Tuesday, May 24, 2005


Now, I logged on to write another in what looked to be a continuing series of malignant tales, this one involving heroin and train-not-spotting, but I don't know that I will.

It is late, and I am tired, and telling these stories is the kind of thing you'd want to be careful about. Mood-wise. I don't know that surrounding yourself with happy things makes you happy, but you'd have to cautious about any propensity for morbidity in someone with any mood disorder. Telling story after story of death and dismemberment, blindness and cancer and collapse... it's a poor prognostic indicator.

Don't know. I'm starting to get that feeling I've done wrong, that vague guilt, that sense of things ruined, things on the turn and gone sour. The canker in the bud, that sort of thing.

You tell these stories, of cancers and amputations and stuff like that, and you wonder if at some level you don't feel that these are your stories, if you're not using these people's suffering as a metaphor for your own. If perhaps these stories swim to the top of the ocean for a reason, if perhaps you are trying to say something about yourself with those stories.

Gore and grue and therapy gone wrong aren't just 'sit around the campfire' stuff. They are told for a reason. They mean something to you for a reason.

If the stories that cultures tell tell you more about the culture than about what actually happened, then the same applies with people.

If my mood is going down, then hopefully this will be something that can be headed off at the pass. I used to sort of wait passively for the mood to go down, I've learnt if you attack it, if you almost mount a military operation against a low mood, it passes more quickly and has less effect.

The military analogy is actually quite apt - choose the ground on which the battle will occur, enlist your allies, ensure your forces are in readiness, move to cut off the enemy's supply lines, take it by surprise.

I get the feeling sometimes of a low pressure system moving in, like something on a weather-map. Isobars entangled like loops of wire, so tight and close they look like something that if it gets around your neck it could strangle you. The air is cold, there's dark moving in from the Southern Ocean, there's the smell of something like rain.

Anyhow. Sleep, and I will feel less morbid in the morning. I'd want to, because it's off to the prisons to see people whose lives are markedly more shit and probably less self-pitying than mine.


Blogger Chade said...

In this age of homogeneity, where our cultural record blends across countries into banality, what better way to explore the issues of world diseased by its own doing than by the exploration of the individual? Our propensity to self-mutilate, make use of extremely harmful drugs, and fall prey to delusions because we hear the words so much we can make it real, is a hallmark of our species. The perspective you provide gives greater insight to the universal than you might believe…

8:44 AM  

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