Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Eurythmics medley comedified

I love this Eurythmics medley from the SNL 25 Year reunion show which features "Here Comes The Rain Again", "Ball and Chain" and "Sweet Dreams".  I love everything about it; the costumes, the music instrument change over and Annie rocking it out in true Annie style.

Only when it came to the line "... I want to talk like lovers do..." I instinctively shrieked "Shane, can you please move over?! I don't want to sit in your wet spot."

I was so immediately pleased with the result I had to pause the video and write it down so I didn't forget it happened.

That's comedy gold.

Sixty-five minutes

Today's raging grief out only lasted 65 minutes—and I was mobile the whole time, not trapped in the shed like yesterday.

It started in the shower and I noticed the grief out tends to start there so on return following exercise I banned myself from ranting or thinking in the shower and demanded joyful music bellow forth instead.

I think I sang about the possum that lives in the three-foot enclave between our house and the one next door and how I probably shouldn't scare it by rage screaming into the shower wall given it lives on the other side. 

So it wasn't quite what I planned but it was musical. And, so far, holding steady.

I got a mission list of wellness to do and I did all of them save one and I'll go do that now. 

In a shrunken world you still have to do things; keep moving; don't sit still. 

Because you'll stew in your own rich juices. 

And I don't think anyone wants anyone else to experience their juices delivered in such a fashion—rich or otherwise.

Monday, August 21, 2017

Couldn't get out of a one room building

I got trapped in a raging grief out in the shed but couldn't leave through the door. It was right there and I could see it but I was paralysed, rooted to the spot, with my arms drawn across my body and I was screaming.

In the end I talked myself out; "We are leaving the shed; we are walking to the house; we are opening the house door".

My wife had to come home and sort me out with care and reason. She had several goes before she got there.

That was the worst one yet; I talked myself into screaming paralysis. 

I promised to look forward not back; to recognise when in a bad churn and break out of it. 

And I did get out of the one room building. It was about ten minutes to get across the three feet and open the door. But it did happen.

Next time I'll try doing it in five.

PTSD is balls.

Friday, August 18, 2017

Trump (heart) hate art

Donald Trump has doubled down on appeasing his base by declaring statues of Confederate heroes to be totes beaut and should remain in public. That to destroy these statues, or displace them, is to deny them to those who love them and to deny history.

Won't someone think of the hate statues?!

Of course art's beauty is in the eye of the beholder. When Trump redeveloped a building in the '80s he promised to take out and preserve the art deco within but recanted and destroyed them because they stood in his way of a fast reno.

So art is important to Donald, but only if it's in the form of a Versailles fart cloud or three dimensional representations of white men who fought to own not-white people.

Trump is Louis XIV meets Robert E Lee because of course he is. 

What's the bet he gets an air horn installed in "The Beast", the presidential limo, that plays Dixie like from The Dukes of Hazzard?

And he paints the car gold.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Pringles?! (tap, tap)

I was in the shed when the insistent tapping began on the shed wall, like a woodpecker on a tree only chicken on metal. 

It was one of the browns. She cocked an eye and looked at me. I knew what she wanted, what they all wanted, which was their delicious semi-daily Pringle dash where I lob a cluster of five or six Pringles in a stack into the pen to have them land under the tree—for there was light rain and I didn't want them to experience a soggy Pringle. 

Rocky, literally the head of the pecking order being the biggest and fieriest, defended the largest shards of chip remnant but I was pleased to see a brown dart in, grab a bit big enough to project out the sides of her beak but without breaking it run to a safe spot to them crunch down and peck up the treasure.

They tried it again—the pecking on the shed wall—but I yelled "you've had your daily ration now beat it" and they did. 

The chickens have learned to summon me for Pringles by tap, tap, tapping on my shed wall. 

Quoth the chickens; "GIVE US MORE FUCKING PRINGLES!'

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Word use drop off when mad

"Because you're a fucking head fuck!"

My words just failed me whilst solo-raging. I'm usually more erudite. I tried looking in the mirror when doing it---a suggestion from a doctor to try to stop these moments---but I looked awesome in angry oratory mode so clearly objectivity while mad drops off as well.

Emotion; it clouds the logic but it's part of being human. 

Monday, August 14, 2017

Extended grief out

As long noted the path to mental health recovery is more like a dance than a linear journey given there are steps you take back even as you aim to dance forward. 

I've been down this path a few times now since the injury where I'll be coping, even thriving, then suddenly—WHAM!—straight back into a moment or moments that wrenched my core being.

There's one technique where you write a letter about how you feel. But the initial impulse to write was driven by the a maddened rage after I punched my bedroom door and widened the hole from where I head-butted it years before.

The wrenching anger boiled out of me as I typed, screaming each word as I typed it; tears clawed; the world spun. 

I didn't send it; that's not the aim of the exercise. All that would do is cause more grief and hurt. But as it frothed forth into e-form in a Word doc I felt unwordly, not human, something possessed. 

I'm now in the post grief out fatigue phase where I'll listlessly plod crying through the house. I tried singing it away but the crying made it too difficult to get the words out in a decent musical fashion. My body hurts like I've been thrown to the ground. 

I get that I have an origin story—all heroes do—but most of them start in a shit state then do their best to claw upward.

I guess that's what makes them heroes. 

I no longer have the worry about what people think but I still worry about telling people what I think. I can flense a man's soul with a few chosen words but I consciously suppress that impulse because though I have the ability I choose not to use it.

I guess that makes me a better person somehow. 


Sunday, August 13, 2017

The party

All the classic elements of a rager were there---a mega spew that got hosed off the patio, someone sitting on the neighbour's roof because they could and a delighted screamed demand for "a third moustache!". As an added bonus in spite of the party fuel there was no violence like last year when someone copped a punch to the gut.

Fuck I love children's birthday parties.