Apparently I'm on drugs. This came as a bit of a surprise to me. Though perhaps it shouldn't have. It kind of exploded then crept up on me, now it's creeping all over me.
The story.
I had headaches in October, they grew and got worse, so in December the doctor gave me some pills to take before bed to help me relax. Those pills were also anti-depressants, apparently. They also made me sick. Slightly vertiginous and nauseous. For two full weeks, then lessening. Other than that, they seemed to work. Now I've been weaning myself off them the last couple weeks. Skipping a few nights, etc. Then the other night I noticed that something else has been creeping into my life. My skin. Or at least my over-awareness of it. I itch. All over. Now all the time. It just kind of happened. More than that, my body feels wrong, like everything is in slightly the wrong location. My hands annoy me the most. When I hold one hand straight where my fingers touch all the way along their length, it annoys me greatly. Just the feeling of it feels wrong. Even my hands typing, my fingers, all the edges that touch things give me the sensory equivalent of nails on a chalkboard.
This is a wondrously new and fantastically irritating experience. My skin does not cause me pain, but in the same way, it feels as though someone is pulling it from the rest of me. Not pulling my skin off, there's no pain like that, but like they are separating the layers, and each layer has its own unique version of annoyance. I am too too aware of my skin. I'm not wishing it would melt, but it is everywhere, and feeling everything. I try to read a book, but my hands scream at me a silent protest to the prolonged touch of the paper. As does my skin for being on my body. This is not a happy feeling. I felt it in small ways the last few days, but tonight it exploded into something fierce, with a head and teethe, ready to eat me whole.
I just took off my shirt, but I'm still itchy everywhere it used to be. This I do not want. Now I can feel what it's like to come off drugs. I'm glad mine were just prescription, but this single experience has been, and is be a great big one. I will avoid drugs like this as long as I can. I do not want my body needing something so bad it cannot function like a body should without it. Why do doctors prescribe tiny pills that have such a huge impact both in their beginning and end of treatment? I do wonder if the headaches were better. As it stands I've not had them, but I will risk revisiting them as long as I can fully estrange myself from the varied sensations this medication has brought me.
I'm conjuring a solution with an over the counter antihistamine as a temporary source of relief. I can't imagine being so desperate as to choose this for a lifestyle. I can say no, some people are addicted to things the cannot say no to by themselves. Now there's a place I would rather not find myself. In that perspective, I'm all right, because I know my skin will eventually shut up.
Bite size nuggets of self-helptual inspirationality.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Act 1
"What first inspired you to act?" -Stephanie
(thinking sounds)
I know everything in life, at least all the big choices, even the small ones stem from single events. Something happens, we respond, and our response sets a pattern for the rest of our lives. For me, there are a few moments that stand out. The first big one was in fifth grade with possibly the best teacher ever, Mrs. Lau...or was it Law? Something like that. She believed in solid hands on, participatory learning. The visceral things are the ones that stick best.
We were doing a unit on the Greeks, this day was about the first marathon, and by that it's really the story of why a marathon is a race named after the city-state of Marathon. None of us knew the story, and I remember it was a pretty hot afternoon. I don't know if I stood out or not back then, that was shortly after I started going by Vinnie instead of the full Vincent, but something had her choose me to act out the story as she read it. Heck, I may have volunteered, I don't really remember. There was probably a girl involved I wanted to impress, or I was just bored. That's not the point. As she read, I acted it out in mime, because that's what came to me. If you don't know the story, here it is as I remember it from way too long ago:
Everything is fine in the seaside City-state of Marathon, people are doing nice, Greeky things in the Greek sun. Harvesting olives and whatnot. Then a city lookout sees a fleet of ships on the horizon approaching the city. Warships. I forget where they are from, but the city is isolated, and has not enough people to face the phalanx headed their way. They took their only hope of defending the city and placed it in a sole messenger and sent him over the endless mountainside to the nearest city, some 40 miles or so away. He ran and ran and ran, up and over crags, down valleys and up more peaks, along the roughly hewn road until he could see smoke from the fires of their nearest allies. He told them of the impending onslaught. The warriors prepared to head to sea and flank the enemy at midnight. Knowing that the rest of his people must be told, the messenger resolutely turned and began to run back to Marathon to tell his people of their hope. He ran and ran and ran, back down into the valleys and up over the peaks he had past hours before. The sun was low but still shining heavily on his straining body as he worked with every ounce of strength he had left to return with the message before it was too late. Finally after hours of running, his birth-city peaked over the mountain crest just ahead of him. The enemy was on the beach, assembling to attack the city. The messenger sprinted to the gates to give the word, and upon telling them of their hope, he collapsed and died from exhaustion, knowing he had saved the city.
So yeah, that lesson stuck...even if the facts are a bit off. I'll leave what I did to your imagination, but I remember having the entire class perched on their desks, just waiting for every new bit of story, caring about the fate of this lowly messenger and his heroic feats from centuries ago made alive through me. That's the first time I remember realizing how much of an impact a good story well acted has on people. Also, how great it felt to have the whole class tell me how great it was. Recognition...it's a great drug.
