My Poem From the Other Day

I'm having a really hard time. It's been very busy at work...busier than I've ever been at work. In fact, I did not have a day off in October. Also: We moved. This leaves me with very little time for reflection or thought. I feel like Scarlett O'Hara in that I find myself saying, "I'll think about that another day." And the "that" in that sentence covers a host of items.

Now that things have slowed down a bit, those big items I've postponed thinking about have swum back up to the surface and want my attention. One of these things manifested itself in the form of the poem I wrote the other day that ended with:

On rainy days, when things get tough
When you forget the milk or
I offend your mother
We'll think of this trip
And recall how beautiful we looked with
Moondust in our hair.

This idea of making memories for the purpose of protecting yourself in the future is new to me. I've never been one for the past and I never saw the need for memory. This has changed a bit since Doc and I are trying to adjust to this new thing called bi-polar disorder that has entered our lives. Listen, yo, the statistics are against us. Ninety percent...that's NINE ZERO percent of marriages where one person is diagnosed with bi-polar disorder end in divorce. And that doesn't count the marriages that end when the spouse with bi-polar disorder commits suicide.

Sobering, isn't it? And the stakes are high. Especially when you consider that married people tend to have a lower risk for suicide. When I put two and two together, I get this: People with bi-polar disorder have a better chance of surviving when they are married. And bi-polar marriages have a 10% success rate. So it seems that our work is cut out for us and it is a matter of life or death.

But among those kinds of statistics, I stumbled upon this piece of advice:
Take vacations to help your bipolar marriage survive. One way to help save a bipolar marriage is to take time away from the day to day tasks of everyday life, including the stress of a bipolar marriage. Take trips away together and also mini trips away from each other.


This seems sound and it feels right because it was also an idea that came to me organically when it appeared in that poem. My instincts are: We need to be making some good memories together. We need to be apart to miss each other. So that we're not all, "You don't get me!" and "You never listen!" when things go wrong. We need to put some mutual good will in the bank and maintain our fondness for each other so that we can proceed with a minimum of pain and heartbreak.

I know this isn't a cure-all. But it is one prescription I can get behind. Afterall, we're only here for a short time, why not adventure? And it doesn't have to be as grand as a trip to the moon. But it does need to leave a sparkle behind.

A Ghost Near The Big Apple

I recently returned from a trip to New York City...en route to Great Neck (Long Island). I had to fly there to train some lovely ladies and one sweet gentleman on how to use our software. I was totally psyched. I arrived at the airport and cleared security in time enough to make my way through the first few chapters of the Spellman Files.

I also did a fair amount of people watching. I was compelled to observe a couple of young New York lovers desperate to flee the vast snowy wasteland of the middle of fucking nowhere. I knew they were New Yorkers because he had navy blue sneakers that were accented with gold spray paint and she was adorned from head to toe with various items from Madonna's Desperately Seeking Susan line: over sized sweats rolled down into low riders, a sheer black wife beater, threadbare enough to see the outline of a black bra, and a navy blue hoodie. She was also compelled to go bare foot at the merest glimmer of an opportunity.

I could tell they were lovers because they couldn't not touch. He was tall, gangly and carried off aquiline features. She had a long chin and a Mediterranean swarthiness. They would anxiously watch the counter and glance at their cell phones, hoping against hope they'd get a seat on this already over-booked flight.

They were successful, but I don't know how, because I was momentarily distracted by a gaggle of young hippy-types, gambolling into the terminal. The ladies found a seat while the fellows engaged in an early Monday morning session of hacky-sacking in front of the men's room. I watched as they played grab-ass and eventually let the "sack" get away from them, which a former hacky-sacker turned middle manager passerby gamely kept in play. He got the obligatory cheers of surprise from this gang of ragamuffins, who are the type to believe that any one in the establishment is, by default, devoid of the type of creativity it takes to keep a bean bag aloft.

But I judge...

When I found my seat on the plane, I was surprised to see the young couple already snuggled in a pair of seats a couple of rows ahead of me. They were writing in a journal and trying to take from each other. I became bored and settled in to take off.

This is the point in most flights where I start to pray. When the plan starts to taxi, I begin the Lord's Prayer. It was a little bumpy getting to the runway, as most of the gate areas were covered in snow. But the runway was dry. We began to lift off and I saw the Fighter Squadron restaurant in the distance and had a wave of genuine and artificial nostalgia. I love these restaurants and I've had good time there. But I also strangely long for the days of WWII.

We began to ascend and I turned to my travel companion, a seasoned trainer and a helluva a gal, to express my relief at such a smooth take-off. But I couldn't speak. The angle of the plane increased and I felt my eyeballs begin to slide from their sockets and darkness creep into my periferal vision. I guess I'm passing out, I thought. And I began to slide away. But the thought of passing out and drooling on myself shamed me into awareness and I settled in to look out the window.

A Diet Coke and three mini pretzels later and I was feeling myself again. I read my book for awhile and eventually the pilot announced that the people on the left side of the plane, like me, would get a good look at Manhattan as we made our way to LaGuardia. I closed my book and pressed my forehead against the window. I watched as suburbs unfolded and I noted the abundance of football and baseball stadiums tucked in crowded neighborhoods. Things became more industrial and I could see a lot of water. "In the unlikely event of a water landing..." my mind replayed the recorded safety announcement. My mind is kind of a bitch that way.

In the water, I saw the Statue of Liberty but it took me a while to figure out what it was; it was so tiny. I was pretty far up, but still... My eyes lifted and beheld the skyscrapers of Manhattan. I tried to get some perspective by recalling the Cleveland skyline and figured I could fit eight of them here. I looked back at the Statue of Liberty and was slightly disappointed at her diminunization. I'm sure she was much more impressive approaching by ship back in olden times. I wondered what immigrants think these days as they make a similar approach. They must conclude that liberty, in this country, is dwarfed by commerce. And they'd be right.

We landed without incident and made our way to the baggage claim area and reunited company with the young lovers, looking relieved and at home. She dialed her phone and whispered to him, "Did you fart?" He nodded and she smiled and walked away to begin her conversation.

At this point I broke away from my voyeurism, ready to end their adventure and begin my own. In Long Island.