Wednesday, May 19, 2004
So, I’d just left work (without posting) yesterday afternoon. I was sitting at a red light on my way to pick Mia up from daycare. And I had one of those revelation moments . . . where time seems to stop, and you become acutely attuned to your surroundings, your thoughts suddenly clear.
I was thinking about everyone’s antidepressant suggestions, as well as possible songs for Bob’s mix CD(s), when I realized how I’ve battled depression in the past: with poetry. And music.
I need to write. I need to write. First of all, it makes me feel better to channel my negative feelings into something. And secondly, I think one of the reasons I’ve been bummed is because I’ve stopped writing. Those of you who’ve been here (or know me in real life) have maybe seen a poem (or three), so you know we’re not talking about poetry of high literary value. God knows, when I read other people’s poems, I think, “Man, I suck. I should just stop.” I really want to turn that into, “Man, I suck. But I could be that good if I just worked at it.” (This isn’t like fiction, where I think I could write better than a lot of shit I read, but my attention span is only allowing me to string together short lyric poems and not 300-page tomes. Right now, anyway.)
As far as music goes, it’s the only thing I’ve got (that’s creative). And that’s stretching it. Luckily, I think of myself as a musician and not a great guitarist.
Thank you for propping me up, everyone. I’ll keep you apprised of my psychological (and creative) progress.
* Not to be confused with a red-light district, or with the Red Shoe Diaries.