BrodyBlog

Popularized by the death of Anna Nicole smith, this powerful, addictive elixir is currently at the forefront of my sleep inducing drug arsenal due to its potency and low cost, but it's filled with flaws; I build a tolerance quickly and can only use it for a few days before having to take a break so my brain doesn't forget to breathe from higher doses.

Sunday morning's calling, it's already about five o'clock in the morning, and once again I'm unable to sleep, picking up the phone of consciousness over and over again. I cannot remember a time in recent memory when I could fall asleep without the aid of a pill, syrup, smoke or all of the above.

It was for insomnia that I received a prescription for cannabis from a new age doctor in Mission Beach, San Diego, and since then that has been the cheapest and most effective remedy--but still, If there were a way for me to rest my bones without drugs, I would do almost anything to clasp it between my hands.

But smoking pot is a funny thing--it can land you in jail in Texas--and it's become hopelessly intertwined with sitting in the summertime back-seat of friends' cars, passing round a piece of glass, laughing and listening to new music. That's certainly no time to fall asleep.

I have always had a quick temper, which psychiatry tells me may not be as much of a flaw in my character as a symptom of a disease(don't touch me; you'll get this) of rapidly changing moods. I've got the suicidal and homicidal urges under control: no longer do I spend days awake dreaming up grandiose schemes, nor nights alone scrawling suicide notes stained with tears from swollen eyes.

Nah, my biggest problem now is walking the fine line between keeping a lid on my rage causing me to rip phones off the wall and smash them over and over again upon the floor until my hands bleed, drive like I've got a hive of bees loose in the cabin, or berate people on the phone with profanity and ridiculous claims bold enough to impress Ari Gold and making sure I'm not too sedated to handle the normal tasks of life--sending letters, driving to the market, and so on. My mum worries about me driving sometimes, and it breaks my heart, because she loves me more than I can explain, and the thought of a stupid accident coming between us is unbearable. So somedays, when I just can't handle waking up, and I have to swallow some valium, I relegate myself to spending time at home on the computer and watching films, playing with my dog and thinking about the beauty of Planet Earth. Which makes me feel worthless and guilty, further contributing to the cycle which I so desperately try to avoid, but my family and friends understand that I am young--darling--and sometimes I don't have much control, and I've got to take things one day at a time.

Hell, even my mum's been known to need a nightcap in our hectic household--bustling with life and activity, hopes and fears, and two active dogs that let me know I'm alright.

You see, my medicine chest is full of valium, ativan, klonopin, seroquel, xanax, and chloral hydrate, among other non-legend drugs. These each play a special role in keeping me sane and out of the criminal justice system and out of psychiatric hospitals and emergency rooms. After several visits to emergency rooms for panic attacks, and three doctors later, I've come to accept the fact that I'll likely be on medication for the rest of my life. And I've got no trouble with that.

And fuck, man, who isn't these days? If it's not depression or anxiety, it's penile disfunction, high cholesterol, diabetes, or some other. The problem is that, by virtue of genetic design, I build a tolerance rather quickly to most of these drugs. and am hesitant to use them to help with sleep (which they do amazingly in higher doses) because they will quickly loose effectiveness as mood stabilizers and thus become ineffective and useless for purposes intended.

And alas, Ambien, the most prolific and successful of all sleep aids, is beyond my price range, being a boy without insurance, so I must play a delicate dance of finding the right way to dreams that could be my nightly lover.

Masturbation just doesn't cut it like it did in high school.

But I will admit, it's a beautiful struggle. As much as I know sleep is needed for proper mental and physical health, an eternity of wakefulness will never be enough for me. Eternally, I'd chat with friends and absorb new information, listen to music play with my dog, loves that transcend space and time.

But I manage, even if it means I have to sleep from dawn until late afternoon. I'm not a puzzle to be figured out, and maybe that's the best time of day for me to sleep. Maybe, somewhere deep down, I'm in a whole other time zone. Maybe somewhere deep down I've finally stopped running from me with a tank full of gas to light.

