Dental appointment today.

Is it too late to run away from home?

I’m rooted to the spot.

I don’t wanna go.

It’s best for me to see the dentist.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Bring on the laughing gas.

This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

The End, The Doors

Oh don’t let it happen, don’t let it happen, no, no,
Darling, I’m always going to love you,
Yes I’m always going to love you,
Darling, I’m always going to love you,
Until the final day,
Until the final hour,
I’m always going to be with you,
Yes I’m always going to be with you,
My love always going to be with you,
Until the day comes down,
The man is on the radio,

“This is station planet Earth, we’re closing down,
Transmission ends,
Station planet Earth is closing down,
Transmission ends, transmission ends.”

Transmission Ends, Chris de Burgh

Endings.

It’s been on my mind.

Don’t worry. Not that kind of ending.

I just feel like.

Like a chapter in my life is coming to a close.

Only I don’t know what that means.

Despite recent setbacks, I’m very happy with my life.

Yes, it would be nice to work full-time.

But things are slowly picking up. I’ve got two projects that’ll take me through July.

I’m happy at home.

400+ days of living/working side-by-side without a break hasn’t broken us.

I’ve been writing.

In my blog.

Still counts.

I was going to throw in a Lonely Island reference but I don’t think anyone would’ve picked up on it.

So yes, I suppose I did edit myself.

After promising not to.

But every writer parses their work. Struggling to find just the right word to convey the weight of the situation.

My point.

I’d like to say I had one.

This is a rambling stream-of-consciousness post.

___

I’m going to the dentist tomorrow.

The word I’m looking for is.

Petrified.

I haven’t seen a dentist in years.

Marlo assures me her dentist is gentle, and favours the laughing gas.

I’ve had a root canal, broken teeth, caps, crowns, fillings.

Wrap all that up, and it still doesn’t reach my current panic levels.

Why didn’t I take better care of my teeth?

What the fuck?

I have no excuse.

Like I have no excuse for getting scammed.

It’s not like he promised anything other than to repay me.

He impersonated someone I work with.

Someone I had a separate way of contacting to verify or deny.

And I didn’t.

It’s been five days since realizing I’d been grifted and it hurts worse today.

And yet.

I feel stronger.

It hasn’t broken me.

It won’t break me.

When we wore a heart of stone
We wandered to the sea
Hoping to find some comfort there
Yearning to feel free
And we were mesmerized by the lull of the night
And the smells that filled the air
And we layed us down on sandy ground
It was cold but we didn’t care

And we were drawn to the rhythm
Drawn into the rhythm of the sea
And we were drawn to the rhythm
Drawn into the rhythm of the sea

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

It’s a pretty big week for me, writing-wise.

Tonight I had the pleasure to revisit my play, A Song For Rachel, as a staged Zoom read with Alumnae Theatre, directed by my wife, Marlo.

It was wonderful. It moved me.

And it surprised me.

Because there were certain moments in the script I rediscovered for the first time. Moments that caught me off-guard.

Which is a good thing.

And it got me excited.

Because Thursday afternoon, I get an hour-long zoom call with Walter, a dramaturg from the U.S. They’ll be critiquing Rachel, and providing insight as to where it could go from here. Story-wise.

And tonight, Drawn to the Rhythm is drumming in my head.

The script drew me in, like the tide.

And I cried out, "is there no escape
From the words that plague me so"

I’ve been plagued with writers’ block.

Here’s hoping something shakes loose.

I have a long-standing love of comic books.

Granted, I have a pile on the shelf of my desk that I haven’t read in months.

But I plan on getting back to it.

No, seriously.

Anyway, the store opened back up (in their new Queen Street West location) this week because we’re finally in Phase One of reopening.

I think Auggie was more excited by the trip than I was to look at comic book covers again.

Still. It felt good to get out.

Noticed several stores had long lines to get in; near as I can tell, they’re deeply discounting their product to get customers back.

But I, of course, am burying the lead.

I’m still reeling.

I should’ve done due diligence.

I know better.

Could’ve shut this down with one well-placed email or phone call.

