200 mg Depakote

Not sure what else to say today.

You Look In The Mirror

You look in the mirror. You see beauty there – the joy that the face before you is a thing of wonder no greater nor less than the universe entire. You are the only one that can see it. Others may see you as beautiful, but they are looking in their own mirrors. The beauty you see is yours alone. Experience has shown you that it will not last, but it fills this moment completely.

The beauty you see today is different than yesterday. Is that another fold there? Has another hair turned gray? Are the eyes rimmed with a bit more red? Others may judge the changes harshly and label them ugly. You judge them beautiful and this is enough.

When you see beauty in the mirror your power is great. Many in the world are jealous and try to cloud your vision. You will not let them. Not now, not in this moment. You look more deeply into the eyes and see the truth that remains. The mirror reflects beauty. Transitory. Illusory. Wonderful. Beauty.

You know the religious and philosophical teachers who claim to have discovered the certain path to this beauty – calling it by limiting names like salvation, redemption, or enlightenment. You know of the neural pathways that create the sensation of beauty. You know of the salesmen who claim to sell beauty in little jars. Yet none of these can dim the vision before you or make it less complete. Perhaps a God who made man in his image will come from heaven to reveal the one true source of all beauty. Or perhaps a day will come when someone captures this beauty perfectly, pinning it to acid-free paper in a nitrogen-filled case for you to study. Most certainly, people will try to sell you their version of beauty – each claiming to have the most wonderful product or best understanding of what makes one beautiful.

Thankfully, as you look in the mirror, you know that none of this matters. Beauty regards beauty. Carbon, oxygen and trace elements regard silver behind a piece of glass. There may be more, but just now this alone is enough. Neither divine or profane, neither requiring nor accepting any adornment, free of human judgment or need for certainty. Free. Simple. Beauty.

This Breath

There is cause for joy in this breath or there is no joy. Letting go of the need for more than this breath is my greatest source of peace. Grasping and holding have never brought me happiness. Fighting for more and seeing the pain it causes others has only brought me pain. Even the meaning of these words I now write is something that I must let go – else I will find myself defending it against others who feel I am in error, or who believe they offer a clearer path. I laugh at myself for writing such silly thoughts. Why would I ever want to defend them?

Fighting to prove that my words are correct only blinds me to the beauty of this breath. I accept that every word I write or speak, that every action I take likely is “wrong” or “bad” from someone’s perspective. I accept that if I do not fight for myself some will take things from me. Yet, when I fight for myself, or to acquire and protect the things I think I need there is no joy – only a false happiness followed by despair. I must focus on my breath – only within it is there joy for me. May I find the courage to leave behind the need to seek more than the simple joy in this breath, this very one, right here, right now.

Should There Be A "Where's Steve?" Tour?

I step into the dark of early morning. I pause on the steps. Guilt has me in its grip. I should have made coffee for Rejeanne before going out to waste another day. I know that thoughts filled with should are nothing but illusions of how I think the world ought to operate – but they are persistent. I go back inside and check the coffee – there is almost a full pot from yesterday. I start to make a new pot because I should make fresh coffee for Rejeanne. Then I remember that Rejeanne actually prefers to be frugal and drink day old coffee. I leave my shoulds behind, make it to the car and head into town.

As I drive, I think of Adam Weinstein. Adam is on a roll just now. His art show went well and he is hearing encouraging buzz about his music from the west coast. There are rumors of a show and even a tour. Perhaps Adam will be able to live out his dream. That would be fantastic – at least part of me thinks so, the part that I want to reinforce and nurture, the part of me that knows that the only true joy in life comes from giving. But I would be less than honest if I were to say that there is not at least a small part of me that is jealous of Adam’s success. This part has been trying to help Adam “organize” things and give him “advice” as though he needs my help. He needs my friendship as all of us need friendship from each other, but as for “help” that is something for which only he can determine the need. Unasked for help is interference.

