Oh pretty stars, oh bastard moon...*
I woke up Saturday morning bright & early, brewed some coffee, put some music on, and danced around the kitchen before it hit me that I was stressed out and in a foul mood. "Screw that," I said to the coffee maker. "It's all good," I said to the cat. But because I hate to let too much sunshine leak into the dark corners of my brain, and because mental illness is at the top of my Greatest Fears list, I wondered if I could have bipolar disorder. The rapid mood swings! The good days and bad days! The grandiose thoughts! (Maybe not so much that last one, but still...).
Then I remembered that my mother (who is a shrink and therefore an expert on the subject) once told me if you think you're crazy, you're probably not crazy. So I decided that I'm just really freaking neurotic and have to manage stress a little better. Maybe get outside of my head once in a while. Breathe some air.
So back to dancing in kitchen and drinking the coffee. I started writing what would turn into about 7,000 words, which is double my usual two-day marathon writing word count. Watched a few movies (40 Shades of Blue was beautiful and riveting...that Ed Chigliak kid from Northern Exposure sure grew up nice), read a few books (finished Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs and started reading the last on my Milan Kundera reading list), and finished a painting I've been working on.
Now tomorrow, if I crash hard and start hovering near the edge of the abyss (or cut my hair with craft scissors...or start licking light switches...), let's talk intervention. That's called "rapid cycling" and we don't want any of it. For right now, we're calling ourselves "in the middle" - somewhere between the pretty stars and the bastard moon - and liking it.
*(title refers to a line in a a poem by Bob Hicok, "Bars Poetica")