michael8rown.com

If you haven’t seen Lost yet but want to, stop reading now. I’m about to spoil some surprises.

First off, I finally figured out where I’ve seen Ana-Lucia. She’s played by Michelle Rodriguez from Girlfight! During that whole flirting scene with Jack at the airport bar I kept trying to place her and I finally did. Of course, it sucks that she appears to be siding with “the others.” But one thing I’m slowly figuring out about Lost is that you can’t trust initial feelings about a character. For example, in Tabula Rasa, Locke finds Vincent and then tells Michael so he can be the one to return the dog to Walt. We get the sense that Locke is this highly compassionate guy, but then that episode ends on a close up of Locke watching Michael and Walt. The eerie music and the dark expression on Locke’s face suggest something sinister is about to happen and that Locke really isn’t the nice guy we were led to believe. And part-way through season two, I’m still conflicted over Locke. While I still think he’s mostly benign, we keep getting hints that there’s something not-quite-right about him. Jack is really starting to distrust him now and frankly, I think I am, too.

Another example of why I don’t trust my initial impressions: Sawyer. I really loathed him in the beginning, but I’m starting to get to know him now and I think he’s an okay guy. He may have a rough exterior and some unconventional methods, but from our discovery of his letter to the disagnosis of far-sightedness and then to his battle with Michael on the raft after Walt’s abduction, we find out that there’s a human in there after all. And so while I’m a little disturbed that Ana-Lucia seems to be in cahoots with “the others,” I’m going to reserve judgment about her until I know more. The main “other” guy, I guess his name is Mr. Eko, seems to speak fluent English which leads me to believe he’s not part of some indigenous tribe from the island but that he, like everyone else, wound up here by some freak accident. I really want to know what his story is.

Speaking of others ending up on the island, I don’t know if I like the Desmond connection. I like the character just fine but I guess maybe it would have been more dramatic for me had he been introduced earlier, like in season one. Know what I mean? Maybe if the tour de stade scene had been a few episodes before we see him again, which would have given me the chance to have forgotten about him, it would be been more surprising. But we were introduced to him via flashback in Man of Science, Man of Faith and he says, “See you in another life,” and then half an hour later, there he is inside the hatch. It just seemed a little obvious to me, which stripped the reunion of some potentially good drama.

Other thoughts: Walt’s abduction was pretty unsettling; seeing the numbers on the outside of the hatch actually gave me goosebumps; the Virgin Mary statuette in Charlie’s bag really, really worries me; Jin’s development is awesome, I love how he’s opening up; Sawyer’s slowly-unravelling vulnerability is also pretty awesome; Arzt’s “accident” was hilarious. I’m sure I’m going to hell for saying that, but c’mon, you know it was; Katey Sagal as Helen! that’s super fantastic; the “security system” is really confounding–is it a living creature or some sort of mechanical contraption? (WAIT DON’T TELL ME!); I really like Sayid. He’s the kind of guy who could talk me off the ledge; Boone’s psychotropic experience after being hit on the head by Locke was pretty interesting, and again it’s one of the ways the show makes you think one thing about a character (we’re led to believe Locke is pretty awful) but then we discover there was a logical reason for what happened (while his methods may be questionable, Locke really seemed to help Boone get over his attachment to Shannon); I think the only thing that could make this show better would be a few more half-naked scenes with Kate.

Over the past few weeks, my consumption of film and t.v. has increased substantially. One of the by-products of this depression is a complete disinterest in the things that normally interest me like music, woodworking, or reading. Actually, I have been reading a lot which is good. But the other two, which are usually far more prominent in my life, have fallen by the wayside of late. So I’ve kept myself entertained by watching movies and catching up on old t.v. shows. Here are some thoughts on what I’ve seen lately:

1. Batman Begins. I really wish I’d seen this in the theater. I thought it was by far the best of any of the Batman movies and Christian Bale is the best Batman so far. Cillian Murphy as the psychiatrist was fantastic. The whole training sequence at the beginning with Liam Neeson was somewhat reminiscent of wushu films like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Hero. I considered letting the boys watch it, but whenever the crazy gas gets released the monsters are pretty scary, especially Batman with that black ooze coming out of his mouth. So I think I’ll hold off for a while before letting them watch it.