Yesterday I sent an email to help Adam organize things with a mutual friend. In the email I told the friend I would give him the copies of the tapes I made at Adam’s show. I did not ask for permission from Adam. I just assumed that it would be a good idea. I think part of me wanted to help but I think I may have wanted to insert myself between Adam and the mutual friend – to somehow take partial credit for Adam’s talent. Was I hoping that some of Adam’s luster would rub off on me? Did I have such a low opinion of myself that I thought I needed it? Perhaps. But I am better at catching this thinking than I used to be – better at minimizing the damage it can cause me and my relationships – at least some of the time.

I pull over and send Adam a text.

Have I upset you? Call me when you wake.

The phone rings minutes later. His voice is full of sleep.

“Hey. Want to go for breakfast?”

I laugh. “Sure. When?”

“I can be ready in a few minutes.”

We order breakfast at Perkins’. Way too much food filled with way too much fat and sugar. But it is what it is. We eat much of it in silence, both minds whirling, wondering what the future will bring if Adam does become famous. For a moment I envisage myself as a sober Hunter Thompson – following Adam’s band across the country, writing stories, blogs and reviews – finally rolling everything into a wonderful book that everyone will want to read. Another Rolling Stone in a country so obsessed with self-aggrandizement that it often loses all perspective. We are just naked apes after all. Why must we insist that our actions be seen as the most important, or the grandest creatures in the universe?

I smile at Adam. I don’t know what to say to be helpful. I don’t trust myself to be unselfish. Excitement is not my friend. But I must try. What other choice is there? Shall I give over entirely to my desire to play king of the hill, to become as Adam puts it, “The monkey with the most bananas?” I practice my breathing for a moment. The bill comes. Adam asks for permission as he reaches for it.

“Can I get this one?”

I smile. “Sure thing, buddy, sure thing.”

As I wait, I recall Steven – Steven Bock of Truth and Janey and Nowhere Fast. Steven was the only other famous and/or nearly famous musician I knew. He died this summer. He and Adam played together once, and Steven told me he was impressed. After the cancer took Steve, Adam and I went out west to leave a portion of his ashes in the Pacific. We met a friend of mine who knew a few people in the world of music. He and Adam hit it off very well…and as the movies put it, the rest was history.

Before his death, Steve and I had been working on a project that Steve called, The Where’s Steve Tour?- a dark bit of humor in the face of his impending death. Steve is gone now – any tour by Adam could certainly ask the question “Where’s Steve?” But perhaps, in some strange way, Steve’s dream is coming true posthumously. If Adam does ride a wave of success to fame and a national tour, I will imagine Steve watching and smiling, happy that the Where’s Steve Tour? came off at last. Steve will bear witness that the kindness Adam and I tried to do for him, yielded joy in world that is more about love and dreams than about guilt and should.

Grey Skies and Wandering Rocks

Grey skies of autumn cast pearl light on the slate window sill. Slow jazz wafts over the tables of people chatting over their morning coffee. The music is something French. Heavy orchestra with a harmonica and a sultry female. This morning’s coffee is dark roast. Less caffeine but a stronger flavor. Another day is beginning.

I wrote one piece – I did not like it. This is the second. It will be today’s. Writing for a blog is a little bit stifling. There are not many readers but just the fact of knowing that there are a few constrains what I write. I tend to over edit. I want to sound more polished than I feel. Therapy transitions into work very quickly unless I make sure I slow down and see and listen to each word as it appears on my screen. It is difficult to listen to the voice of the writer. The critic in my head works very hard to shout him down. Writer and critic wrestle in a Sisyphean struggle so ancient that sometimes I am drained. Yet I must write to live. Time has shown me this time and time again. And, may I be forgiven my pride and self-indulgence, I do love it when people tell me they like what I write. Thus, like Odysseus and his Wandering Rocks, I am trapped between two huge cliffs that may close on me at any moment. Odysseus’ stones threatened to smash his ship. My rocks threaten to crush my spirit. One rock says “write regardless of what people think, for in that way you achieve the most honest healing” and the other says “write and try to be loved for what you write”. The gap between the two rocks is made up of my desire not only to live but to be loved. It is a struggle at times but in the end I am grateful for it. Much of my life I was asleep, unable to see the beauty in life and the joy in writing about it. Better to live and face Wandering Rocks than sleep and be buried by them.

