>A man fires a rifle for many years. At the end of year four he hands the rifle over to the armorer, returns the card entitling him to the rifle, and sets sail for the eastern seaboard.
A man lifts a kettlebell for many years. There is no end to this era as the kettlebell, much more than a tool for stopping and killing, is to the man’s fingers as the brush to the artist’s. The pencil to the carpenter, or the counting frame to the abacist. From steel he creates fire, and reborn in the fire is flesh.
Post rebirth, after the neural network processors have rewired themselves in accordance with the new armor, the brush’s strokes are cleaner. The lines drawn by the pencil more precise, and the arithmetic is far less prone to error. I never bet that I would end up like I did, but the farthest thing from my heart now is regret. Formerly I begged for situations to present themselves again so that I may alter the future in erasing the past. Currently, the nature of the situation and the rhythmic fashion in which these situations manifest is at long last, 100% clear.
I say again, at long last, the chronology of the cycles which indicate bipolar disorder in my brain housing is now clear.
‘Moonlight is thought to transform some people into strange creatures or to drive others mad’
I move in and out of stability like the moon around our rock.
Monthly, human females release an egg, and when unfertilized, the ripe lining of the uterus sheds as there will be no need for the plump tissue. The egg passes, and the days following the death include blood loss, physical pain, and emotional disorientation. In some cases, anyway.
Monthly, I wake anew, fresh from slumber lasting no more than 8 hours. I release an urge, and when handled, it allows for the birth of art, written words in prosaic poses, and physical outings that exact the intention of the brush, the pencil, the rifle, and the bell. I stroke, I draw the lines, I fire the well aimed shot and I lift the weight. When discounted, the urge, and all the spokes radiating from it, will come to rest in the area of my brain that makes decisions, and it will forge blindness. It will disable my ability to recognize the star behind the clouds and the simple effort it takes to realign this vessel with it’s mother. Knowing the urge and handling it bring progressions. Sleepwalk capsule ingestion* and both active and passive ignorance of the change, the urge, the chemistry, are disastrous. The vessel needs not be numbed, or lubed, for relief. The armor must be policed, and the systems analyzed IOT promote growth. No decline, only demarcation. This day is the release of the egg. That day becomes i-n-i-t-i-a-t-i-o-n. On that day I clean the brush, I sharpen the pencil, I press the weight.
I lift the weight off my chest.
Every month I go through a change. It is small, it is subtle, yet the consequence of my settlement with the change is what creates the waves, or facilitates walking across the tremulant sea. I don’t always notice it. Until last night I was not even aware that the cycles were this compressed, or that agreeing and disagreeing with the shifts dictates the length of progression or recovery, yet a foggy patrol northbound to the stage gave me the chance to asses. To search, to discover, and to decide.
I will not even attempt to delineate the length of the meso-cycles within the macro cycle of a month. Please understand that while the timing of my mental cycle is now clear, I cannot deftly define the reasons why, beyond the undeniable fact that I was born in 1979.
I have a dozen or so strong days where I feel refreshed and creative far beyond compare. I work in overdrive gear and wear myself down. The vessel tires, and despite excellent fueling habits I grow weary. Days of recovery include lots of sleep and little weight lifting. I become upset with myself for low energy levels and begin to question my existence. I will make a bad decision and, if the lesson is learned, I carry on and have moments like this. If the lesson goes unlearned, and the student fails the course in absentia, the depression festers and the cycle prolongs itself. Showing up for class is only half of it. Reading the required text and exacting foresight is crucial. My name is Eric Owen Williams Junior, born to Eric Senior and Debra Lee Smithgall. I was scheduled to be born in 1978, but I procrastinated. It was cold outside and Mom was a warm home. If I could remember that home maybe I would call them. Maybe they would have gotten more than a ‘season’s greeting’ card.
Today, I feel strong.
This cycle is of strength and lessons learned.
The plan is to reduce, and add by subtracting.
I am surrounded by medicine and I am without an itch right now. Right now. Which is forever.
‘Does the moon actually posses such strange powers, or is it all just. . .lunacy‘
*I do not take sleeping pills. That was an homage to At The Drive In’s final studio recording ‘Relationship of Command‘.