Saturday, November 7, 2009

Talking the Walk


Introduction

One of the most rewarding aspects of publishing a memoir on mental illness has been the opportunity to speak to different groups of people about the many matters that fall under the umbrella term “mental health.” Doing this–in venues that have included a hospital (the one where I once spent a year and a half), a bookstore, an art gallery, a church, and various meeting centres and community halls–I’ve been struck by the sheer need of so many people to talk about these issues. A need, it’s very clear, that is mostly unmet. At times, the urge of unburdening that fills the room has felt almost overwhelming.

The talks have been an evolving process. Each time I’ve written something new for the occasion, while incorporating pieces of previous talks. So each talk represents a further stage in climbing a rock face–or descending into a rock pit, since the same muscles and equipment are needed to explore upward as downward–...reaching out from a line of pitons already secured, in order to hammer in one or two more.

Three of these talks–one audio-visual, one audio-only, and one text–are posted in their entirety online, and are accessible from the links on the upper righthand side of this blog.

Some listeners have asked me, however, for printouts of particular points made in the talks. To supply these, and to review the points myself, I will be entering portions here over the next few weeks. Where necessary, I will make slight adjustments so the passage stands better alone. I hope, too, that in the process new thoughts will occur to me, which I can include as additional entries.

Whenever, over the years, I heard the question: “Do you talk the talk, or walk the walk?”–I always had an unsatisfied sense of only two doors? I get to talk, or walk...that’s it? I would rather talk the walk and walk the talk...if I can.

Talking the Walk, Walking the Talk.

Or, since people tell me that in these Twitter Times no title should exceed three words: Talking the Walk.




Sunday, November 1, 2009

Night and Day





Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Gustav's Song

“Strand after strand
of her unruly hair
descends to the floor, where they drift
into corners and clot around doors.

I tell her, I warn her,
‘You don’t keep the house.
Tidying’s my job, but fair is fair:
Think of me when you’re cutting or combing

Your hair.’ And she will
for a time, but slovenly ways
trump a kind heart; so year after year,
to immaculate floors,

Fall brown hairs, then gray hairs,
then glimmering white–these pepper-salt
mouse nests on shelves and on stairs.”
It was all long ago. Now my room is scrubbed bare.
____________________

(Note: This poem is supposed to be centered all the way down, the lines breathing around a central spine. But I haven't been able to figure out how to do anything with poem formats other than the straight align left. If anyone who reads this knows, could you let me know...either email me directly if you have my address, or ask my publisher–Dan Wells at Biblioasis–to forward the message? Once in a while, I might like to take a pinstep away from the Good Left Rock.)

Monday, October 26, 2009

Ing

Some say He’s dead; a few say She’s sleeping;
Most need to reach for a Tissue when weeping;
Countless still count on a Sword to start reaping;
All must provide for an instinct’s safe-keeping.



Monday, October 19, 2009

Summer Suicides

How many kids have you seen, little ones,
who didn’t like to swim? Expats from the womb,
unless held back by fear or mother's arms,
they gambol again in grace-giving fluid,
spin fast bubbling somersaults.
On chairs apart, safe from splashing’s range,
the amnio-amnesiac rest their spotted limbs,
watch heavy-liddedly, with fond thin smiles.
The middle is a slippery, stuff-strewn zone
of psychic halflings: beached uncertainly,
sun-struck, cold, lithe-torpid and fat-spry,
they take quick lurching plunges to cool off,
chase a better body, bob up goggle-eyed,
then kick once and glide down to weed-columned halls.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Arnie's Punch (a shred of drama)

The tendency of psychiatric medications to cause sexual dysfunction seems, at best, a sick joke.

(A Big-Pharm boardroom, lattes. Arnie, celebrated celibate Chem-wiz, speaking)

“You have, er, very sad persons. Chronically low, lonely...people. We pick them up a bit, but fix it so they can’t get it on. Affect without effect. Heh heh. These, er, clients must catch the nearest bus to self-loathing. Recriminations...endless. Next stop is a higher dosage. They'll never get off the juice.”

(2 weeks later. Impromptu song at the company picnic, crooned falsetto by a kick line of naked and aroused revellers, high on Arnie's punch)

“If they can't get it on, get it on, get it on,
They'll never get off, get off, get off the...JUICE!”

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Sociolectric

God-wire arcs
In the brain.
Smother the sparks?
Fan into flame?
Or rejig the load
- up to what code?