Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A SUNDRESS IN APRIL
Threatened eyes
Staring down from the overcast shadows
Retreated
To just
A few sprinkles on my windshield
Surrendering to the
Strapless sundress
Apathetically
She showed some
Cleavage
Unwilling to pull
The garden up
Over her breast
Engaging my eyes
She took her time
Crossing the street
Her sculptured legs
Lines a mathematician
Couldn’t define
Gave their last farewell
From a distance
Threatened eyes
Staring down from the overcast shadows
Retreated
To just
A few sprinkles on my windshield
Surrendering to the
Strapless sundress
Apathetically
She showed some
Cleavage
Unwilling to pull
The garden up
Over her breast
Engaging my eyes
She took her time
Crossing the street
Her sculptured legs
Lines a mathematician
Couldn’t define
Gave their last farewell
From a distance
Friday, February 5, 2010
Mental Health in Writing
When Hemingway spoke the words, “Writers are alone,” what did he mean? Did he mean writers are alone in their thoughts, or did he mean that in most cases writers are misunderstood? Or was this his isolationism speaking. Was he possibly depressed? What are the underlining factors for those writers whose work we consider great but who seemed to battle mental health concerns?
A writer with a mental illness like me can feel alone and misunderstood. Worse case scenario is that the writer is not taking the proper medication. Their writing becomes a handicap, causing them to feel as if they don’t belong or as if there is a dark cloud overhead. Medication may not get rid of the entire cloud, but perhaps make it becomes less dark.
I think about my own life and how my writing has changed as I have worked through my mental illness. I was depressed, maybe even suicidal. My writing was cynical and maybe seen as dark. A short story that I wrote might have the main character die. I thought that was the best way to end a story. Now, if I have a dark thought or write something that is dark, I don’t like the feeling inside. I take medication now, and that has changed my outlook. Now I hate killing a character. I often write about little kids--their innocence or their playful ways.
Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson both were famous writers who committed suicide. If they had experienced the breakthroughs in mental health today, I wonder if they would have written some of their greatest works. Hunter Thompson died a few years ago, and I feel sure he had enough money to afford help. However, if he had received help earlier in his life, would he have written his famous works such as Rum Diary and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas?
Am I fortunate to read the great works which were written by a troubled mind or is it unfortunate? I feel blessed to have their writing as their epitaph. Their writing holds the key to how they might have thought even in a troubled state of mind. But I will never be able to tell them that I have been there too. I know how they feel.
Many of the greats of literature, as well as the other arts seem to be plagued with mental health disabilities. As a mental health consumer I feel blessed to have read and benefited from their darkness.
A writer with a mental illness like me can feel alone and misunderstood. Worse case scenario is that the writer is not taking the proper medication. Their writing becomes a handicap, causing them to feel as if they don’t belong or as if there is a dark cloud overhead. Medication may not get rid of the entire cloud, but perhaps make it becomes less dark.
I think about my own life and how my writing has changed as I have worked through my mental illness. I was depressed, maybe even suicidal. My writing was cynical and maybe seen as dark. A short story that I wrote might have the main character die. I thought that was the best way to end a story. Now, if I have a dark thought or write something that is dark, I don’t like the feeling inside. I take medication now, and that has changed my outlook. Now I hate killing a character. I often write about little kids--their innocence or their playful ways.
Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson both were famous writers who committed suicide. If they had experienced the breakthroughs in mental health today, I wonder if they would have written some of their greatest works. Hunter Thompson died a few years ago, and I feel sure he had enough money to afford help. However, if he had received help earlier in his life, would he have written his famous works such as Rum Diary and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas?
Am I fortunate to read the great works which were written by a troubled mind or is it unfortunate? I feel blessed to have their writing as their epitaph. Their writing holds the key to how they might have thought even in a troubled state of mind. But I will never be able to tell them that I have been there too. I know how they feel.
Many of the greats of literature, as well as the other arts seem to be plagued with mental health disabilities. As a mental health consumer I feel blessed to have read and benefited from their darkness.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Bus Ride to School
A long time ago in the early nineties when MTV still played videos, and there were infinite possibilities for our future, I lived in South Roanoke, Virginia. At that time one of my goals in life was to sit in the back of the school bus so when the bus hit a big bump I would spring into the air from your seat. The amusement park-like ride was free, and I was one of the older kids at Crystal Spring Elementary school. The funny thing is now, I don’t remember much about school. Of course, I remember my teacher’s name, Mrs. Bailey, but I don’t remember too much after that.
Our bus driver was named Scotty. We called him Scotty because that was the name printed on the name plate just above the steering wheel. No one on the bus knew why a man would choose the profession of school bus driver, but there was a certain admiration for Scotty that equaled that of any rock star we had ever heard about.