And I was planning on that money to help with my teeth.

Now I can just afford the exam and consult.

Any plans to make this better have to go on hold.

I gotta learn to trust my gut.

I turned down work because I assumed I was going to be too busy, what with three concurrent contracted jobs.

None of which are bringing in massive hours.

Yet.

I turned it down because I assumed.

I didn’t listen to my gut.

And I like being busy.

Banner fucking week.

grifter

[ grif-ter ]See synonyms for grifter on Thesaurus.com

noun Slang.

A person who operates a side show at a circus, fair, etc., especially a gambling attraction.

A swindler, dishonest gambler, or the like.

I got swindled this week.

They used an email reserved for work.

They impersonated someone I work with.

And let me remind you: it was a work email.

Only people in the company know it exists.

Or what I do on contract.

So I fell for it.

And it’s cost me. Nearly maxed out my credit card.

It’s being investigated by the company and their financial institution.

But all I know is.

I’m a chump.

And trusting is for suckers.

Wait, did you hear that?
Oh, this is sure stirring up some ghosts for me
She said, “There’s one thing you gotta learn
Is not to be afraid of it”
I said, “No, I like it, I like it, it’s good”
She said, “You like it now
But you’ll learn to love it later”

Somewhere Down The Crazy River, Robbie Robertson

There’s rumour in my father’s clan that we are related to Robbie Robertson.

Something he denies.

I have no skin in that game.

I just love this song.

It’s been in my head for two days.

So damned prevalent, it insisted on its own blog post.

‘Stirring up ghosts for me’

‘There’s one thing you gotta learn is not to be afraid of it’

How much of my life do I live in fear?

Afraid of the consequences, I take few bold actions.

And when I do (see the whole St. John’s Shorts thing), it tends to backfire.

Okay, it doesn’t always backfire. I took a chance when I received an email in 2017 telling me she made an excellent lasagne.

But when it does. I step back.

Play it safe.

Takes me a long time to get back to taking the next chance.

___

Why am I not writing?

I mean, yes, the blog counts.

But no plays.

For months.

No inspiration.

What am I missing?

Where’s the spark?

___

No, I am NOT writing a short play called Me and Robbie Robertson.

Lights up.

Paul: “I am not in any way related to Robbie Robertson. I enjoy some of his music.”

Lights down.

There, ya happy?

The shortest play I’ve ever written.

Now I’m thinking about the short piece I wrote, called Go Long.

It was a one and done.

I can’t even describe the plot. It was extremely meta, and involved both myself and Marlo.

Wrote it specifically for Sing For Your Supper.

Can’t bottle that lightning.

___

Had a quick, socially-distant visit with my friend MJ.

On the way back, on the streetcar, I had an uncontrollable urge.

To pick my nose.

Just rip off the mas, and dig.

Oh, c’mon.

You’ve done it.

Admit it.

___

Well, that was exciting.

Learned how to cancel an e-transfer.

Everyone should know this.

I’m boring now.

Morning smiles
Like the face of a newborn child
Innocent unknowing
Winter’s end
Promises of a long lost friend
Speaks to me of comfort

But I fear, I have nothing to give
I have so much to lose here in this lonely place
Tangled up in our embrace
There’s nothing I’d like better than to fall
But I fear, I have nothing to give

Fear, Sarah McLaughlan

I’m afraid.

It feels like my tooth is a bit loose.

It has me freaked the fuck out.

I see a dentist next Wednesday?

What if it falls out before then?

I’ve already told this to Marlo.

But fuck. This is paralyzing.

I haven’t made a decision re: the lithium.

Tonight I uploaded Last Call to the Rogue Theater Festival. It’s out of my hands now.

It goes to the public in less than a month.

If you’d asked me at the outset, I’d say this was my best short play.

Now I think it’s top 3. Snow Angels takes the top spot.

The other spot is a tie between First Watch and State of Independence.

I consider the four plays an arc I call Slaves to Free Will.

If we get back to theatres next year and the Toronto Fringe goes live, I’d be tempted to put them together as a full show.

