The Bloody Doors Off

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.

My thought a moment ago, as I heard the machine rumbling half-a-condo away.

I suppose I’m easily distracted today.

I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but I got picked at random b;y Playwright’s Realm for their Script Share programme. They match you up with a dramaturg to discuss a play you’ve written, to gain a better perspective.

I applied with A Song For Rachel.

They contacted me today. My Script Share reader is a literary manager and dramaturg, with decades of experience.

So I’m quite excited for the opportunity.

I guess I’m saying.

Despite the setback with St. John’s Shorts.

Writing-wise, things are looking up.

Now let’s apply the same thing to my work life, please.

The signs point to it happening; I’ve got two clients and just added a third that I basically invoice monthly.And responsibilities for one of them have increased. There are projects on my desk.

I turned down work on Friday.

It still bothers me.. I know that, within a week or two, a couple of projects are gonna ramp up and require the bulk of my time. The contract offered me steady work over a sustained period, and I realized I don’t have enough hours in the day to accommodate. I’ll still take on short-term projects. I just didn’t want to over-commit.

That hasn’t stopped Harold from bugging me about it.

Shit. Now he’s insisting he’s Howard again.

Make up your mind, already.

Fine. Howard it is.

From Facebook, June 20, 2013:

I’ve named my despair Howard. Not because I wish to be cute or because it’s funny, I’ve named it Howard because someone once told me names have power. And if you can name a thing, then you can tame it.

But it’s not really true, is it? They named the things that grow inside us, the tumors that eat away at our life, *cancer*. And there’s cancer *research*, and cancer *treatment*; but you can’t yell out “hey cancer, I know you, and I don’t like you, so fuck off!”I don’t have cancer. If I did, I would name it Gemma.

No, I ride alongside Howard. He’s there most days, in some form or other. Sometimes a scratch at the base of my skull, or a knot in my stomach. Most of the time he resides in my head. He’s made himself at home, it seems.

I have moments when I forget Howard is even there. I will be packing up my shit, or reading a few pages of a book, and the absence is wonderful. And in those moments I briefly flirt with the idea that Howard’s gone off, maybe on holiday, down to the bar for last orders, where he’ll get stupendously drunk and step in front of a cab speeding through the Entertainment District.

But he always finds his way home. Damn the HAILO app. Damn me for opening the door to him again.

I’ve never liked Howard as a roommate. He’s messy, clingy, and kills my energy. His nothingness sometimes rushes into my head, squeeze my temples ache and flush my skin. He can’t pay the bills, he can’t clean the *mess*, and he sure as hell can’t protect me from the rain, for he *is* the oncoming storm.

Howard is my despair, and that despair is entropy. You can’t escape entropy. It always wins. It’s the laws of physics.But it won’t win tonight.

Yup. Pretty apt description. Except he’s insisted his name is Harold.

St. John’s Shorts is no longer viable.

Newfoundland is under lockdown; there’s no saying exactly when it will be lifted, and if/when it does, there’s every possibility they will require a two-week quarantine for anyone crossing their border.

It’s literally a reverse Come From Away.

So five weeks for a couple of shows is just not feasible.

I’m heartbroken. Not just for me, but my cast.

Sofia and Lucy are fucking fantastic. Snow Angels wouldn’t BE without them. And they were looking forward to the road trip and performing live.

Currently awaiting word if it’s possible to either:

• Show it virtually, or
• Reschedule for 2022.

My hope is for the latter.

But for now, I need to inform our GoFundMe backers and arrange refunds.

Such is the life of a producer/playwright.

Broadway’s reopening soon. But Canada’s got a ways to go.

Living inside my head tonight.

Not a pleasant place to be.

So many thoughts swirling.

Counter-clockwise.

Like my brain is in Australia.

And the rest of me is here.

Half a world away.

If only it were that simple.

To send my brain on vacation.

A tropical beach somewhere.

Sitting under a palm tree.

Enjoying a cerveza.

In case you haven’t figured.

I still haven’t been able to shut it off.

Thankfully I took half a sleeping pill.

That should knock me out.

Of course I’ll wake up at 6am.

If I’m lucky.

I’ll sleep until 7.

Gonna cut this short.

Not feeling it tonight.

G’night moon.

Some people say he has a death wish
Trouble is he tends to agree
Let’s not ask too many questions
It’s nothing to do with you or me
He remembers a time when even going home was sweet
Now he can’t feel the ground under his feet

And she said “The trouble with André
Is he thinks he hides everything”
But I know the trouble with André
Is he’s a liar

Inside the dresser by the table
Something he keeps beside the bed
Living with Andre can’t be easy
Some things are better left unsaid
He remembers a time before the waters got so deep
When he found it easier to sleep

And she said “The trouble with André
Is he thinks he hides everything”
But I know the trouble with André
Is his disguise

sHAKESPEARS sISTER, tHE tROUBLE wITH aNDRé

I’m jinxing a lot of shit this week.

You’d think I’d fucking learn.

That’s all I’ve got.

I can’t give any more tonight.

It’s just. Too much.

Tomorrow is another day.

This too shall pass.