One thing was constant on Scotty’s bus-- the music. Kids could bring music, and as long as the tape didn’t have a sticker saying ‘explicit lyrics,’ Scotty would play the tapes in his player. We listened to MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This,” all the time. We listened to it so much that all the younger kids learned to sing along. Once on a very daring trip, we even listened to Vanilla Ice.
Sometimes Scotty brought his own music. We tried to sing to “She’s My Cherry Pie,” even though we didn’t know the words or what it meant. Scotty hardly talked; he just drove. Maybe he needed the music as much as we did.
The stresses of our elementary school days dissolved on the school bus, and we were all thankful for Scotty’s expertise on the subject of music. So much so that our parents got together and decided to give him a gift. But what would be a good gift for the school bus driver? Someone made the decision to give Scotty the cash that we had collected. That way, he could buy whatever he wanted. On the last day of school several of the parents were at the bus stop with the gift. We all waited for Scotty to drive up, and of course, the kids were all on their best behavior because of the anticipation of the gift presentation.
Scotty finally showed up in the big yellow musical school bus. He obviously did not know what was going on when he saw the kids with their moms waiting at the bus stop. The door on the school bus swung opened. Then a mom walked up the three steps to the driver with the box containing the cash. The box wasn’t too big. It could probably fit into someone’s coat pocket, but it was what was on the inside that mattered.
As Scotty opened the box, we all yelled out, “Surprise!” He fingered the cash as tears flowed down from his eyes.
“Thank you so much.” He sobbed.
“Awesome!” I thought. He must have really needed money, and he got it from us.
We all got on the bus and our parents waved goodbye as Scotty pulled the bus onto the road. But as we drove along, there was something missing…after the big surprise, we were riding along in silence until a kid in first grade yelled out, “Can we listen to music?”
Scotty’s hand went into action and slid in M.C. Hammer, and we all sang along.
I have forgotten the lyrics now, but I will always remember Scotty.
A long time ago in the early nineties when MTV still played videos, and there were infinite possibilities for our future, I lived in South Roanoke, Virginia. At that time one of my goals in life was to sit in the back of the school bus so when the bus hit a big bump I would spring into the air from your seat. The amusement park-like ride was free, and I was one of the older kids at Crystal Spring Elementary school. The funny thing is now, I don’t remember much about school. Of course, I remember my teacher’s name, Mrs. Bailey, but I don’t remember too much after that.
Our bus driver was named Scotty. We called him Scotty because that was the name printed on the name plate just above the steering wheel. No one on the bus knew why a man would choose the profession of school bus driver, but there was a certain admiration for Scotty that equaled that of any rock star we had ever heard about.
One thing was constant on Scotty’s bus-- the music. Kids could bring music, and as long as the tape didn’t have a sticker saying ‘explicit lyrics,’ Scotty would play the tapes in his player. We listened to MC Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This,” all the time. We listened to it so much that all the younger kids learned to sing along. Once on a very daring trip, we even listened to Vanilla Ice.
Sometimes Scotty brought his own music. We tried to sing to “She’s My Cherry Pie,” even though we didn’t know the words or what it meant. Scotty hardly talked; he just drove. Maybe he needed the music as much as we did.
The stresses of our elementary school days dissolved on the school bus, and we were all thankful for Scotty’s expertise on the subject of music. So much so that our parents got together and decided to give him a gift. But what would be a good gift for the school bus driver? Someone made the decision to give Scotty the cash that we had collected. That way, he could buy whatever he wanted. On the last day of school several of the parents were at the bus stop with the gift. We all waited for Scotty to drive up, and of course, the kids were all on their best behavior because of the anticipation of the gift presentation.
Scotty finally showed up in the big yellow musical school bus. He obviously did not know what was going on when he saw the kids with their moms waiting at the bus stop. The door on the school bus swung opened. Then a mom walked up the three steps to the driver with the box containing the cash. The box wasn’t too big. It could probably fit into someone’s coat pocket, but it was what was on the inside that mattered.
As Scotty opened the box, we all yelled out, “Surprise!” He fingered the cash as tears flowed down from his eyes.
“Thank you so much.” He sobbed.
“Awesome!” I thought. He must have really needed money, and he got it from us.
We all got on the bus and our parents waved goodbye as Scotty pulled the bus onto the road. But as we drove along, there was something missing…after the big surprise, we were riding along in silence until a kid in first grade yelled out, “Can we listen to music?”
Scotty’s hand went into action and slid in M.C. Hammer, and we all sang along.
I have forgotten the lyrics now, but I will always remember Scotty.
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