February 13th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

My tweets

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2013, cyd, new


Okay, so Simon and I comprimised. He is in my lap and the laptop in on him and one of my legs. Why no, no it isn't very comfortable.

GARRR, I am so freaking depressed. I am so looking forward to my walk with Chewy today. Yesterday, there was a big fight at the big truck corner and it scared Chewy. I wonder which way he'll choose to go today. Another hour and I can take him.

I got up as doc was going to sleep, so I didn't get to tell him we are out of tobacco. I can roll him enough cigarettes for the night, but not me. He's getting up at 6, so theoretically he could go then, but he wants to be at work by 7 to make some overtime.

That reminds me, I came up with a solid new idea for The Art Project, and I have to price out the materials. All I have to do before assembly starts is come up with a quote. Something about mental illness or mental health. Maybe something obscure. Yes, definitely obscure. To do with my own madness, but open enough to apply loosely to anyone for anything. People write entire songs like that, I can certainly come up with two or three lines.

The next day . . .

When I got back from Chewy's walk yesterday, I was like to choke a dude (bonus points if you can tell me where that particular colloquialism is from). There is this grumpy man down the street. I was crossing his driveway with Chews and the motherfucker honked at us with his big ass truck horn. Scared the shit out of both Chewy and I. So I finished crossing the driveway, and led Chews to the other side of his lawn. I always pick up the poop, but this man sits and watches me to make sure I do. I have tried to be friendly to him on a number of occasions, and he is just a jackass. So while Chews and I are on the other half of his lawn, I turned to the old man in his big truck (compensating), and he was giving me this dirty look, like I had no right to walk my dog on my street. Fuck him, right? So I conjured my most evil, crazed look and turned it right on him until he uncomfortably looked away. His wife came out of the garage with this confused look on her face, wondering what was going on, so I turned the evil look to her, so she wouldn't feel left out. I declare a feud.

And this was no regular evil look, this was a scowl, chased with fear, chased with rage, chased with a veiled death threat. All in one look. If I see him on my walk today, I'm going to confront his ass. I've been so apathetic for so long, that I want to feed on this rage. I show that man respect, more than he knows. I have spend evenings in the dark with a flashlight to capture all of Chewy's poop. I complimented him on his spectacular xmas display, he grunted at me. What a jackass.

Our door knobs are fixed. We got new ones for the front, back and two of the three security gates. I think the guy fixed our light, too. And
2013, cyd, new

I think I need to listen to some U2

As I sit staring at the keyboard . . . .

This week has been . . . off. I plan to ask my shrink about a popular Alzheimer drugs to help with my memory. So far in my web searching, that's all I've found as a solution. I already take one companion med to counteract the hungries that the Seroquel causes. Though it didn't save the half bag of mint truffle Hershey's Kisses the other night. I don't even remember eating them, I just found the little foils wadded up in my ashtray the next morning.

And that's where my problem is, memory. The confusion and the disconnected speech is okay with me, as long as I'm talking to Doc or Kelli. But the memory thing is really, what's the word, bad. I read about memory issues starting in doses as low as 25mg of Seroquel. According to patients, it hits hard at 50mg. I'm taking 800mg, for a comparison. The legal limit allowed by the FDC.

And this has to work. There is only one medication out there left is a very scary one, Thorazine scary. Haldol scary. And after that one, I am officially treatment resistant, and I don't want to be that. They do some medieval shit to treatment resistant schizophrenics. Like going back into ECT treatment. Only long term. So we'll just say that the Seroquel is working. But the memory is not.

For example, how in the actual fuck is it Friday? I was just on Sunday. And now a whole week is gone.

Something else that has been bothering me, why do I grunt every time I get up? I this "growing old"? I'm not a fan. I don't mind the little meaningless aches and pains, but the grunting is really ugly.

Some artsy type people have been following me on Twitter. So I've been posting my work. Photos, videos, recordings. Waiting to get my 15 minutes. Still.

I think I need to listen to some U2.
2013, cyd, new

Fuckin' Twitter, man.

I have Madonna's "4 Minutes" feat. Justin Timberlake on repeat.

I have created a secret door into a part of my site that has been shut down for over a year now. I have done this in the name of art. I am asking people to participate in my newest art installation dealing with mental health and mental illness. The door is http://www.fabulousdisaster.com/writing/. There is a full explanation there. It involves not your cash donation, I've already secured most of the materials and am relying on established Patrons for what I lack. No, I need your time and attention. Like I said, that page explains all that I am willing to say about the project right now.

Meanwhile, after three differently worded and hashtagged tweets about this, not one of the 804 motherfuckers that follows me has retweeted the notice. Helping me not at all. So, I'm going to stop retweeting them. Fuck all 804 of them. Even the art directors and editors of online art magazines. These people will only be pleased by what we have proven together over the past 15 years what I am not: the lowest common denominator. I will not relent. I don't actually NEED help with this, I WANT help with this aspect of it. I feel that some outside perspective will enhance the final project immeasurably.

What really bothers me is that #mentalhealth and #mentalillness ignore me completely, while stealing my lines. Okay, the stealing only happened once, by one of the big accounts, and instead of confronting him about it, I passive aggressively "favorited" the tweet it was in, just to let him know I'd seen it. He never used it again. I came up with a great tag-line about my illness. Deal with it. He wrote a book and is getting all the attention because he's bipolar, which, along with ADHD seem to be the only mental maladies represented on twitter. I have neither of these things. There is a possibility that I could add to the conversation, about meds, or the psychotic symptoms that bipolar can bring on. But I just can't break into this clique. Getting accepted into "Black Twitter" was easier as a white girl than this.

So, I've been reading design articles and looking at multi-piece art installations and kind of planning ahead how I'm going to photograph the finished project to submit to the galleries downtown. I'm staying local. I've shown here, in a multi-artist show. In a now-closed gallery. But there are many more galleries here now. I will have to brave a First Friday trip down town to check the galleries out and find what would be fitting for my project.

I wish I had someone to take pictures while I assemble the pieces. I have time to work on that, material acquisition will take a bit of time. And I don't know how long I'm going to give the public the option of participation before I give up for lack of interest. It really bums me out that I already know that this part of the project is going to be a huge failure, like everything I've attempted online. I've spent enough time on it already that I'm invested in this aspect, and knowing that no one else is going to give a shit breaks my fucking heart.

I think I understand Van Gogh more and more. Being invisible when you have so much to share, and being stuck in your own head because you're alone, and producing art that you know no one is ever going to see or care about. That was the reality of his life. I get it. I don't get the genius of depth of pure talent translating images, I wouldn't be that presumptuous. But the rest of it, yeah, I get it.