I only have eyes for my Bear Book lately.
I think I will blog less here and more there.
I am happy with the way it makes me feel.
It's like a lover who appeared out of nowhere.
A lover I will need to commit to. When awake and probably when asleep too.
I'm glad I'm not drinking again.
Yes, again is a funny word there.
Like the "It's not hard to quit...I do it all the time" line.
Something snapped in me lately and something let go.
Maybe it was God.
I'm still afraid of death. No, not death. Particular ways or times of dying.
This is the funny human sense of order. The dying lady using the broom to clean her house.
Okay, I'm not dying. I'm forty-four. No more dying, laughs Frank. Trying to elicit promises from his friends. Knowing wooden nickels. He had to be smiling.
But I think God gave me the greatest gift he can give any intensely flammable person.
And that gift is Boredom.
Boredom with the wrong types of behaviour, I mean.
I marvel that I couldn't get bored doing the wrong thing for so many years.
It just kept being exciting.
And now it is not.
Some doctors think bipolar is inexhaustible, but it's like everything else.
You go up, up, up and raise the stakes and raise the stakes. And it's just like any other sport. The only ultimate risk you can create is death. And you can choose that or not.
But you can't talk in death. And I clearly love to talk. Whether to people or objects or images or just the air.
The weird thing is that the things I find most worthwhile in life are not really always that exciting either.
I haven't replaced one excitment with another.
Nor do I plan to.
Excitment is exhausting. That's the point of it.
I am more interested in things which are true than things which are exciting.
I don't think I wanted to admit that to myself. Or it just wasn't the state of affairs before.
Probably only a master liar can get really interested in the truth this late in life.
Because ordinary, small time liars or truth-dealers don't have "Big Issues" with these things.
But I guess I do.
And truth is always "one truth." Yes. Even the Cocteaux named a song that. To make a point.
I guess my greatest love in life has always been images.
I have spent my life studying images and trying to figure out what they mean.
Sounds and music are different.
Those are types of images too and they become images very easily, as all the senses do.
The universe is synaesthesia-based.
But it's the images.
Laura Moriarty has a poem where she is talking and talking about images and then at the end of the poem she turns and says to herself (or the poem does) "But what is an image?"
That's a huge question.
That's the sort of question that drove Wittgenstein nuts.
The rabbit which is also a duck which is also a rabbit.
Images can be like that. In fact, they are like that more often than they are not.
This is turning into a babbling brook now, so I'll stop.
I want to become known as the pre-eminent biographer of imaginary people.
I want imaginary people to visit me constantly.
And I will live for them and tell their stories.
When real people get in the way, I will ask them to excuse me.
As I take my leave.
Just like an Austen ghost.