(And other bullshit platitudes.)

The things is, this shit is completely out of my control.

I can’t control the pandemic.

Nor can I dictate what provinces do during said pandemic.

I don’t have the power to heal.

I can only pray for swift recovery.

(Ha! I haven’t prayed in years. Oh I did once. After my breakdown. I looked for answers. Went to a United Church on the Danforth and sat in a pew. Asked whoever listened to lighten my burden. Flipped open a song book and found a passage that spoke to me — though I can’t remember it now — but it was profound at the time. Something about “when you called, I was already there”. I digress.)

I believe in something. I’m not sure exactly what.

Religion and I have a complicated history.

The Catholic Church excommunicated my father because of his adultery. Yet priests can abuse children and get moved to another parish. I can’t accept a religion that treats LGBTQ2S+ like second class citizens. (Today’s ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court that allows the Church to deny adoption to gay and lesbian couples is appalling.) A woman has the right to choose. The list is long.

So I believe in making my own luck.

And as such, I can jinx it pretty fucking hard.

Let’s hope I can turn it around.

We’re filming today, for the Rogue Theatre Festival.

Wish us luck.

Seems I’ve got to have a change of scene
Every night I have the strangest dreams
Imprisoned by the way it could have been
Left here on my own or so it seems
I’ve got to leave before I start to scream
Won’t someone lock the door and turn the key

Feelin’ Alright, Joe Cocker

I can’t turn off my brain.

I’ve tried.

Various ways.

It. Just. Won’t. Shut. Up.

And it’s nothing serious.

It’s trivial shit.

I caught myself searching report covers for work, while I listen to the Jays in the background.

That’s the problem, working for yourself.

You’re your own worst boss.

I need a distraction.

Baseball isn’t cutting it.

My head hurts.

I haven’t had many headaches lately.

Fortunate.

I had cluster migraines as a kid/teen, and in my 20s.

Had to be shut away in a dark room, no lights, no sound.

A cold cloth over my eyes.

Sometimes I would find relief if I vomited.

Not that I wanted to vomit.

That choice wasn’t mine.

There goes the brain again.

Random memories surfacing.

Twenty-odd years ago. I had a pot cookie.

(I never said I was a role model.)

It was at a friends’ party. I obviously took too much.

I remember getting home. Somehow.

From Leslieville to University and Dundas.

(Like I said, twenty-odd years ago).

I was so damned high.

I was physically ill.

There’s a flash of memory, hugging the porcelain god and making promises.

Then waking up at St. Michael’s hospital the next morning.

With no shoes.

No idea how I got there.

This was after Suzi, and I was between roommates.

And the cats refuse to learn to dial 911.

Luckily I had my wallet, and cash.

Took a cab home.

My shoes were inside the door.

Willow and Roo were indifferent.

(These were my cats before Hannah and Izzy.)

Now I’m thinking about my first cat, Tigger. (This is why I got Roo later. Gotta have Tigger and Roo, amiright?)

Got him while I lived in a house on Annette Street with two roommates.

He was a stray that hung out at my brother Wayne’s house in Whitby. They couldn’t take him in, and I jumped at the chance to adopt him.

I was just starting to see Suzi then.

He was a mischievous boy. The typical tabby: loved people, loved knocking things off the dresser.

At 3am.

Because he could.

And it always woke me up.

Poor guy developed crystals. He had surgery and was fine for a while.

But they came back.

Nothing the doctors could do.

He was the goodest boy.

I had a blog post brewing earlier.

But I had a conflict.

Hosting Sing For Your Supper.

That had a set start time, and so I made it priority.

Figured I’d remember the post for later.

I think it would’ve been a good one.

Yeah.

Think. Would’ve.

Because of course it’s no longer in ;my head.

I could’ve started the post and saved a draft.

That would’ve been the smart thing.

So it’s gone.

Into the ether.

And all I can think is.

I’m a bloody idiot.

But, as Marlo says, we’re not allowed to talk about ourselves that way.

(Even if it’s true.)

But I must be an idiot, because I didn’t do the smart thing.

Yep, I can run logic in circles.

But no.

No beating myself up.

It was a missed opportunity.

Nothing more.

Maybe it’ll come back.

Maybe I’ll come up with something better.

Like that time I was writing my first fringe show back in 1997, up all night writing and a power outage wiped out everything I’d typed. Had to start over.

It was better.

I remember that show.

I’d gotten into Toronto Fringe in the winter of ’96.

All I had was a title.

Two weeks before the show went up, I was still looking for an ending.

Yet it all came together.

The third show? Best audience, great performances.

I had live music: a pianist and a saxophone player.

They improvised jazz before the curtain went up.

The audience applauded enthusiastically when they wrapped up.

In that moment, I knew.

I had them.

A long-time Fringe patron came up to me after the show.

Said he’d loved it.

The guy was well known among the community.

He saw everything.

And never minced words.

Okay, that was a tangent.

Dunno how I got there.

Not sure how to wrap it up.

So I’ll just say.

Goodnight, moon.

p.s. Clearly this blog post isn’t one of my best.

But at least I’m writing.