February 4, 2019
Long Beach, CA
Depression in Perspective
There's something nice and comforting about both a blank page waiting for me as well as weather that suitably fits my overtly sour mood. I may get used to this cloudy, rainy, damp winter (oh poor me it's ONLY 62 degrees).
As I was driving to the coffee shop this morning in my late model luxury car with top of the line Bose speakers blasting a clear-as-silk digital version of "Rock Fort Rock" by the Skatalites recently downloaded from Amazon, I happened by a homeless man carrying a filthy takeout container and a hapless chihuahua in one hand and his too-big-by-far pants in the other. AND I FELT SORRY FOR MYSELF. Fuck all, Dave, get some perspective on your shit!
Depression is insidious, no doubt about it. Anything can set it off, feed it, warm it, invite it up for a cup of coffee. Once inside, comfortably ensconced, one must dolefully bite one's lip until DEPRESSION deigns to move on, often dictated by the necessity of one's own survival. "Stay as long as you like, Mr. Depression, but I've got to go to work, or pay a bill, or check my email, or drive to Hot Java in my late model luxury car with top of the line Bose Speakers blasting a clear as silk digital version of Rock Fort Rock...just lock up when you leave!"
Last Wednesday I went to visit my old bowling league down at Cal Bowl in Lakewood. It probably has been more than five or six years since I bowled in that league and at least two-and-a--half since I bowled anywhere (save for an afternoon of HOUSE BOWLING with Jake Hoyer in Jamestown, NY last summer). Bowling was my Scrabble at one point, and might still be save for a wonky wrist and the inability to commit to showing up ANYWHERE week after week. I went to visit my friend Rudy knowing I was going to see many past friends and acquaintances and gather a few kudos on the slenderer version of myself which I quite enjoy - as I have previously revealed that I am both shallow and vain. Even the crankiest version of me knows it's nice to get out.
I wasn't disappointed by both the attention and the willingness of those to include me in future adventures and those excited to see me. I even made plans to record a radio show with Frank, go running with Charlie and even go to a Super Bowl Party. Oh sweet social interaction!
And then depression strode in, perhaps triggered by a text message from an old date I contacted announcing to me that they weren't dating anymore because they found someone, or perhaps by the appearance of the unopened Visa Bill from my Florida misadventures or perhaps from my weak standings on the 6-letter challenge board on Aerolith or perhaps just by the way the she brushed her hair from her forehead (apologies to Paul Simon's Graceland). What I am saying is it didn't matter. The sullen mood encroached, it saw a grand opening for a Thursday-Friday-Saturday-Sunday fourplex of isolationism and I took the bait. Save for a visit to the Scrabble Club (one of the few things that still gets me out the house with any regularity), my weekend was a deep dive into what I consider a sullen routine. No parties, no running, no radio shows. Just a slog around the diamond.
I can't speak for anyone else's depression, but mine parades as a substantive effort to get things done that quickly devolves into snoring in front of the TV set at 3am while old C-SPAN hearings from You Tube scroll by. If I had a dime every time I woke up to James Comey or Rod Rosenstein calmly explaining themselves to those red-faced octo-loons in the Senate, I could pay the rent.
Each day starts with a newly committed effort to "get things done", almost without fail. In the lowest days of depressions past, I tended to suspend that effort if I was still in bed at 10am (or it was Sunday). It's not as bad as that lately, but my lack of attention to the important things seems stultifying. Return work emails? Bah. Network for business? Meh. Why not look at Tumbler blogs, play Jumble, ask Alexa stupid questions or just scroll through banal emails from every imaginable get-rich-quick Internet huckster I handed my email to in the last eighteen months? Get 'er done! I wonder if my inability to discern between what's important and what isn't part of the slow and unerring slide into madness.
I've been thinking about the question "Why do fish swim?" lately. I mean, really, where have they got to go? Are they making random choices about the direction to go in, the things they need to do? The things they are avoiding? Are they always looking for food? Or for a partner? A dry spot? I often feel like a fish. Oh let's go check out that rock, and then that filter, and how about that bubbly Hula girl, she's kind of interesting. By rote, I wander through these depression days bouncing off places familiar (Hot Java, the library, my house, the grocery store, the gym, the Scrabble Club) but ultimately am I just being tossed around by the tide in my own personal tank? Does it matter if I swim from here to there? What if I just did nothing at all? Who would care?
I've gotten a lot of helpful hints from both friends, self-help books, witty Internet memes and the like. REALLY GOOD HINTS. Even my own advice blog "Outrunning Depression With Scrabble" should help right? Amazing as even that turned on itself this weekend. While studying the 7-letter flash cards, piled up in an ungainly heap on my coffee table, I literally bored myself to tears. Literally! Abandoning all that to watch the feel-good marketing film "Joy" (starring a truly radiant Jennifer Lawrence easily one of my fave working actresses) only made me feel worse, as behind every potential marketing success, is failure even enveloped in its own
success.