Home On The Street

I walk the streets of Vancouver. I am headed to a local Tim Horton’s coffee shop. A breeze blows a piece of paper to rest against my leg. Some poor soul has written an essay about families and holidays. He (or she?) clearly comes from an unhappy home. As I read, I am so grateful that my family is unlike the author’s family; so grateful that my holidays were spent in warmth and love. I reprint the letter here, as a reminder for those of us with healthy families to be grateful for them.

Heading into another season of “holidays” leads me to wondering about home again. Judgments from my past take me far from the image of home that is shown on television. But then did that home ever really exist? Was there ever a land of homes of Swiss Butterball turkeys, tables groaning under too many dishes to mention and families who spent weeks together smiling and telling amusing anecdotes about their childhood? Did anyone ever inhabit a home with no embarrassing secrets, free of dark jealousy about inheritances, and without grudges so poisonous that they often stifled conversation? Is it just me, or has home always included at least a few scenes not fit for prime time? Am I the only one who suffers from the cognitive dissonance of pretending reality is like television or a Hollywood script? Am I the only person on the planet who is tired of “faking” it till I make it? Am I simply being immature and self-centered? Perhaps so. Perhaps I am the only one who sees the white elephants in families and wants to point them out. After all, I have been hospitalized for “seeing things” and for being unable to “fit in” with normal society. Perhaps it is best that I simply accept my fate of being out of synch and to not discuss things that make others uncomfortable. I do love my family. I do not want to cause them harm. Yet, how can I say that I know them when we cannot trust each other with our secrets, when it is not polite to discuss hurtful things, not nice to want to clear the white elephants from the room – when it is insane to want brutal honesty rather than feigned love and caring?

So be it. I will go through the holidays yet again without bringing up anything uncomfortable. We will discuss the weather, football and how tasty Aunties chocolate pie was. That will be pretty much it. We don’t agree on politics or religion so those topics are off limits. None of us remember the past in the same way, so discussions of that end up in arguments. In the end, we will watch television until it is time to say goodbye. Duty has brought us together. Once that is fulfilled, we are grateful to part. We are not people who would spend time together in any other setting.

Yet I am too harsh. There are moments when the smell of the oak trees and the rustle of the wind in the leaves will bring back a memory of laughter, a recollection of a hug, or a time when as children we were unaware of the things that seemed to be upsetting the grown-ups; like the time when we snuck off to the pond to go skinny-dipping. True, we got a damn good spanking for doing it but it was worth it. Yes there were good times and I would love to celebrate those. It’s just that I don’t know how to celebrate the good times without honestly facing the bad ones. It seems false somehow. It cheapens the memories of the good times, makes them seem less real if we cannot also have the strength as a family to face the things that have brought all of us pain. It makes me feel like I should be ashamed of my family, like we have some things to hide that are so terrible that they are worse than the things faced by other families, like my family is the worst one ever, or that we lack the moral strength and courage to be real and honest with each other. How can I celebrate good times in a family of shame? How can I lie?

But this is ridiculous. My family is my family. I cannot change them. I will be polite. I will say the right things. I have learned the lesson of the perpetual silence. No sense making a fuss. The holidays will soon pass and we can return to the path of ignoring one another.

Thankfully, I have also learned that home is not a place or a particular group of people. I am at home wherever my feet happen to be. I can find friends at every turn. I can make friends by learning to be a friend; someone who is honest, someone who pretends as little as possible, someone who tries to share a little love and kindness with everyone.

