My morning consisted of sniveling and feeling sorry for myself. That is lifting a bit now and I feel more motivated. Got the sign project moving forward and came up with some real design. A little welded metal icon thing that roughly represents the profile of 172 N. Center Street welded to corrugated steel. I think the corrugated thing is so over, but everybody else thinks it is still cool and necessary even though it has nothing to do with the project. Then a brief venture into Ciudad Rodrigo, from a blog I happened onto.
Then back to the Ephron article. She makes me moan. She is so confident, has a Park Avenue apartment, rented her house upstate or somewhere to someone for $200,000. It takes me four years to make that much gross. I don't pay much in taxes and the rest goes to living expenses that can be written off.
I picked up stacks of paper around the room. A list of places to go and things to do in Chicago on the trip we didn't take. Too expensive right now. Need to trim down the credit card bills. Can't keep bailing us out with Finegan Thompson. Although I have a lot of work right now. I keep looking at this portrait of Son House on a CD cover. By the way, the CD was invented in 1979, the year FT was started.
This is becoming a disjointed rant. Must be going manic, or probably mixed state. What I wanted to say, after reading an article about Nora Ephron in New Yorker is that you think you are going to come out on the other side of bipolar and you're just not. It will go on forever. You might sit on the porch and watch the moon rise, but you'll never be secure in the knowledge that you are going to wake up in the same mood you took to bed.
All these pieces of paper, lists and phone numbers of people forgotten will live where they are for a while. Then they will become out-of-date and discarded along with the ideas they started with. Maybe I/we should take heart from the fact that these notes are about ideas that were stillborn. They weren't meant to be and didn't pan out. It's ok.
I have a lousy recording of La Boheme but it's ok. I can always Google reviews and find a better one and for about $17-28 have it to play. A play about a bunch of reprobates and a woman who gets sick and dies.
Now I am the reprobate, or so it seems. I sit around lamenting my misfortune when really, I lead an ideal life. I am "at work" all the time, thinking off and on about the projects I am working on. Then during work hours I commit them to paper, then to reality. I have the accumulated wisdom to think of all the obstacles and how to either overcome them or share them with the client to see how much they can participate, financially, in solving them.
When not at work, I get to hike in beautiful places with faithful, loyal companions who do not butt in to my dialog or talk over me. We're all so rude. Poor listeners.
I get a whiff of something that smells like loose change when you hold it up to your nose. Olfactory hallucination. I can't spell anymore.