I woke up this morning and looked around at my living room. My winsome guitar, still yearning for me to play a better than off-key version of Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" sat strewn from the case with piles of songbooks and notes across the chair and floor. The piles of index cards with SO MANY DAMN WORDS I DON'T REMEMBER piled in unintelligible order of unrecognizableness. WHY CAN'T YOU EVER REMEMBER MELAENA? It's a variation of the president's plastic wife, dammit.... Mountains of notes from digital marketing gurus regarding YOAST searches, Instagram follower building tutorials. Big ideas for Laurel Canyon Radio! Piles of unchecked to-do (to-don't) lists, a veritable tsunami of everything orbiting your consciousness and yet, so little to show for it.
Thank goodness I am pretty minimalist, as there is no scorched earth hoarder shit going on with me. It only takes a few minutes to clean this mess up, but it is a reminder that like a toddler in a playpen, I have assembled all the things necessary for my entertainment/survival around me, but somehow randomly picking them up and dropping them will not get me into Yale or cure depression. Maybe not even outrun it.
It's begun to rain again. I like sitting here in the warmth of the coffee shop at this very moment, looking out at the rain. It is a momentary respite from wondering where I should be at this moment. This is where I am supposed to be. Writing this. Exorcising demons. Being creative. Getting you to chuckle with my mordant wit. Am I really depressed and planning a long term murder-suicide pact with perhaps dozens of different like-minded friends or am I just dutifully mining it all to see what potential creative mileage I can get out of it? Does it matter? Does anything matter? Is there an end to this questioning? Is there? Is there?
Putting it into perspective:
I own an ad agency. My client list has been better, but it is what I do, despite what I tell you I do. (just a gigolo is by far the biggest exaggeration) I have a nice car. A decent computer. A great stereo system. Impeccable music taste (I am currently getting into Khurangbin). I haven't completely lost my sense of humor. I seem to know how to write (editors needed, apply within). I am working on two digital projects, of which if either of them work, gives me a new lease on my career. If neither of them work, I will ultimately finally have to reassess what I do for a living. I've got purpose and a very aggressive agenda of what I want to do with the remainder of my life plus what I want to do this year. Yes the depression will come as it did this weekend. I felt bad about blowing off my friends - I will try to make it up to you. (I promise I will see Mark and Craig this evening though...they have come all the way from Canada!)
Perhaps I need a little more focus, some restraint, some accountability. I hate to say that I must "pretend" to be more engaged because that sounds horrible inauthentic. Perhaps I don't give a shit about anyone or anything else and that is either the cause or the effect of the depression. See when you invite depression in, these are the kinds of conversation to expect. Caveat emptor!
Everything in perspective....what is actually going on? Versus what is going on in your head. I will try to tell the real story even if the one in my head is far more amusing.
Long Beach, CA
Depression in Perspective
There's something nice and comforting about both a blank page waiting for me as well as weather that suitably fits my overtly sour mood. I may get used to this cloudy, rainy, damp winter (oh poor me it's ONLY 62 degrees).
As I was driving to the coffee shop this morning in my late model luxury car with top of the line Bose speakers blasting a clear-as-silk digital version of "Rock Fort Rock" by the Skatalites recently downloaded from Amazon, I happened by a homeless man carrying a filthy takeout container and a hapless chihuahua in one hand and his too-big-by-far pants in the other. AND I FELT SORRY FOR MYSELF. Fuck all, Dave, get some perspective on your shit!
Depression is insidious, no doubt about it. Anything can set it off, feed it, warm it, invite it up for a cup of coffee. Once inside, comfortably ensconced, one must dolefully bite one's lip until DEPRESSION deigns to move on, often dictated by the necessity of one's own survival. "Stay as long as you like, Mr. Depression, but I've got to go to work, or pay a bill, or check my email, or drive to Hot Java in my late model luxury car with top of the line Bose Speakers blasting a clear as silk digital version of Rock Fort Rock...just lock up when you leave!"
Last Wednesday I went to visit my old bowling league down at Cal Bowl in Lakewood. It probably has been more than five or six years since I bowled in that league and at least two-and-a--half since I bowled anywhere (save for an afternoon of HOUSE BOWLING with Jake Hoyer in Jamestown, NY last summer). Bowling was my Scrabble at one point, and might still be save for a wonky wrist and the inability to commit to showing up ANYWHERE week after week. I went to visit my friend Rudy knowing I was going to see many past friends and acquaintances and gather a few kudos on the slenderer version of myself which I quite enjoy - as I have previously revealed that I am both shallow and vain. Even the crankiest version of me knows it's nice to get out.
I wasn't disappointed by both the attention and the willingness of those to include me in future adventures and those excited to see me. I even made plans to record a radio show with Frank, go running with Charlie and even go to a Super Bowl Party. Oh sweet social interaction!
And then depression strode in, perhaps triggered by a text message from an old date I contacted announcing to me that they weren't dating anymore because they found someone, or perhaps by the appearance of the unopened Visa Bill from my Florida misadventures or perhaps from my weak standings on the 6-letter challenge board on Aerolith or perhaps just by the way the she brushed her hair from her forehead (apologies to Paul Simon's Graceland). What I am saying is it didn't matter. The sullen mood encroached, it saw a grand opening for a Thursday-Friday-Saturday-Sunday fourplex of isolationism and I took the bait. Save for a visit to the Scrabble Club (one of the few things that still gets me out the house with any regularity), my weekend was a deep dive into what I consider a sullen routine. No parties, no running, no radio shows. Just a slog around the diamond.
