The 0006 Post - Depression and Unexpected Consequences
So, here we are again. Keeping score of the mind, tracing the lines that are invisible to the eye, but essential, just the same.
They tell me I am ill. I am quite sure that if the medicine becomes unavailable I shall probably start going down the hill much like our go-cart in White River did, in 1950-something, which the young Shangan lads built with great skill and efficiency except they did not feel the need, or perhaps did not know how to design a steering or a brake mechanism. When it went too fast or headed for rocks or tree trunks we all jumped off the racing tree product with glee, yelling and laughing all at once. Yelling is something I have done. Once. I do not wish to have that happen again.
"Where are you going?" He asked.
"China."
We are all fraught with unexpected emotions. It is not enough that our bloodlines bleed out, but the world, all the countries of the world, have to add to the worrisome ideas and conclusions that run about the channels like an overloaded carriage on oiled train tracks, and like those have, switches that when pulled, change the thing's direction. People get bashed about, fall down, some die and some emerge from that wild case with bloodied foreheads that drip red splodges of white shirts underneath their ripped coats.
"Where is he now?"
"Russia."
Injuries, real or perceived, as opposed to imagined, cost the player and the team the goals. I don't watch the beautiful game, although the ball is in play and the game is as grand as the fans who jump up and down with wild shouts; colours flying. Fairy coloured castles and snow, cold white wasted lands with lovers in and out of a glass house in the middle of that, which is my only childhood reference to love, and even that is just celluloid, in a tin, shelved somewhere with all the other great love stories shown back in the fifties and sixties. I still think of Pascha, how he changed, and if nothing else is true, that is true blue. Even Pascha changed in the face of this reality.
"What does he do there?"
"What to say? A lot, I expect, safely."
That wasn't the question, but it will have to do. After Canada I was, I thought, over it, but alas, there was London, Amsterdam, and Paris. That did me in completely; my phone still bears the scar. My days are long. I can't find the time to ... I have too much to care about to sit idle showing off everything I know about Moshe, Itzak, and Jacov. I imagine the Orient Express, traveling through the snow, in and out, drinking liquids that warm my innards and having smart conversations with people of means. Two things jump out at me at once. People of means would not give me the time of day; I'd be the patsy they blame for their culling one of their own, and if that is not enough murder to deal with, people of means don't exist anymore. They died with my grandmother. It's The Opponent Inc. that creates havoc within. I'd be able to see them altogether-at-once as this globular inhaling and exhaling, heart thumping alive, but benign, for the moment, dangerous thing that if it sees me it will shoot out a tendril and stick its long red manicured nail into my heart and rip it out in shreds. But, that is not what the creature will see. It will see my valiant mask and be charmed by stories of lives lived on another planet misjudging me as slow and easy prey. I do play dead. I do walk backwards, pretending I'm coming in, and I do the chameleon thing, I blend into walls if need be. My life is fiction. A horror story filled with ... Classical music sometimes makes my heart soar and sore. It depends on the scene.
Therapy is helping, I think. This is probably the bravest I have ever been in writing about myself, and I know there is a long way to go yet, but a year ago I would not have been able to think clearly enough to write an obscure metaphorical report about life and depression while feeling completely well and ... well, anxiety dogs my days, but it didn't stop me this time.
I am all...Britain!
Love and Light.
They tell me I am ill. I am quite sure that if the medicine becomes unavailable I shall probably start going down the hill much like our go-cart in White River did, in 1950-something, which the young Shangan lads built with great skill and efficiency except they did not feel the need, or perhaps did not know how to design a steering or a brake mechanism. When it went too fast or headed for rocks or tree trunks we all jumped off the racing tree product with glee, yelling and laughing all at once. Yelling is something I have done. Once. I do not wish to have that happen again.
"Where are you going?" He asked.
"China."
We are all fraught with unexpected emotions. It is not enough that our bloodlines bleed out, but the world, all the countries of the world, have to add to the worrisome ideas and conclusions that run about the channels like an overloaded carriage on oiled train tracks, and like those have, switches that when pulled, change the thing's direction. People get bashed about, fall down, some die and some emerge from that wild case with bloodied foreheads that drip red splodges of white shirts underneath their ripped coats.
"Where is he now?"
"Russia."
Injuries, real or perceived, as opposed to imagined, cost the player and the team the goals. I don't watch the beautiful game, although the ball is in play and the game is as grand as the fans who jump up and down with wild shouts; colours flying. Fairy coloured castles and snow, cold white wasted lands with lovers in and out of a glass house in the middle of that, which is my only childhood reference to love, and even that is just celluloid, in a tin, shelved somewhere with all the other great love stories shown back in the fifties and sixties. I still think of Pascha, how he changed, and if nothing else is true, that is true blue. Even Pascha changed in the face of this reality.
"What does he do there?"
"What to say? A lot, I expect, safely."
That wasn't the question, but it will have to do. After Canada I was, I thought, over it, but alas, there was London, Amsterdam, and Paris. That did me in completely; my phone still bears the scar. My days are long. I can't find the time to ... I have too much to care about to sit idle showing off everything I know about Moshe, Itzak, and Jacov. I imagine the Orient Express, traveling through the snow, in and out, drinking liquids that warm my innards and having smart conversations with people of means. Two things jump out at me at once. People of means would not give me the time of day; I'd be the patsy they blame for their culling one of their own, and if that is not enough murder to deal with, people of means don't exist anymore. They died with my grandmother. It's The Opponent Inc. that creates havoc within. I'd be able to see them altogether-at-once as this globular inhaling and exhaling, heart thumping alive, but benign, for the moment, dangerous thing that if it sees me it will shoot out a tendril and stick its long red manicured nail into my heart and rip it out in shreds. But, that is not what the creature will see. It will see my valiant mask and be charmed by stories of lives lived on another planet misjudging me as slow and easy prey. I do play dead. I do walk backwards, pretending I'm coming in, and I do the chameleon thing, I blend into walls if need be. My life is fiction. A horror story filled with ... Classical music sometimes makes my heart soar and sore. It depends on the scene.
Therapy is helping, I think. This is probably the bravest I have ever been in writing about myself, and I know there is a long way to go yet, but a year ago I would not have been able to think clearly enough to write an obscure metaphorical report about life and depression while feeling completely well and ... well, anxiety dogs my days, but it didn't stop me this time.
I am all...Britain!
Love and Light.
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