I weep for the author of the note. How sad that he will spend the holidays in such a sad state of affairs. If I knew who he was I would invite him home to my family. We will have the turkey. We will have a table that groans from the weight of all the tasty dishes set before us. We will laugh at tales from our childhood. We will watch a football game and shout for the home team. Our family could pose for the ads you see on television. We might even do that someday, if they pay us enough. :-)

A Far Country

In a far country - far, far from here - a young man sat with his coffee thinking of ways to be a better human being. He thought, “Fix this. Fix that. When will I be done fixing myself?”

He had honed the art of self-examination and improvement to the point of insanity. Placing himself squarely at the center of the universe he assumed full responsibility for his fate in life, responsibility not only for his fate, but the fate of all those around them. His sense of duty came from beliefs so deeply ingrained that they flowed through him in his blood with every beating of his heart; the belief that there are no such things as accidents, that God is in control; that God has set up a rule of laws and that man has freewill to choose; and, thus the man’s fate is in his own hands – make the right choices and live a life of happiness, make the wrong ones and suffer eternal damnation. The man saw his life as a test in how to make the right choices. He was certain all of his pains were of his own making, that he is a case of “selfish, self-centeredness”, and that all his actions were “self-will run riot.” Buried in these thoughts, the black of his coffee looked darker and darker.

Meanwhile, deep in the limbic system of his brain his amygdala twitched sending a bit of hormone to the right temporal lobe. The hormone caused a tiny seizure, a seizure so small it could scarcely be detected by even the most sensitive instruments. But its impact was enormous. The young man saw a bright light. He heard a voice, “All is well with you. All of the universe is one with me and you are one with me for now and always.”

Trembling, the young man asked, “Who are you?”

“I am known by many names in many lands but you may call me God.”

The voice and the young man conversed for what seemed hours, yet when the light faded the young man saw that only a two minutes had passed.

The young man rushed home to write down all that he had heard. Next day, he made copies of his writings and shared them with all of his friends. After a few days of sharing and talking with others the young man was exhausted, hiding in his house and refusing to talk with anyone. During this dark times the young man worried that he was not being a true messenger of God, that he still was doing things for selfish reasons, that he did not deserve love from anyone. His friends brought him food but he would not eat. They sang him songs but he could not sleep. Eventually, the exhaustion passed and the young man returned to his life.

Periodically, the young man had further seizures and saw the white light. He continued to write and publish his conversations with the one he “chose to call God”. These periods of writing and sharing were followed by periods of exhaustion. People told him that his writing inspired them and they flocked to hear him read from his work. Their praise comforted the young man during his dark periods. But the young man still was obsessed with the idea of fixing himself to become a better messenger for God. He dreamed that somehow, someday he would find a way to be beautiful enough and good enough to deserve and experience love.

One day a psychiatrist traveled to the young man’s country. He went to several of the young man’s lectures. He nodded to himself and smiled secretly. Then one day he cornered the young man after a lecture, “Young man you are seriously ill. You are having temporal lobe seizures, the bright light is nothing more than a patch of neurons misfiring, and the revelations are nothing more than a severe case of hypergraphia. You must take these pills. They will make you stop worrying about fixing yourself. They will make you understand that you are worthy of being loved.”

Much relieved to find out that he simply was ill, not evil, the young man took the medications offered by the psychiatrist. Amazingly, the seizures stopped. The young man no longer saw the white light and no longer felt the need to write and share his writings. He took some classes at the local community college, became a phlebotomist, settled down, and started a family with his high school sweetheart who had stood by him faithfully for years. He thought he felt like most other people thought they felt most of the time. He even was pretty sure that he was worthy of being loved.

His former followers became very angry with him. They challenged him to debates about God. But with his mind clear for the first time in his life the young man could easily refute their arguments for the existence of magical white lights and a divine being. He carefully explained how the brain worked and the phenomenon of temporal lobe seizures to all who would listen. His explanation only upset them. They shouted at him.

“Hypocrite. Back slider. You think too much. You know you will go to hell.”

