I'm the ex-girlfriend, the girl in the polaroid, the one in the play, the scar on your back, the crazy tattooed horse girl by the river, the englishfrenchwoman in New York who isn't Quentin and the car accident that keeps almost happening. Up for adoption, damaged but nicely packaged, no refunds.

Wednesday, 25 July 2012

Episode 3: where is my mind?

My brain is a self-sufficient drug addict. I do not mean that as a metaphor for my incredible intelligence and curiosity (humor, of course) but quite literally. 

I haven't touched hard drugs, at least hard illegal drugs, in almost a decade but my brain has cravings which it satisfies with vigor by manufacturing its own concoctions, which by the way it does not do me the courtesy of cutting with baby powder (or rat poison to be fair). Again, this isn't a metaphor nor a ploy to avoid saying that I am bipolar. The question has been asked, examined, dissected, etc and yes if you want to get nitty picky about it I do fall in the overall category. But bipolar is and has always been an ugly word which is both excessive and reductive and which doesn't accurately describe 99% of the people it is ascribed to (those are my figures but don't forget I am incredibly intelligent, and curious). By calling every neurotic person bipolar you are insulting the people who struggle with the disease in its worse form. By calling every bipolar neurotic you are undermining the very real pain some people may feel without falling into the extreme of shooting themselves in the face or going on a Charlie Sheenesque rampage. If some of you have ever lived or loved or both with a drug addict then you will understand the chaos it can create and the disarming moments of bliss when that person is either temporarily recovering or happily high and functioning. Imagine having that type of relationship with your own brain. When you've gotten past the euphoric/nihilistic/passionate/despondent/victim/executioner/etc aspects it leaves you with a lot of scar tissue (both metaphorical and literal this time), an exacerbated pain in the ass for others sensitivity, if you're lucky a terminator resilience, and a Babel's tower worth of achievements decorated with broken dishes.
Anyway, the point of this unwarranted outpouring of my intimacy is actually quite benign. I went to bed last night with a deep feeling of loss and woke up this morning with chemical moonshine pumping through my veins. The excessive upswing was accompanied with a deep desire to dance around the house, do some work, a lot of work, go ride and ride hard, scour the house from top to bottom, basically just go go go. I try to control these moods and I had plans in Paris so those urges were all shot down apart from the dancing part (2 songs on repeat, videos below) but it did lead to a lot of notebook scribbling on the trains there and back. Ideas, plans, et al. The cushions have been quite successful in the store so there will be more of those. I discovered a new book ("Hubris, the monster factory in modern art") which I would like to translate into English. I'm starting to ponder/fantasize an idea which would allow me to conjugate Brooklyn and country living (in the US) once I get out of here. I need to make two mix tapes that accurately reflect the upswing and downward spiral of my day to day, and I need to do it in collaboration with someone in order to, excuse my language, get my head out of my ass. And I'm pulling out again this thing, this undulating hare thing, that I've been back and forth on for a while now. 
It's 9pm here and my brain's bender is winding down. It won't be a hard come down, I'm on a pretty even keel these days. I'm going to make myself a semi-healthy dinner, sit down to finish embroidering a new skull cushion and watch a post-apocalyptic violent movie. The nice part of living with a drug addict is that they do eventually go to sleep at some point.

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