(thinking sounds)
I know everything in life, at least all the big choices, even the small ones stem from single events. Something happens, we respond, and our response sets a pattern for the rest of our lives. For me, there are a few moments that stand out. The first big one was in fifth grade with possibly the best teacher ever, Mrs. Lau...or was it Law? Something like that. She believed in solid hands on, participatory learning. The visceral things are the ones that stick best.
We were doing a unit on the Greeks, this day was about the first marathon, and by that it's really the story of why a marathon is a race named after the city-state of Marathon. None of us knew the story, and I remember it was a pretty hot afternoon. I don't know if I stood out or not back then, that was shortly after I started going by Vinnie instead of the full Vincent, but something had her choose me to act out the story as she read it. Heck, I may have volunteered, I don't really remember. There was probably a girl involved I wanted to impress, or I was just bored. That's not the point. As she read, I acted it out in mime, because that's what came to me. If you don't know the story, here it is as I remember it from way too long ago:
Everything is fine in the seaside City-state of Marathon, people are doing nice, Greeky things in the Greek sun. Harvesting olives and whatnot. Then a city lookout sees a fleet of ships on the horizon approaching the city. Warships. I forget where they are from, but the city is isolated, and has not enough people to face the phalanx headed their way. They took their only hope of defending the city and placed it in a sole messenger and sent him over the endless mountainside to the nearest city, some 40 miles or so away. He ran and ran and ran, up and over crags, down valleys and up more peaks, along the roughly hewn road until he could see smoke from the fires of their nearest allies. He told them of the impending onslaught. The warriors prepared to head to sea and flank the enemy at midnight. Knowing that the rest of his people must be told, the messenger resolutely turned and began to run back to Marathon to tell his people of their hope. He ran and ran and ran, back down into the valleys and up over the peaks he had past hours before. The sun was low but still shining heavily on his straining body as he worked with every ounce of strength he had left to return with the message before it was too late. Finally after hours of running, his birth-city peaked over the mountain crest just ahead of him. The enemy was on the beach, assembling to attack the city. The messenger sprinted to the gates to give the word, and upon telling them of their hope, he collapsed and died from exhaustion, knowing he had saved the city.
So yeah, that lesson stuck...even if the facts are a bit off. I'll leave what I did to your imagination, but I remember having the entire class perched on their desks, just waiting for every new bit of story, caring about the fate of this lowly messenger and his heroic feats from centuries ago made alive through me. That's the first time I remember realizing how much of an impact a good story well acted has on people. Also, how great it felt to have the whole class tell me how great it was. Recognition...it's a great drug.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Would you lend me a Q for my A?
I think I know my issue with blogs. I can't help but feel like I am talking into a vacuum. I'm not used to that, I am used to feedback. On stage, I get instant feedback. Even if there is no sounds of laughing or coughing, I can feel when the room is focused on the story, on the moment of interaction. I hate to admit it, but as much as I pretend to be a writer (I do enjoy being on my own), I am an actor, and I need people, I need conversation, I need interaction. What I've really felt writing this blog is that while I may have an audience in mind (albeit one person, depending on my mood), I'm really writing to no one, at least that is my feeling on this end. Doesn't that sound so whiney and camp? "Ooh, poor poor me, wasting my fingers away on this cold, plastic mat, coated with the most basic elements of language with nobody to share it with." Yeah. Lame. Ignore that bit, that's the actory side of me. Now, the equally vain but deeper part of me wants this to be a dialogue, or conversation. At least less of me talking to the Great Wall of the internet.
Man, I remember my metaphors being much more intelligent. I thought doing a lot of reading today would have helped that bit. Oh well. Here's what it is: I want questions. I want to answer questions. I do have thoughts all day long, but it gets tiring answering my own questions, especially when if I know I'm the only one listening, I won't surprise myself with the answers. I only surprise myself when I'm talking with other [real] people. Like when you have a problem that's bugging you, and the second you ask someone else about it you get the answer. That's what it's like, but I am also aware that when the pressure is on, that's how writing is. When I've truly had pressure to write, the most amazing connections and solutions come out of me, because I can't rely on time and thinking, only on the moment and how brilliantly ideas coalesce, like turning coal into diamonds with heat and pressure. Then again I sometimes get ridiculously long sentences. Short ones too. For effect.
All my ramblings aside, I want questions. Whatever they are. Bring me the heat and pressure.
Man, I remember my metaphors being much more intelligent. I thought doing a lot of reading today would have helped that bit. Oh well. Here's what it is: I want questions. I want to answer questions. I do have thoughts all day long, but it gets tiring answering my own questions, especially when if I know I'm the only one listening, I won't surprise myself with the answers. I only surprise myself when I'm talking with other [real] people. Like when you have a problem that's bugging you, and the second you ask someone else about it you get the answer. That's what it's like, but I am also aware that when the pressure is on, that's how writing is. When I've truly had pressure to write, the most amazing connections and solutions come out of me, because I can't rely on time and thinking, only on the moment and how brilliantly ideas coalesce, like turning coal into diamonds with heat and pressure. Then again I sometimes get ridiculously long sentences. Short ones too. For effect.
All my ramblings aside, I want questions. Whatever they are. Bring me the heat and pressure.
