The Bloody Doors Off

For anyone.

Keeping track.

Harold showed up.

No lyrics today.

No videos.

No bullshit.

Today’s been rough.

Since I woke up.

Even went back to bed.

Got an extra… 90 minutes?

Didn’t help.

On the verge of tears.

But they won’t come.

They never do.

Stupid anti-depressants.

I don’t know why.

I’m sad.

Just am.

Walked the dog earlier.

Good, warm breeze.

Sun on my face.

Didn’t help.

I’ve eaten.

I tend to skip lunch.

Not today.

Nope.

Doing what I’m supposed to.

I just wish I knew.

That I could understand.

It’s more than.

A chemical imbalance.

It’s gotta be.

I can’t accept that I’m sad.

Because a lone neuron didn’t fire.

Or too many did.

I want ice cream.

Ice cream makes things better.

You’ve never heard of.

Ben & Jerry’s “Tears of a Clown” flavour.

Salted caramel.

‘Cuz they’re tears and make-up.

Seems I’ve kept my dark humour.

Intact.

One upside.

It doesn’t equate to 2017’s depression.

Couldn’t stop crying back then.

Got my heart broke.

GP takes blood before he puts me on Zoloft.

Calls back urgently.

Type 2 diabetes.

Everything changed.

Ended up on short-term disability.

Couldn’t work.

Right now, I’m craving work.

To distract me.

Keep me busy.

No time to sink into self-pity.

One upside.

Haven’t heard a peep.

From Harold.

Small victories.

Hold onto that.

So.

No lyrics today.

No videos.

Just me.

We fell asleep and began to dream
When something broke the night
Memories stirred inside of us
The struggle and the fight
And we could feel the heat of a thousand voices
Telling us which way to go
And we cried out, “is there no escape
From the words that plague us so”

Drawn to the Rhythm, Sarah McLaughlan

I’m very forgetful today.

I’ve even forgotten the significance of the music quote.

But it had meaning.

I like looking for meaning in things.

Especially random events.

Not that I believe everything is predestined and we can’t escape our fate.

I don’t believe there’s a book out there with my name on it, detailing every iota of my life, from start to finish.

No broad chapters on my breakdown.

I made the choice to seek help.

That was mine.

You can’t take that away from me.

It’s important to reach out.

We just need to be there for others when they do it.

To be empathetic.

And kind.

Only as a teenager, he gets called Rudy a lot.

And it’s set in the 1940s.

And he battles Nazis and …

Writes about it.

Hey, my one-time sketch troupe performed “Leave It To Nostradamus” about a precocious little psychic living in middle America in the 1950s.

So it could happen.

Sorry, had to get that out of my head. It’s been stuck in there for hours.

It’s epiphany day in the ol’ brain.

I’ve come to conclusion that I’m going to retire.

Not work.

I’ll never be able to retire from that.

No, I’m talking about an extracurricular that I’ve been involved in for well over a decade.

Like improv, it’s passed me by.

And it’s time to let it go.

Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy it.

But as a hobby, at most.

Certainly not dedicating myself to the craft.

I dunno if it’s a young person’s game. Given some of the friends I’ve made, and their median age, I would say probably not. But I feel too old for it.

Too tired to take it seriously.

I will probably dip my toe in the water occasionally.

See if it’s warm enough to take a dip.

But I’m not gonna be cannonballing off the deep end.

Digging through the ol’ memory banks tonight. Thinking of the friends I’ve made, those that are still with me, and those who have quietly stepped away.

It’s too bloody easy to take online friendships for granted.

And Covid hasn’t made things easier.

So tonight, I light a (metaphoric) candle for absent friends.

I miss you guys.

