my words?

It is a tale told by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.

(wm. shakespeare, MACBETH)

me too

premonition/dream

The other day I wrote of my dream about the MacDowell Colony. Interestingly, today I received the quarterly magazine sent to all MacDowell fellows, of which I am one. I thought back to those happy times. The first four summers of my NYC life, I was fortunate to be given fellowships: two to MacDowell, then two to Yaddo. I returned again to Yaddo in winter of 1996. In summer 1996 I had a residency at the Ragdale Foundation. I have never gone to another colony again. Why? In 1992, while at Yaddo, I had one of my most severe depressions, one in which I was practically catatonic and paralyzed. It was terrifying. Then again, at Yaddo, in 1996, I plunged into another hideous depression. And at Ragdale, in August of that same year, I contracted hepatitis--although how remains a mystery--which became so severe after I returned to NYC (I, the ever-stoic, ignored my symptoms until I was hospitalized and came close to complete liver failure). Since those three strikes, I figure I am out, and I would be quite hesitant to go back. All the same, I look fondly on those experiences. I met some unforgettable artists, both famous and not famous, and made some amazing friends. It changed my life, giving me confidence and affirmation that I was a "real" composer. What happened?

today

thinking

wake

I can't sleep.

machinery

The machinery that is my brain is in need of some repair.

heat

I don't like this hot weather. It wears me out. I am supposed to go to graduation tonight, but it will be sweltering and I am afraid I will be utterly miserable. Mabel doesn't like the heat either. She is a snow dog.

hypomania

My first psychiatrist told me that in the days before antidepressants, depression could be treated by depriving the patient of sleep. Lack of sleeps brings hypomania, at least for bipolar people. Last night I barely slept. My allergies were so bad that I could not breathe and I must have sneezed 500 times. So now I am in the grip of a hypomanic mini-frenzy of activity.

One benefit of my treatment over the years is that I recognize my moods for what they are. Hypomania can be somewhat dangerous for me, and I have to watch what I do and say. But in terms of productivity it can't be beat. So far today I have brought my car in for repair, read the newspaper in fits, cleaned both my air-conditioners in the apartment thoroughly, vacuumed everywhere, cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, did more laundry, and paid some bills. All done in a kind of madcap way. Mabel looks at me like I have lost my mind. And writing this I can barely type fast enough, and I am a very fast typist from all those years of piano playing. But I feel physically exhausted, and the fact that it is a sweltering inferno outside does not help. So I am sure that soon I will collapse and sleep, or at least I hope that I do.

shaky

shaky me

me

This is me, twenty years ago. Do you know what I was doing?

wilting

I am wilting in the heat. And I feel glum. I should be at a party. It is the end-of-year party for my department, but between the heat and my lethargy I cannot bring myself to go out. So here I sit, feeling blue. It is a vicious cycle: I want to be out doing something, anything, to take my mind off of myself, yet I am paralyzed to go out and do the things that will take my mind off myself. Swimming seems to be the only thing that motivates me, and that is solitary and not particularly social. But at least it is good for my health.

not guilty

I just heard the verdict read in the Michael Jackson case. I was moved by hearing the repeated "not guilty" findings on all counts. As a musician I have always been in awe of Michael Jackson's genius. I have also felt that he probably had a terrible childhood and that, as an adult, he lived in some kind of bizarre fantasy world, possible because of his tremendous wealth and probably a necessary mechanism for coping with the fact that he never really was able to be a child. The trial, and the charges themselves, seemed ridiculous. But in the poisonous atmosphere of present-day America I was half expecting him to go to jail, which I believe would have killed him. Thank god the jury had sense and reason.

dream

Last night I had a dream that I was back at the MacDowell Colony, where I spent time the first two summers after I'd moved to New York. My studio was at the ocean (an impossibility; MacDowell is in land-locked New Hampshire). I stayed there and worked. I was not writing music though. In my dream the nature of my work was vague and seemed to consist mostly of looking out at the dark water and fending off the occasional interloper. After several weeks I realized that I had not shown up for any meals (breakfast and dinner are served in the Colony Hall, and one need show up there to eat. Lunch is delivered to your studio). My studio was so far from the rest that lunch was not delivered. I did not eat in my dream. Finally it dawned on me that I needed to go to see if I had any mail. When I showed up, numerous artists greeted me. There was a note in my box from Rufus (Rufus Wainwright, whom I don't know) with a copy of his new book (but he is not a writer). There was also a cat waiting for me. In the dream I felt glad when I was greeted warmly, although people were perplexed as to why I had been missing for so long.

photographs

Nghiem posted a set of pictures of himself, tracing his 30 years. I was looking at them, touched and fascinated at how he evolves and how some things are so constant in his expression. So I started thinking whether or not I could post 42 pictures of myself. And I realized that entire chunks of my life are "missing." I hated to have my picture taken and would not willingly allow it. I have only one photograph from four years at Vassar; my friend Meredith had taken some of me, standing smoking outside the music building, but I lost them. My high-school years are largely undocumented. My father used to take lots of pictures of me and my brother and sister, but after he left that stopped. So now I try to remember how I might appear in a photograph from age fifteen, or seventeen, and I don't really remember. Or twenty-one. Only in recent years have I had an interest in taking pictures of myself, perhaps to document who I was and who I am, before I disappear forever.

heading home

My car is old. The air conditioning was not working on my trip, and it was sweltering. At least coming home the sky was leaden with clouds, so I did not mind it as much. Mabel was not happy though, panting in the back seat.

again

clarification

Just to make things clear, I am also sick to death of complaining, of writing about being depressed, of talking about being depressed, of being depressed. Maybe I will try to ignore being depressed.

gazing, longingly, toward something

Their house is filled with great light and little enchanting tableaux, and many many rooms. I loved taking pictures there.

So why is it that despite the pleasure I can take in certain things, when it passes, I am left with this horrible horrible feeling of emptiness, one that is getting so overwhelming sometimes that I can hardly stand it? My well-intentioned friends tell me to go back to the therapist, and it seems useful. That is, it does until I start to think that, no matter how many times I go over the past, no matter how many useful litanies I chant to myself about my value and my worth and the people who care about me and who needs me and what I have accomplished...nothing makes more than the slightest moment of peace. That is why, now, sitting here, I feel that my existence is a sentence of some kind. I would be better off if I were someone else.

Today I thought about how I should go somewhere, take a trip, try to find a nice place to be, and then I thought that it does not matter, because wherever I am, I still feel the same. No change of location, no new setting, will change my brain.

Sorry to be so fatalistic and down. I am just being honest, because if I can't be honest here, writing this blog, I can't be honest anywhere. And face it: there are many situations and places that I find myself in that I can't be honest. It would give too much away.

colors

The colors of the garden yesterday were so beautiful. The dense humidity in Philadelphia is heaven for plants, if hell for humans like me who dislike the hot weather.