Sometimes it's like I can't remember who I used to be, but maybe that's a good thing.

Posted by Brody at 09:17 AM | Permalink

TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO, the region of Stabiae, Italy, was the most luxurious corner of the Roman Empire--where the richest and most powerful Romans assembeled the best artisans and archietects to build, design, and decorate their beautiful seaside villas; some exceeding one hundred thousand square feet in size.

In the First Century, Mount Vesuvius erupted, raining ash and molten rock upon the surrounding lands of Stabiae, Pompeii, and Herculaneum. A mass exodus occoured among those not suffocated by the toxic gas thickening the air. But buried deep beneath the cinder and ash, discovered by accident in the Twentieth Century, lies the ruins of entire towns, perfectly preserved and untouched by man.

On exhibition for the first time in the United States, the Dallas Museum of Art presents over seventy artifacts and archaeological preservations from the long lost villas.

I was quite amazed to see these artifacts in real life, having only read about them in history class and having only seen photographs. Though very old and recovered from beneath the surface of the Earth, the decorative murals which once lined the walls and ceilings of the wealthy were quite orante and complex.

The gallery was a re-creation of the floorplan of a particular villa, each section showcasing items found in relation to one another (cooking utilities such as pots and pans were placed in a room designated as a kitchen), complete with a mini model of what the villa is believed to have looked like based on historical records and the site of recovery itself.

Perhaps the most spectacular artifact was a large water fountain, made of brilliant marble and nearly half an arm's span in diameter. I walked round it slowly, taking care not to draw a docent.

Also equally amazing was the lack of formality my fellow patrons displayed in the exhibit and throughout the museum. I don't understand why people can't turn off their fucking cell phones in places like libraries, museums, or even churches (and I don't mean the fried chicken chain).

Also, old and middle aged ladies were getting bent out of shape about having their bags checked. Newsflash, bitches: Priceless artifacts draw lots of security issues, and we all know that a Glock or two...or three...easily fits inside the size of purses these days.

As was expcted, there was a sizeable number of gay and lesbian couples there, along with the scantily clad youth in the tightest pants. Birkenstocks nearly outnumbered regular footwear. Also featured in the exhibit was a documentary (short film) outlining the excavation process as well as a recreation of the mountain's volcanic eruption.

My admission was courtesy of AT&T, who also sponsered a live music event and a mixed drink soirre in the grand promenade, which was standing room only, crowded like the exhibit. I plan on returning next week earlier in the evening so that I will have more time to see the other collections on display.

Posted by Brody at 01:53 AM | Permalink

According to the Associated Press, a voluntary evacuation order has been dispatched from state officials in an attempt to head off potentially serious complications caused by flooding, power outages, and possible tornadic activity in addition to the effects of what may become a catagory five hurricane.

In an effort to avoid substantial loss of life, law, and order, Texas Gov. Perry (R) has tapped into the state's gasoline reserves, sending 80,000 gallons of fuel to bolster supplies, should a mass exodus occour from Houston, the largest city in the state.

A megalopolis plauged by urban sprawl, heavily dependant on private automobiles, and poor highway and road planning, Houston has long been prone to gridlock, such was the case with a previous evacuation attempt before Hurricane Rita in which traffic snarled for miles, gasoline stations were pumped dry, and freeways diverted to flow in one direction--away from the sea.

Six massive cargo aircraft, a fleet of 700 busses--with 600 more on standby--and deployment of the National Guard have developed hopes that if--and when--Hurricane Dean does break ground, the government will not fail as it did during Hurricane Katrina.

Time will tell.

Posted by Brody at 10:29 PM | Permalink

Three years ago, I placed that Adio skate logo on that one way sign.

It was premeditated. I tucked the sticker in my side of my backpack, hung out on 5th Avenue closest to the best burritos in town, a sweet way to love the place I called home. There was a cafe of sorts nearby where you could play on a pretty decent grand piano. Sometimes I'd have to wait to have a go if someone else was playing, usually because they used to hold Alchoholics Anonymous meetings on the back patio, and sometimes, silence is the only thing appropriate.

