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carose59"If You Think About Something At Three O'Clock In The Morning And Then Again At Noon The Next Day, You Get Different Answers."*
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I can go for years with no hope and few ideas. I get up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, go to bed. I do very little. Wash a fork to eat my take-out. Do my laundry. Feed the cat. Get rid of enough trash to keep a path from the living room to the bathroom.
I'm not saying it's a good way to live. I'm just saying I can do it.
But the city intervened and now I'm cleaning and things will be better. I believe that's true. But here's what they don't know, what nobody knows.
I'm having ideas.
More than anything, right now I want to go home, get up on a step stool, and take everything out of my shadow boxes.
Did you know I have shadow boxes? I do. A lot of them, maybe eight or nine. They're mostly real printers' trays (yes, that matters), and I've had them since high school. Some of the little slots hold objects that mean a lot to me. Some of them hold things that are puzzling and unidentifiable, particularly from a distance. One of them was Pat's. They cover most of one wall of the living room.
I'd like to buy more, cover the whole wall with them. Cover all the walls with them.
If I took down the ones I have, cleaned everything, put them all back, then measured the space left and see just how many more I could buy—
I'm supposed to be cleaning my bedroom. Also, the kitchen.
But having more energy means having more ideas. And once you kick-start the ideas—and it's impossible to figure out where to put things away without having ideas—the ideas start becoming more fanciful, more fun.
I don't have time or money for fun or fancy, but rejecting these ideas, even just postponing them, feels like smashing butterflies. It feels sad and unoptimistic and mean.
More and more I'm understanding the yin and yang of human natures. You'd think that would be something a manic depressive would pick up on a little more quickly.
*Snoopy
-:- -:- -:- -:-
I can go for years with no hope and few ideas. I get up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, go to bed. I do very little. Wash a fork to eat my take-out. Do my laundry. Feed the cat. Get rid of enough trash to keep a path from the living room to the bathroom.
I'm not saying it's a good way to live. I'm just saying I can do it.
But the city intervened and now I'm cleaning and things will be better. I believe that's true. But here's what they don't know, what nobody knows.
I'm having ideas.
More than anything, right now I want to go home, get up on a step stool, and take everything out of my shadow boxes.
Did you know I have shadow boxes? I do. A lot of them, maybe eight or nine. They're mostly real printers' trays (yes, that matters), and I've had them since high school. Some of the little slots hold objects that mean a lot to me. Some of them hold things that are puzzling and unidentifiable, particularly from a distance. One of them was Pat's. They cover most of one wall of the living room.
I'd like to buy more, cover the whole wall with them. Cover all the walls with them.
If I took down the ones I have, cleaned everything, put them all back, then measured the space left and see just how many more I could buy—
I'm supposed to be cleaning my bedroom. Also, the kitchen.
But having more energy means having more ideas. And once you kick-start the ideas—and it's impossible to figure out where to put things away without having ideas—the ideas start becoming more fanciful, more fun.
I don't have time or money for fun or fancy, but rejecting these ideas, even just postponing them, feels like smashing butterflies. It feels sad and unoptimistic and mean.
More and more I'm understanding the yin and yang of human natures. You'd think that would be something a manic depressive would pick up on a little more quickly.
*Snoopy