A New Dream

mental health & illness, the art of writing

Because I am having so much trouble writing something new, I find myself reading more than usual, and with rapidity. Recently I read The Museum of Innocence (Pamuk). Then They Came Like Swallows (Maxwell). Now I’m reading A Sport and a Pastime (Salter) — sex scenes and descriptions of France. The new Sheila Heti comes out tomorrow. My female-writer book club is reading it next, and then Cruddy (Barry), which I still haven’t read — I know, I’m awful.

I have hopes that if I inhale enough books, and if I let them ferment inside me, I’ll have something to write. I have ideas for something having to do with farm animals and a Russian-American firefighter and China declaring war on Taiwan, but these are just notes in my Filofax right now. I have, what, 300 words of it so far. I’ve been taking pictures again with my Polaroid, using expired Polaroid film, because I don’t have a dry age kit and all of the old Impossible Project pictures I took crystallized and changed color — very frustrating, but I’ll have to bite the bullet and start using the dry age kits eventually, I know…

Chris is off for the summer (he works at a school), and he’s been impossibly patient with me these days in a way that bewilders me and fills me with gratitude.

I am chewing on the insides of my cheeks in my sleep again, and have agitated mornings…

But what beautiful brambles in the jar on our coffee table. What bright evenings. Cashmere cardigans in June.

 

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Return of the

a motley assortment

Having said nothing here for weeks, I feel obliged to explain. It’s not that nothing has been happening. Rather, too much has been happening, and there is very little of it that I can talk about here. So instead of opening my laptop and sharing, what I end up doing is sleeping too much and attempting to wake myself up in the world outside of the computer, spending time with people who make me feel safer, and lying on the couch with Daphne in the crook of my arm. I often think, I am not well. Sometimes I think I can’t stand another moment. My new doctor thinks that there is a possibility that I have schizoaffective disorder, as opposed to bipolar disorder, due to the psychoses of the last four or five years; she also mentioned traits of a personality disorder that hasn’t been mentioned in my charts since 2003. But what do you make of that, really. So I try to ignore it.
Today Chris and I bought things for a picnic in the backyard. Iced rose tea and chilled white wine and pickled okra, genoa salami, prosciutto, carrots. He is reading One Hundred Years of Solitude. I just finished They Came Like Swallows. Book recommendations highly desired.

Thank you, darlings, starlings.

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