I never really bought into that, so it was weird to me.

I was caught in deep hues like blue playing that piano, figuring out how to translate the days that came--like waves--again and again. I'd usually go home after work, smoke a bit, and head out for the evening on the tram. When I stayed late, I'd skate back down along sixth for as much as I could, but sometimes I just walked towards needed slumber the long way down across the 5.

Walking on such an evening I saw the sign. I wasn't playing around. I had a moist rag my backpack and I wiped the Southern California soot and smog off the surface, buffed it just a bit, and then claimed it, walking off back into the night. It's a mindfuck, to me. The night time when buildlings sleep but parks stirr. The odd pockets of silence and solitude found in plastering anything with stickers. I was scared, knowning things change all the time, especially signs, upon returning to see if it stood there still. My head swam with weeks of me and the moon, alone together all the times we passed it by heading home. Three years later it was there and things had changed, but not that sign, and not that sticker.

It's a piece of where my heart is, a crazy thing of love.

Posted by Brody at 08:10 AM | Permalink

Say what you will about major drug companies--money hogs, ruthless companies set out to make a profit, patient safety be damned, powerhouse coverups that keep millions of americans from getting proper healthcare, or any at all--I've got no trouble with GlaxoSmithKline.

You see, just about a year ago I'd left all my belongings behind in Venice Beach, a beautiful sea-side apartment close enough to smell the ocean and hear skateboards crackle along the strand, south for San Diego.

It was to be the last trip I'd ever take.

I traveled by bus along the coast through Orange County and San Clemente, with my hands shaking, stroking slowly upon my backpack, which had nothing in it, really, other than a pack of smokes and The Virgin Suicides, a book I'd become engrossed with, lying in bed held within it's drawing gaze of beauty and glamourization of the ability to take one's own life, especially at such a young age.

Finally I reached Oceanside by nightfall, and walked the streets of the town where it all started. For hours, up and down, through the hills and alleyways, I re-traced my steps from Oceanside Boulevard up through Fire Mountain, across the 101 again, then down the strand in bare feet, the sand tickling me and reminding me that I was so far away.

I was too depressed to smoke a joint offered to me by a few blokes round a fire ring as I continued on to the park. There was a place a few hundred meters from the shore, a park, with swings that faced out toward the sea, but in the Autumn nights it was empty--so very empty--with not a soul to be found stirring about past midnight, and it was there I decided to camp out until the next train to San Diego left by dawn.

Along the coast from Oceanside south to San Diego, there is rail service provided by Amtrak's Pacific Surfliner and the County's "Coaster", however Amtrak does not serve every city along the way, and as such, passes through many stations at high speed.

My plan was simple--lie in front of a train traveling over 100kmph, splicing my guts all over the railway and leaving the human race behind.

But, like I often do, I'd gone to changing my mind.

But in the past year, I've been hospitalized many times, finally diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, and have tried many medications in what was usually a failed attempt to control my highs--pushing twice the speed limit on the freeway, joyfully brewing many homegrown business plans and having grandiose thoughts of an unimaginable nature--and my lows--cancelling apointments with my friends and lying in bed for days,

Of course, first, I tried the standards: Prozac, Paxil, Lexipro, Wellbutrin, Trazodone, etc., all of which either made me so incredibly manic that I was taking risks beyond logical comprehension, or had no effect at all.

You see, there is a delicate balancing game that must be played out when treating bipolar disorder--many people, like myself, respond harshly to antidepressants, whereas they make a person much more "crazy" than before, as opposed to being sad and suicidal--but mania is just as, if not more, risky.

Enter the anti-manic agents. The oldest, tried and true, is Lithium Carbonate, an element that occours naturally within the earth's crust. This worked for a while, however eventually the side effects overpowered the benefits.

