Starting a blog about nothing at 42 pretty much screams “I don’t have a therapist”. I actually forgot the last one’s name, even while seeing him, because I referred to him as “The Man with One Sweater” for so long. The real reason is that I have an excessive amount of thoughts about just about everything. Have you ever tried to get a boyfriend or husband (or two) to sit down and do the “Hey, come look at all my journals for 20 years and my doodles from art school” for that special bonding moment? They would rather be DEAD. NO ONE likes reading or looking at other people’s journals. Or hearing about that crazy dream had the night before or about how intense a yoga class I had just taught turned out to be. ALL of the above, including the shrink part, produce that glazed over stare like they have been held mentally hostage until the time is up or they are deep in a plea “omgidon’tcarehelpmegetawaybeforeifreakoutIneedabeer”.
My style of speaking, writing, and thinking at the velocity, mass and the ability to make 360’s out of it all is a special skill which people kind of like, maybe enjoy (if I am writing) or absolutely dread if it’s in the verbal form. It can also induce thoughts to find duct tape, a ball gag or a big fruit as fast as possible.
I have always liked to write. It was encouraged from grade school through college to write and draw at the same time, even though I didn’t like to be “encouraged”. That word also meant piano lessons, dancing, soccer, space camp and insect displays. Actually, I think I was “encouraged” to do everything I could possibly do (legal things by teachers and parents of course, anything illegal I handled myself). I write everyday but not in ragged journals with cool doodles and elaborate schematics for the bazillions of things to make or think I could make and not with a pen that has to be perfect anymore. Shit…there goes my phone alarm to take my meds. I hate that alarm…
Ok. Yeah….So, i write all the time, online but not publicly and I am going on my third year now. I am quite aware everything I have written so far only emphasizes the first sentence. I write in a support group for people who have neuromuscular disorders. It’s what I do and it’s what I live with everyday. I write for the other people in “there” and for myself in “there”. I have had to cultivate different voices as I am the main administrator for this group. I have dystonia. Six years now, and I know as I type this, “what the hell is dystonia” is the question if you haven’t glazed over by now. I don’t want to explain what it is right now. I figure if I keep doing this, you’ll end up knowing more about it than most humans alive at the moment. I do that in other places – advocate, explain, give away stickers…I just want a place to rattle off about the inexplicable craziness of every thing. I type at night to no one to help me fall asleep but sometimes I have thoughts that might mean something to somebody out here and then classic question plagues me to death. “Is this really just for me, art for art’s sake or is this self-centered activity (not selfish) pointless unless read?” My ways of expression have had to change as I have and since I’m not in art galleries I have come back to my default.
The only thing I need to write regarding “it” in this first blog I never thought I would “do” is that I have Loggorhea (verbal and inside my brain thought diarrhea). It is a fabulous side effect from a medication I was not only allergic to but also never needed. And it’s real. Because I am always super lucky, the rare “can cause excessive speech” in the fine print of this drug, took a part of my brain already active enough – the speech part – and sent it into hyperouttacontrolsuperspace. I was given this drug in 2011 and it’s only gift to me was this love/hate relationship of hearing my voice never end. Everyone around me thought it was awesome. I lie. It made people scatter like roaches and i’m still pissed off about it all. The Man with One Sweater never stood a chance.
So now I am guessing, I have given enough information at this point to explain the name chosen for this “isn’t it too late to start a blog because I got on this media train after everyone and their mother already left the station and no one reads them unless they are really cool” new thing for me to do. I am not sure what kind of format I want to do this in because I write everyday and I don’t think I want to post a blog every day, so maybe I will post a week’s worth at a time on Sundays or maybe I’ll decide I don’t want any schedule at all. My life is already pretty much dictated by derailed brain signals and the weirdness of the world itself, in which I often feel as though I am in the central station. How this evolves will definitely wind up being a pure representation of that truth no matter what I do anyway…the details of events and the thoughts with their bags packed and ready to go on the simultaneous trip always have their tickets ready. I’m prepared that way because if not, the real weirdness escapes and that’s just not right. My introduction is now over but nothing else is, it never ends.