Or maybe not.

I dunno.

I’m very indecisive today.

Okay, maybe not indecisive.

Distracted.

Yup. Definitely. Distracted.

Back later.

I’ve been thinking about the things that are stuck inside in my head and I can’t get them out.
And I’ve been waking, at four in the morning; I don’t know why I can’t get back to sleep again tonight.

Keep Banging On
Banging on your drum
Keep Banging On
And your day will come
Keep Banging On
Banging on your drum
And they will hear you

Bang Your Drum, Dead Man Fall

As Ronald Reagan once said, “Well, there you go again.”

My brain just kicked into high gear.

Swirling.

Like a defence mechanism.

To keep me from focusing on the question I just put forward to myself.

Even this.

This is a distraction.

‘Write, monkey-boy, and maybe you’ll forget.’

Give me back my broken night
My mirrored room, my secret life
It’s lonely here
There’s no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
Over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby
That’s an order

Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that’s left
And stuff it up the hole
In your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall
Give me Stalin and St. Paul
I’ve seen the future, brother
It is murder

The Future, Leonard Cohen

Repent.

For what, exactly?

Confess your doubts.

How long have you got?

I second-guess everything.

Except when I don’t.

Yes, I realize what I said.

It’s a symptom.

The over-confidence. And it gets me in trouble.

Every. Goddamn. Time.

And when I self-correct, the waves tend to smash into shore and soak the bystanders.

So maybe I should be on lithium?

Fuck.

Why is this so hard?

Right. Because I second-guess everything.

I thought it was funny when you, missed the train
When I rang you at home, they said you’d left, yesterday
I thought it was strange when your, car was found
By the tree in Ennis where we used to hang around

Dear Isobel,
I hope you’re well and what you’ve done is right,
Oh it’s been such hell, I wish you well,
I hope you’re safe tonight
It’s been a long day coming and long will it last
When it’s last day leaving, and I’m helping it pass
By loving you more

Isobel, Dido

I really need to slow down my brain.

Another symptom of mania.

You’ve got a month. Why the rush to decide?

Because if I don’t now, I may not. Later.

Jesus. It was easier to quit smoking.

Of course, it helped I was under lock and key in Ward H for three days back in 2013.

(Go back and read the blog. I’m not gonna rehash.)

Now, I ain’t much of a poet
But I know somebody once told me to seize the moment
And don’t squander it
‘Cause you never know when it all could be over tomorrow
So I keep conjurin’
Sometimes I wonder where these thoughts spawn from
Yeah, ponderin’ will do you wonders
No wonder you’re losing your mind, the way it wanders
Yodel-odel-ay-hee-hoo!
I think it went wanderin’ off down yonder
And stumbled onto Jeff VanVonderen
‘Cause I need an interventionist
To intervene between me and this monster
And save me from myself and all this conflict
‘Cause the very thing that I love’s killing me
And I can’t conquer it
My OCD is conkin’ me in the head, keep knockin’
Nobody’s home, I’m sleepwalkin’
I’m just relayin’ what the voice in my head’s sayin’
Don’t shoot the messenger, I’m just friends with the

I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed
Get along with the voices inside of my head
You’re tryin’ to save me, stop holdin’ your breath
And you think I’m crazy, yeah, you think I’m crazy

The Monster, Eminem ft. Rhianna

Will I stop writing if I take it?

That would be. Bad.

I would not like that.

Sometimes it’s the mania that fuels my creative.

I’m gonna get the wife’s thoughts on this.

And sleep on it a few days.

Today I was in the middle of a manic episode when my psychiatrist called.

That opened a whole new chapter.

He’s talking about putting me on lithium (lowest dose) at the end of July, and weaning me off of abilify before then.

I’ve talked about it before, that I’m bi-polar 2.

But I’ve never really addressed it.

Just accepted the consequences of irritation, distraction and such.

Of course now I read the side effects of the drug and I’m second guessing.

Plus, it says I can’t take Advil or Motrin, which have been good to alleviate aches and pains.

I dunno. I gotta think on this.