The Bloody Doors Off

Ophelia was a bride of God
A novice Carmelite
In sister cells the cloister bells
Tolled on her wedding night

Ophelia was the rebel girl
A blue stocking suffragette
Who remedied society
Between her cigarettes

And Ophelia was the sweetheart
To a nation overnight
Curvaceous thighs, vivacious eyes
Love was at first sight, love was at first sight

Ophelia was a demi-goddess
In pre-war babylon
So statuesque a silhouette
In black satin evening gowns

Ophelia was the mistress to
A vegas gambling man
Signora Ophelia Maraschino
Mafia courtesan

Ophelia was the circus queen
The female cannonball
Projected through five flaming hoops
To wild and shocked applause
To wild and shocked applause

Ophelia was a tempest cyclone
A goddamn hurricane
Your common sense, your best defense
Lay wasted and in vain

For Ophelia’d know your every woe
And every pain you’d ever had
She’d sympathize and dry your eyes
Help you to forget
And help you to forget

Ophelia’s mind went wandering
You’d wonder where she goes
Through secret doors down corridors
She wanders there alone, all alone

Ophelia, Natalie Merchant

I’m in a mood.

Cue the heavenly choir.

It’s a bumpy ride, to be sure.

Like. I bought beer today.

I almost never bought beer.

My wife asked why.

I had no answer.

I’m in a mood today.

She says it could be my fluctuating medications as I bump up my anti-depressants.

(Today is half the new dosage.)

Sounds right to me.

But I’m still in a mood.

Some work came in late yesterday. Due next Friday.

I don’t have the copy yet; basically just sourcing images to fit the management circular.

That should keep me distracted this week.

Doesn’t help my mood today, though.

But music has a positive influence.

The song is still stuck in my head. I don’t know what it’s for.

How long it’ll last.

Whether the idea will materialize or disperse into the ether.

I’m listening to Stevie Ray Vaughan at this moment.

Reminds me of a solo post I wrote a lifetime ago for an online roleplay game.

A character was near death, struggling for his life.

And coloured with the lyrics to SRV’s song.

I wish I had access to those scenes. I’m sure there’s gold among the dross.

That I could revisit. Make anew.

While waiting for that stupid story/post idea to show itself.

And it puts me in a mood.

Something’s happening, sounds like thunder, maybe the Lord is on His way,
He’s still angry and He’s after me since I cheated on the Spanish Train,
Oh yes He’s coming, and He could stop me, but He’d better make it soon,
‘Cause the last time that I won a world, I made it into a moon

Chris de Burgh, The Devil’s Eye

These lyrics have been rumbling around in my head for hours.

Usually that means a story is birthing.

Like how “You Want It Darker” led to Last Call. Or “State of Independence” led to… State of Independence.

I shall be quite out of sorts the next few days while I tune into this frequency.

Hoping it’s a short play.

Won’t be disappointed if it’s a blog post.

At least I’m writing.

I think I’m getting the feel for directing.

It’s not my first choice. I’d prefer to write. I worry that I’m too close to the material, that I’d miss opportunities. But I’ve come up with some interesting character suggestions, letting the actors choose to use it. Or not. The nerves are dissipating and I’m seeing results. I’ve earned their trust, which is the biggest get. As I writer, I put all my trust in the actors and director to breathe my scripts into life.

Now I’m learning to trust me as a director to do the same.

Last Call is gonna be a good zoom play.

Can I top Snow Angels?

Fingers crossed.

Welp, she didn’t kill me.

Though I feel like that would be a small mercy at the moment.

I do not feel well.

Gonna lie down for a few minutes.

Low key day.

Can’t sleep past 7am any longer.

It physically hurts.

Seriously.

My head hurts if I sleep in.

Which is why they invented naps.

But no nap for me today.

Had to get a testosterone shot this afternoon.

Big shocker.

Fifty-four year old man needs to bolster his T.

Because I wasted it under the covers when I was a teenager.

Or the bathroom.

I used to have nudie pics. Mostly Playboy.

Which I thought I had hidden well.

In the bathroom.

That the entire family uses.

There never was a talk.

Lots of giggling.

But no talk.

This is a long-about way of saying my left ass cheek hurts.

Couldn’t finish my breakfast this morning.

There’s another shock. I barely eat in the mornings.

Hell, I barely eat on most days.

And yet this portly piper remains corpulent.

(I looked that up on thesaurus.com)

That slow-moving freight train has ventured from the back of my brain and entered my sinuses.

Yeah, that makes no sense.

But it’s true.

Speaking of true things.

My wonderfully talented wife just farted. (She’s gonna kill me but for some reason I think it’s necessary to explain that we can be this open. I was the first one to fart in the relationship. I think that let her know it was okay to pass wind in front of me. Oh isn’t love grand?).

My wonderfully talented wife participated in a storytelling event called True Stories Told Live tonight on Zoom. She recited a thoroughly moving story that involved her year abroad in Israel during university. I couldn’t be prouder of her.

And now I’m listening to the Blue Jays beat the White Sox.

Today’s stressors have been all first-world problems. And I wouldn’t even call ’em stressors. Annoyances.

Alright.

If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, assume I’m dead.

Because of the fart comment.

“I see the bad moon a-rising
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin’
I see bad times today”

Creedence Clearwater Revival

That rolling migraine is still on the horizon. Slowly rolling in.

More than just pressure in the back of my head. It’s moving behind my eyes.

This is not how migraines work. Not for me.

They don’t threaten. They strike.

Usually without warning.

The CPAP says I’m getting decent sleep. Less interruptions overnight, averaging out to less than one an hour. Marlo reports my snoring has gotten better with the new pressure setting.

So why do I feel like shit?

Song lyrics inspire me.

“You want it darker, we killed the flame” = Snow Angels

Leonard Cohen, “You Want It Darker”

“Like holy water to my lips” = State of Independence

Jon & Vangelis, “State of Independence”

Apparently with blog posts, as well.

I’m feeling out of sorts tonight. I feel like there’s a low-grade migraine brewing in the back of my head, but it hasn’t landed yet. Best I can describe, it’s like a storm front moving in. You can feel the change in the air. The barometric pressure is dropping. In slow motion. Almost crawling. But you can see it on the horizon, and it’s big.

When it lands.

All hands on deck.

It’s gonna smash on the rocks hard.

I need an anchor.

I have an anchor.

She’s sitting five feet from me.

.

.

.

.

You’re still here? I thought that was a great break point.

Seriously. Everyone else closed the tab already.

I don’t have anything else to share.

Maybe later.

Maybe.

.

.

.

.

What do you want from me?

That’s not right.

Sorry.

What do I want from me?

What am I trying to prove?

I don’t have to write every. Single. Day.

And don’t let yesterday’s stats confuse you. So someone read through over 160 of your posts.

It doesn’t mean anything.

They had time to kill.

Maybe they enjoyed the posts.

Maybe they empathized.

I’m not writing for them. I’m not writing for you.

Although I am freely sharing everything here.

It makes me feel less alone doing so.

You know, when you were growing up, you swore you were the only person going through whatever existential crisis was brewing, and no one could understand your pain?

I’ve been there.

So have you.

Unfortunately, we can’t assuage our childrens’ anxiety. They have to go Through, Not Around. (Nice plug for Marlo’s book, dude.)

I’ve lost the plot of this.

.

..

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.

The storm is sure as hell taking it’s fucking time.

Let’s get it over with already.

I may be back later.

I need to grab my hip waders.

There’s truth in this song.