Over time, doubts began to re-enter the young man’s mind. His doubts were not about bright lights, magical beings or even temporal lobe seizures. Deep inside he still doubted that he was worthy of being loved. His friends and family tried to comfort him. They tried to tell him that they loved him. He tried to believe them. He tried very hard to believe, but trying was not enough. The dark times began to reappear. It was helpful to know that the dark times were not a sign of a character deficiency but the pain of them still was very real and powerful. It was if he knew that he had a broken leg. He was no longer ashamed of having a broken leg but the lack of shame did not heal the leg or relieve its pain.

On the darkest night in many years, the young man went to the highest bridge over the deepest river. He could not see the water. He only heard it rushing by far below. The young man climbed the railing and was just letting go when he heard a voice.

“That probably won’t help matters.”

“Who, who is that?”

The young man almost fell as a dark hooded figure spoke again, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes you.”

“But how can you be me? I am over here.”

“Come and I will show you.”

Intrigued the young man got down off the railing and followed the hooded one to a bench under a streetlight. The man pulled back his hood to reveal a beard and full head of the shiniest silver hair the young man had ever seen.

“So, do you recognize me now?”

“Santa Claus?”

The hooded man laughed. It was the most comforting sound the young man had ever heard.

“No. Not Santa Claus. Try again.”

The young man looked very closely at the one with the hood. Then it struck him. Something about the eyes and nose. Something so familiar…

“You are me! Me when I am a lot older.”

“Got it on the second try. Pretty good.”

“But how, how can you be here and in the future?”

The man in the hood held up his hand. “That would take more time than we have. Let’s get to it. You know how you saw a bright light once?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as you have figured out by now, you weren’t talking to God.”

“Well, yes, I guess so.”

The grey haired man laughed again. “Take my word for it. You weren’t. If you go around thinking you are talking to God you will end up talking to doctors in psych wards for a very long time. Trust me. I know.”

“Well, who was I talking to?”

“The only other person there dummy.”

“You mean myself? I was talking to myself?”

“Bingo. Got it in one this time.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped and he stared at the ground. “Guess I should have finished things off on the bridge.”

“And what exactly do you think that would have gotten you?”

“An end to this mess anyhow.”

“Quit being such an idiot.”

Anger flashed in the young man’s eyes as he looked back up. “Look who’s calling me an idiot. Some old fart, off his medication.”

The old man smiled. “What I mean is that you have no way of knowing that you are not exchanging one mess for an even bigger one.”

“You mean like, hell?”

Shaking his head the old man answered. “Not if you mean lakes of fire and things like that. I just mean that you do not know what happens after death. No one does. So why waste life? Why not enjoy each breath?”

The old man continued as the young man leaned back to listen.

“See, it’s like this as I see it. All we have or ever will have is right here right now. Anything else is a guess. What happened in the past is a matter of debate – ask any two people and you get two completely different recollections of what happened just yesterday. Try to project the future and you can get probabilities, but never certainties. The only true certain thing is what is right in front of us. We can try to see beauty or pain in this moment, that may be the only real choice we have.”

“But that’s just your opinion.”

“Yes. It is the only one I am entitled too. You must have your own opinion. You cannot have mine.” Again the laugh. Again the deep sense of comfort.

The old man began to fade. It started at the edges. The feet. The legs. The torso. The arms. Soon there was only the face and then it too began fading.

Panicked the young man shouted, “Wait! Wait! I have so much more to ask you.”

Another laugh was followed by a smile. “It’s okay. It really is okay. Just know this. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. And remember, the Walrus was Paul.” More laughter as night replaced the face entirely. “Seriously though…know that I am you and believe that I love you even when it seems like no one else does.”

Stunned, the young man sat down on the bench. He remained there as daylight replaced the streetlight. He rose and went home to his family. They were eating breakfast. The you man wished that he could be certain that his vision was true. He wished that he could be certain of anything. Then he looked at his wife and daughter. Right here. Right now. Nowhere else. No when else. He hugged them both and ate his eggs. From somewhere he heard laughter.

