mind. And foul words seem to make me handle the memory of that time with more grit. Like I’m spitting back in the face of that relentless confusion.

 

I hadn’t had a breakdown that bad since 2003, and in 2003, I went into the hospital for it. This time: no hospital. Looking back, it was not a bad decision. It made sense at the time. But, summer of ’16: #@$%^

 

Now, the fires of spontaneity, the fever-like urge to compete, complete, carry on; all of this fuels my actions.

*Picture credit to: free google images

Walking

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I got 19,000 steps in today. About 8.8 miles. I revel in getting outside and exercising. I’m boxing, too, which blows off much pent up frustration. I’m lifting weights, just for the arms. Finally, I stretch at the end of the workout, which is sheer bliss.

I fell off whatever wagon I had been on, and just habituated in a sort of personal waste land.

Now I’m back, with a vengeance.

My next goal is to return to writing.

I really missed this community!

artistic journey

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I was my mother’s “practice” fifth grade student at our local art museum, the Figge.  She is studying to be a docent, and will soon have to deal with many groups of fifth grade students who will be gathered around very expensive and delicate art, all listening to her perspective of the art at the moment.  I admire her!

I loved going to the museum, especially for the Fourth Floor exhibit.  I took two pictures of the collection, which was the best of any artist who lives within 150 miles of Davenport, Iowa, where the Figge stands.

I loved the book, which anyone can actually turn.  It reminded me of how magical books can be, as the acrylic and textured book which is wholly abstract, bedazzled me.

The other picture, also seemed magical as wires strung from the hugely tall ceiling carried little leaves whose shadow reflected below.

Of course after the difficult work of imbibing art, we imbibed an excellent lunch at the Figge cafe.

If you’re ever in the Quad Cities, I would highly recommend the Figge as a stop.  It overlooks the mighty Mississippi, which runs through our five towns–Rock Island, where I grew up, Moline, East Moline, Davenport, and Bettendorf.

Looking for Marchaux 

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All to find Henri Marchaux. Who was not a disappointment. But the gift of the journey! I just wanted a book on Michaux! And I got The Yale Anthology of Twentieth Century French Poetry. I was so happy for this serendipitous find. I read and I read, sometimes the French; sometimes the English– and I remember the German, learned in high school. A true polyglot. I wish for more languages to learn; I revel in what I vaguely know. 

Looking back brings distance from the pain

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I spent sixteen years in abject silence over a secret which I kept. The sad fact is that it really wasn’t a secret. I just treated the fact with a silence; I would not share my secret willingly. I would not bring it up in conversation, though the opening was wide many times. I do not know if I would continue to keep this secret, under different circumstances. But my family fully impressed upon me how important it was to keep silent on the matter of my brain. They assured me that it would be used as ammunition for getting rid of me, since I had a malfunctioning brain: A DSM-IV diagnosis. Looking back, I think the weight of silence on this matter became heavier and heavier. I had already taken medical leave. Some fellow workers visited me in the mental ward of the hospital. But there was some magic about not SAYING what was wrong with me. I thought it would protect me from all manner of bad happenings in the workplace. Now I wonder if it would have been easier to be more open about my need, for instance, for lorezepam at noon daily. I know no one can understand another’s plight fully. But I kept mine fully hidden. I surprised my coworkers and my boss when I said I was resigning. Internally, I felt isolated, hated, misunderstood— partially because I never shared my feelings, or my needs. I really regret the way things went, lately I have been regretting how I’m doing things; looking back often and thinking a better course was available. I don’t think people really move on from big events that happen in their life. I know I will always remember with pain, the time of resignation from my job, of some thirteen years. All that really makes it better is time that has since passed, from my resignation. And that time has been rich with fervent effort to do right. To be productive in the best ways I know how. And to love my husband, and my family with every last ounce.