I can't speak for anyone else's depression, but mine parades as a substantive effort to get things done that quickly devolves into snoring in front of the TV set at 3am while old C-SPAN hearings from You Tube scroll by. If I had a dime every time I woke up to James Comey or Rod Rosenstein calmly explaining themselves to those red-faced octo-loons in the Senate, I could pay the rent.
Each day starts with a newly committed effort to "get things done", almost without fail. In the lowest days of depressions past, I tended to suspend that effort if I was still in bed at 10am (or it was Sunday). It's not as bad as that lately, but my lack of attention to the important things seems stultifying. Return work emails? Bah. Network for business? Meh. Why not look at Tumbler blogs, play Jumble, ask Alexa stupid questions or just scroll through banal emails from every imaginable get-rich-quick Internet huckster I handed my email to in the last eighteen months? Get 'er done! I wonder if my inability to discern between what's important and what isn't part of the slow and unerring slide into madness.
I've been thinking about the question "Why do fish swim?" lately. I mean, really, where have they got to go? Are they making random choices about the direction to go in, the things they need to do? The things they are avoiding? Are they always looking for food? Or for a partner? A dry spot? I often feel like a fish. Oh let's go check out that rock, and then that filter, and how about that bubbly Hula girl, she's kind of interesting. By rote, I wander through these depression days bouncing off places familiar (Hot Java, the library, my house, the grocery store, the gym, the Scrabble Club) but ultimately am I just being tossed around by the tide in my own personal tank? Does it matter if I swim from here to there? What if I just did nothing at all? Who would care?
I've gotten a lot of helpful hints from both friends, self-help books, witty Internet memes and the like. REALLY GOOD HINTS. Even my own advice blog "Outrunning Depression With Scrabble" should help right? Amazing as even that turned on itself this weekend. While studying the 7-letter flash cards, piled up in an ungainly heap on my coffee table, I literally bored myself to tears. Literally! Abandoning all that to watch the feel-good marketing film "Joy" (starring a truly radiant Jennifer Lawrence easily one of my fave working actresses) only made me feel worse, as behind every potential marketing success, is failure even enveloped in its own
I woke up this morning and looked around at my living room. My winsome guitar, still yearning for me to play a better than off-key version of Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" sat strewn from the case with piles of songbooks and notes across the chair and floor. The piles of index cards with SO MANY DAMN WORDS I DON'T REMEMBER piled in unintelligible order of unrecognizableness. WHY CAN'T YOU EVER REMEMBER MELAENA? It's a variation of the president's plastic wife, dammit.... Mountains of notes from digital marketing gurus regarding YOAST searches, Instagram follower building tutorials. Big ideas for Laurel Canyon Radio! Piles of unchecked to-do (to-don't) lists, a veritable tsunami of everything orbiting your consciousness and yet, so little to show for it.
Thank goodness I am pretty minimalist, as there is no scorched earth hoarder shit going on with me. It only takes a few minutes to clean this mess up, but it is a reminder that like a toddler in a playpen, I have assembled all the things necessary for my entertainment/survival around me, but somehow randomly picking them up and dropping them will not get me into Yale or cure depression. Maybe not even outrun it.
It's begun to rain again. I like sitting here in the warmth of the coffee shop at this very moment, looking out at the rain. It is a momentary respite from wondering where I should be at this moment. This is where I am supposed to be. Writing this. Exorcising demons. Being creative. Getting you to chuckle with my mordant wit. Am I really depressed and planning a long term murder-suicide pact with perhaps dozens of different like-minded friends or am I just dutifully mining it all to see what potential creative mileage I can get out of it? Does it matter? Does anything matter? Is there an end to this questioning? Is there? Is there?
Putting it into perspective:
I own an ad agency. My client list has been better, but it is what I do, despite what I tell you I do. (just a gigolo is by far the biggest exaggeration) I have a nice car. A decent computer. A great stereo system. Impeccable music taste (I am currently getting into Khurangbin). I haven't completely lost my sense of humor. I seem to know how to write (editors needed, apply within). I am working on two digital projects, of which if either of them work, gives me a new lease on my career. If neither of them work, I will ultimately finally have to reassess what I do for a living. I've got purpose and a very aggressive agenda of what I want to do with the remainder of my life plus what I want to do this year. Yes the depression will come as it did this weekend. I felt bad about blowing off my friends - I will try to make it up to you. (I promise I will see Mark and Craig this evening though...they have come all the way from Canada!)
Perhaps I need a little more focus, some restraint, some accountability. I hate to say that I must "pretend" to be more engaged because that sounds horrible inauthentic. Perhaps I don't give a shit about anyone or anything else and that is either the cause or the effect of the depression. See when you invite depression in, these are the kinds of conversation to expect. Caveat emptor!
Everything in perspective....what is actually going on? Versus what is going on in your head. I will try to tell the real story even if the one in my head is far more amusing.
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