Even More Vancouver Photos

Sweetie

You have not slept since 3 pm yesterday. Your hair is blond (maybe) and you are ordering donuts at 5 am. Your blouse hangs off one shoulder, letting your partner know you are interested, definitely interested. Your partner’s hair is red and he keeps it cut short to hide the fact that there is less of it today than yesterday. You overlook the loss of hair for the sake of his biceps and buttocks. You talk loud and slur your words. The clerk is confused and you have to repeat your order several times. Donut holes. 8 of those, 6 of these, 4 glazed, 4 powdered. Oh and yes, one Strawberry and one Maple.

Your partner puts the back of his hand on his forehead and says in Scarlett O’Hara’s voice. “Maple? Maple? Why chil’ you must be mad!”

You laugh too loud.

Minutes from now you will be snuggled in the loft across the street, firing up the hookah or bong or whatever and eating donut holes faster than you ate pizza the night before. You and your boyfriend, yes please let him be your boyfriend, it has been so long since you had one of those, will wrestle and manage some form of love. You will loose consciousness in a rapture of sensation. Another day will pass as a taxi down below carries a businessman off to his cubicle.

You will wake sometime around noon. You will see your partner is nearly bald. The sunlight will have aged him at least a decade as you slept. He will lie on his back hiding the gorgeous butt and instead show you a belly that has not seen abs since high school. His prick will be a wilted cucumber above two small prunes. Your underwear will hang from the lampshade. The garbage can will overflow with beer cans. The pizza and donut boxes will be nearby – left there in a half-hearted attempt at cleaning before you passed out.

You’ll fire up the bong or hookah or whatever to get the strength to call your father. The phone will ring in his cubicle.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey darling, what’s up?” You’ll know he is pretending not to notice the stoned tone of your voice. You’ll know he knows you are simply calling for money. Money is the only reason you ever call him. You feel it is his duty to provide it. After all he was the one who brought you into this world. You did not have a say. You never got a vote. It is his fault that you are here, now he should accept the responsibility.

“Uh Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

You hate when he calls you sweetie. It is the same term he uses for your Mother. You are not your Mother. God no. No. No. No. Not your Mother. The one who hates you and who slices you up so bad with her dry insults that you can hardly stand to talk to her. But your Dad is unconscious most of the time. Sweetie is the only term of endearment that he can think of. So you accept it from him. Only from him though. Anyone else who calls you sweetie will be slapped silly.

“Dad, I can’t make rent this month.”

Silence. You really hate this part. The little waiting game. You have stated the problem. His job is to solve it. He so desperately wants you to ask him. You so desperately don’t want to.

He caves, as he always does. “How much?”

“A thousand or so ought to do it.”

“Western Union okay? Or should I wire it to your bank account?”

“Whichever is easiest for you Dad.”

“Your bank account then.”

“Oh, and Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

The click of the phone in your ear will sound like the lid of a casket closing. You’ll know you have thrown away just a little bit more of the closeness you and he shared. The images of him bandaging the “boo boo” when you were six, buying you the car when you were sixteen and hugging you when your first true love left you will fade a bit more.

You will take another hit from the hookah or waterpipe or whatever and nestle against your new boyfriend (even if he doesn’t know it yet). You will fluff up the prunes and try to rouse the cucumber. Nothing. Just deeper snores.

Sighing, you will roll on your back and rub yourself. You may have to take another hit or two, and you may have to rub for quite a while, but eventually you will find sweet release - a moment when there are only donut holes, firm buttocks and laughter; a moment when you don’t have to feel so far from all you once loved; a moment so joyful that you don’t mind when your new boyfriend wakes and calls you sweetie. You will snuggle close to him. He will hold you close. Maybe not forever. But close enough for now.

Pictures from Vancouver

Some photos taken out of our hotel window.