Friday, February 18, 2011
The weight of the world
I love baths. I try to take as many of them as I can. That is my time, alone to think, and read, and create...mostly just to indulge in myself, my body relaxing and my mind minding.
That's my selfish time where I dream about future stories, both my own future (Emmy acceptance speech "...thank you.") and stories I want to tell (how exactly should I beat out that episode? What image can I not separate myself from?). The bath is where the world gets sucked out of me and into the epsom salts (yes, I use them), and bubbles, just for fun (and the scent of pomegranate or cherry blossom is just a nice thing to have around sometimes).
Not sure why I'm using so many parenthesis, these words are being said whether I pretend they're supposed to be a cute secret joke or not.
I just started reading "The Writer's Tale: the Final Chapter", a dialogue between former Doctor Who showrunner Russel T Davies and writer Benjamin Cook. I am opening myself up to that same bold use of honesty. Not sure how this will change or effect my blogs, but I do know that they will be different in some way henceforth. I've just given myself permission, which is..well, just what it is.
The story I was thinking of writing while in the bathtub:
I sometimes enjoy hitting the drain when I am done with the warm water and lie there as it drains, the water lowering in the tub, my body sinking down and down, getting heavier and heavier. What struck me today, is that I've never felt that my body was getting heavier, it's just as I describe it that I think that word. In my mind, every time I do this, I feel the cold air covering more of my front and the heaviness the air brings with it as evidence (in my mind) that I am traveling through space at fantastic speed, accelerating. The weight in my body is proof for that image that I am going faster and faster, and the world is pushing by me so fast I can feel its coldness press against me, waking me up.
What I find is that it is so much harder for me to get up and out of an empty bathtub that has recently been full than it is to get out of one that was empty all along. This is my deep statement that takes me to a million different places. The weight of the world upon re-entry. It's heavy, and worth feeling from time to time.
That's my selfish time where I dream about future stories, both my own future (Emmy acceptance speech "...thank you.") and stories I want to tell (how exactly should I beat out that episode? What image can I not separate myself from?). The bath is where the world gets sucked out of me and into the epsom salts (yes, I use them), and bubbles, just for fun (and the scent of pomegranate or cherry blossom is just a nice thing to have around sometimes).
Not sure why I'm using so many parenthesis, these words are being said whether I pretend they're supposed to be a cute secret joke or not.
I just started reading "The Writer's Tale: the Final Chapter", a dialogue between former Doctor Who showrunner Russel T Davies and writer Benjamin Cook. I am opening myself up to that same bold use of honesty. Not sure how this will change or effect my blogs, but I do know that they will be different in some way henceforth. I've just given myself permission, which is..well, just what it is.
The story I was thinking of writing while in the bathtub:
I sometimes enjoy hitting the drain when I am done with the warm water and lie there as it drains, the water lowering in the tub, my body sinking down and down, getting heavier and heavier. What struck me today, is that I've never felt that my body was getting heavier, it's just as I describe it that I think that word. In my mind, every time I do this, I feel the cold air covering more of my front and the heaviness the air brings with it as evidence (in my mind) that I am traveling through space at fantastic speed, accelerating. The weight in my body is proof for that image that I am going faster and faster, and the world is pushing by me so fast I can feel its coldness press against me, waking me up.
What I find is that it is so much harder for me to get up and out of an empty bathtub that has recently been full than it is to get out of one that was empty all along. This is my deep statement that takes me to a million different places. The weight of the world upon re-entry. It's heavy, and worth feeling from time to time.
Friday, January 14, 2011
A life by any other name
Last night I was having pizza with a friend who asked me about my experience dating a specific person (let's call her Lady Jesus). This was kind of a surprise as I had not realized I dated Lady Jesus. I thought about it for a bit. When I first met this girl we talked for quite a few hours about all sorts of things. It was nice. Then the next few weeks we saw a couple plays together and generally hung out a bit. Then we didn't. It did follow the general form of what's known as "dating" but it was never really named.
Did I date Lady Jesus? Can something be some thing without being named that thing? Apparently it can, at least to someone else. If you believe that yes, a rose would smell as sweet if it were called a Snordgutzel, then must also think a thing can be whatever you do or do not name it.
Apparently, unbeknownst to me I had lived unintentionally. Life happened on its own accord without me forcing my overthinking on it or invoking any word-prisons on it. I guess I'll take it as it is; a series of semi-intentional dates, a natural story arc that never really ended, but rather faded. Though I should stop trying to name it now, because those life moments without names exist just the same.
Just like Lady Jesus.
Did I date Lady Jesus? Can something be some thing without being named that thing? Apparently it can, at least to someone else. If you believe that yes, a rose would smell as sweet if it were called a Snordgutzel, then must also think a thing can be whatever you do or do not name it.
Apparently, unbeknownst to me I had lived unintentionally. Life happened on its own accord without me forcing my overthinking on it or invoking any word-prisons on it. I guess I'll take it as it is; a series of semi-intentional dates, a natural story arc that never really ended, but rather faded. Though I should stop trying to name it now, because those life moments without names exist just the same.
Just like Lady Jesus.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)