Other medications did nothing to quell my rage without inducing me to a retarded stupor--I have to be able to write and create content, and I'd rather run the chance of suicide or mania than sacrificing the one last thing I enjoy on planet earth.

I was running out of options and out of time.

Then, one day, I started seeing a very smart doctor who decided to try a medication used in the treatment of epilepsy (seizures), which was catching on as a promising treatment for bipolar patients...so far it has worked well, with few side effects. Taken everyday along with mood stabilizers such as vallium, xanax, or ativan, I am able to have normal interactions with people and develop hopes and fears.

Just today I sent an e-mail employment query to a photography company, and also scheduled a volunteer orientation with the SPCA (animal shelter).

The only problem is the cost...a three month's supply runs about $1,500 and there's no generic. Without health insurance, I can't afford it. I can barely afford the scripts for vallium and sleeping pills that keep me from killing them softly.

Luckily, GlaxoSmithKline has a program for people without medical insurance or medicaid--those who cannot afford the medication--through which they provide a year's worth of medication free of charge.

I shit you not.

Hopefully, if I can get things back on track, I won't need to use the freebie program again next year, but for now, God Bless GlaxoSmithKline.

Posted by Brody at 10:38 PM | Permalink

It's perculiar how, in our minds, we seem to harbor painful memories more so than happy ones, because I'd be lying if I said there weren't many periods of pure stoke held within: the first time I realized the vastness and deepness of the ocean, the shore being only the tip of something that was once much deeper touching my toes, the love between myself and my dog, rolling around in the thickest grass, the first time I kissed a girl, our lips moist and trembling, connected but still so seperate.

I suppose it's a built in part of being human, tending to remember the bad more than the good, a means of survival, knowing what to avoid rather than having a jolly head full of cotton candy, soft serve, and skittles.

I've done it all. Been a great musician on a handful of instruments, a brilliant student (started college before I could vote), and by the end of the summer of the same year, a banker, a keyholder, if you will. But money's no fun, even in San Diego. So I left, only to find it wasn't fun in Malibu either.

Now I'm unemployed, full of placeless hate, rage, and the slow realization that I might, maybe, be crazy.

The thoughts within my mind would send even the strongest man running to a crowd gasping for air that's been gone for a long time, and I can't talk about them with anyone, not even my doctor--because in times like these, you'd better watch what you say. I have to carefully trace my steps, day by day, to make sure I'm not breaking any of the unwritten laws of society. I have to make sure that everything appears allright, and in a way convince my core that everything is allright.

If only that were true.

I keep a glass of water and a bottle of vallium at my bedside for the morning when I wake--more than enough to make me sleep forever if taken all at once--and wash some down before my feet touch the ground, to put a smile upon my face. Some days I try to draw the line, making the choice is mine, and lately it's been pretty swell, except the other day when I snapped and slammed the kitchen phone against itself until it broke, and then some.

I've been thinking about finding a job somewhere, but as each day goes by, I just don't think I'll be able to work with the general public again...they are a bunch of fools.

I get letters in the mail everyday around noon demanding payment for debts from over a year ago: hospital bills, defaulted loans, credit cards, telephone contracts, and about anything else. Sadly, the highlight of many days is taking the time to calll these creditors back and play with them on the phone, it's the sweetest taste within my mouth, like blood almost.

The other day I recieved a letter from the IRS. As I currently have nothing, a lein will be taken out against any bank accounts I open, any assets I aquire, such as a car, home, or vessel, and my credit moreover ruined, if such a thing is possible now. It can't be saved.

I've been audited, with serious discrepencies found on my tax returns. I have no comment on this matter here, or anywhere. It's just another load placed onto my mind.

There is some silver lining the clouds here: I have recieved my passport without restrictions. I am cleared to fly anywhere. With it, the world is mine, and perhaps in another country--another world--I can start over, beneath a Harvest Moon.

Posted by Brody at 04:37 PM | Permalink

Posted by Spence at 07:42 AM | Permalink

Posted by Spence at 11:42 PM | Permalink

Posted by Spence at 10:23 PM | Permalink