I am a man of constant sorrow
I’ve seen trouble all my day
I bid farewell to old Kentucky
The place where I was born and raised
(The place where he was born and raised)

For six long years I’ve been in trouble
No pleasures here on earth I found
For in this world I’m bound to ramble
I have no friends to help me now
(He has no friends to help him now)

It’s fare thee well my old lover
I never expect to see you again
For I’m bound to ride that northern railroad
Perhaps I’ll die upon this train
(Perhaps he’ll die upon this train)

You can bury me in some deep valley
For many years where I may lay
Then you may learn to love another
While I am sleeping in my grave
(While he is sleeping in his grave)

Maybe your friends think I’m just a stranger
My face, you’ll never see no more
But there is one promise that is given
I’ll meet you on God’s golden shore
(He’ll meet you on God’s golden shore)

In the Jailhouse Now, Soggy Bottom Boys (O Brother, Where Art Thou)

I can’t cry.

And believe me. The past couple of nights.

I’ve felt so low.

For brief moments.

Nothing sustained.

But I could feel it well up.

And then.

Nothing.

(Hell, I haven’t written in two days, and that’s reason enough to be upset.)

Clearly, coming off the Abilify.

Is having an effect.

Because I know.

There’s no reason.

Behind it.

And I’ve got nothing else.

To talk about.

I’m boring myself.

Just spent another two hours on the job.

Because I can’t stop.

Maybe I do need the lithium.

I have issues with work.

Specifically, I have issues not working.

When there’s a job to be done.

Case in point.

On Friday, client sends me five chapters of a guidebook that I’m laying out.

I look at the week ahead, knowing of other jobs that are said to be on my plate this week.

I allot a specific amount of time each day to complete a chapter, and provide the client an estimated delivery date of the following Friday. Knowing full well if other work doesn’t hit my inbox on a particular day, I can spend more time laying out the Word docs in InDesign.

All weekend I had to sit on my hands, to prevent myself from starting the project before Monday.

Today I got two chapters done.

And I feel like I should get a third started.

Or work out the new style guide from a second client.

Which can wait until mid-week. It’s not a priority.

But I feel like I’m cheating, taking the night off.

This is why I love working in an office.

You punch in, put in your eight hours, and go home.

Totally focused during the day, usually a short break for lunch.

And when I go home, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. If there’s leftover work to be done, I know I’ll get to it first thing. The next day.

I can’t separate that part of myself when I work from home.

Fuck, I feel guilty for starting at 10am this morning, even though those two chapters took six hours.

So. Yeah.

Work Paul is Type A. And can’t punch out so willingly at the end of the day. If working from home.

I intentionally stop at 5pm to watch Law & Order, and then walk Auggie at 6pm.

To break things up.

Yet I still think. I could be doing more.

But it’s better to spread the hours throughout the week than burn the candle at both ends.

Right?

That’s why I generally only read books while on vacation.

I’ve got plenty of time to commit to them, whereas it’s frustrating to only read for 30 minutes one day, and put it down for a week or more.

Because I’m too busy working.

Or trying no to.

We’re taking time next month and renting a cottage outside of Minden Hills.

I refuse to take my laptop.

I’m informing all my clients in advance that I’ll be unreachable.

And taking two books.

Shit.

II had this idea.

It was clever.

It was. Dry.

But by the time I got here.

I’d lost it.

Whoosh.

Some writer is gonna have fun with that one.

Unless they choose to ignore it.

Why would you ignore that idea?

It was good.

Yeah, but it was mine.

And then I’m asked a kindness.

Which I am happy to do.

Wait, isn’t that–? Shit. Gone again.

Relax, Koster.

If it’s meant to be.

It’ll be back.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
something wicked this way comes.

Spoken by One of the witches in MacBeth, written by William Shakespeare

I’m reeling from the sudden flash that something was wrong and looking to see who wrote/said the damned quote because that’s what that feeling means, and it’s almost always correct.

Spinning.

My phone rings.

It’s my brother.

I actually asked “Is anyone hurt?” after saying hello.

Not surprisingly, he had an answer.

A friend just took a fall and may have broken her ankle. Oh, and did you know dad hurt his neck?

Umm. Nope.

And yet.

I subconsciously must have.

It’s hard to describe, but I feel lighter.

Like I’d been carrying a heavy stone on my back and just now it fell away.