2. The Dark Knight. Not as good as Batman Begins but Heath Ledger totally makes up for the rest of the film’s shortcomings. He was fantastic. Overall though, the movie seemed to try too hard. And the Two Face angle didn’t really work for me. I suspected something was not quite right about him from the beginning but how it played out was a little disappointing. Plus, there seemed to be a lot more emphasis on modernism and technology in this one. What I liked so much about Batman Begins was its backdrop of urban decay. Sure, there were all the advanced toys Batman uses in fighting crime, but the settings were far more Dickensian than they were in Dark Knight with all its semis and police cars and glass skyscrapers.

3. Hellboy II. I had really high hopes for this film, which wasn’t terrible, but because my hopes were so high the fact that it was just okay made it seem worse that it really was. I thought the plot was okay but it was otherwise just a parade of monsters, which were admittedly fantastic. Guillermo del Toro really has a knack for grotesques, but monsters do not a movie make. I also thought Hellboy’s arrogance was a little more over-the-top than it was in the first film. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen the first one so maybe it’s about the same. Anyway, I kept wanting to smack him in the hopes that he’d make some better decisions. Perhaps I was seeing a bit too much of myself in him at times which made his faults a little more abrasive to me. Or maybe it was just the absence of David Hyde Pierce as Abe that threw me off.

4. In Bruges. I wasn’t a huge Colin Farrell fan, but the synopsis of this film intrigued me. I was pleasantly surprised by this dark comedy. Colin Farrell played a highly vulnerable character, which made me like him quite a lot. I was a little put off by some of the humor, particularly the occasional racist or otherwise bigoted joke, but I kept reminding myself that it was all part of character development and that made it a little easier to stomach. However, if you’re looking for a nice, clean Hollywood ending, pick something else to watch.

5. Paris, Je t’aime. I only made it through the Coen brother’s segment, which was fantastic. But there was something about the next segment, the musical one where the guy is selling something to the really nasty salon owner, that really depressed me so I stopped before it was over. (Oh wait, I was already depressed.) Anyway, I’m not going to make any real assessment of this film until I’ve watched the rest of it, but I will say that the first few segments were really good.

6. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I started watching this a couple months ago, slowly making it through the beginning of season five. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve blown through to the middle of season six. Once More With Feeling is probably my favorite episode so far. Overall, the series has been okay, but I’m finding some things a little harder to deal with as the show progresses, such as Willow’s dependence on magic, Anya’s incessant boorishness, and Buffy’s general state of despair which I know has a lot to do with death and loss, but still. My favorite character, by far, is Spike. I loved Rest in Peace, the song he sang to Buffy in Once More With Feeling.

7. Spaced. Simon Pegg is a genius. I’d forgotten how different British sitcoms are from American ones. Kinda makes shows like Friends seem hideously corporate and manufactured. I’ve only made it through episode five, but so far I love it. Brian is hilarious.

8. Weeds. The story of an upper-middle-class suburban mom as dope dealer is terrific. And it helps that Mary Louise Parker (rowr) is the mom in question. The last episode I saw was Lude Awakening. So far I really like this show. Makes me wonder how many of the people I know have a dark secret.

9. Lost. (Saved the best for last.) What the hell was I doing when this show first aired? Oh yeah, I was drinking. Shame. I just bought season one and have made it through Confidence Man. I love this show and plan to watch it religiously until the end. I really like all the characters except for Sawyer, but I guess we’re not supposed to like him right now. So far, my two favorite characters are Charlie and Mr. Locke, although I do like Jack and Kate as well. The Moth was an amazing episode. I’ll probably watch that one over and over again. Also, I really want to know what Kate’s crime was. And WHAT THE HELL is that thing in the jungle?! It’s not a polar bear and it’s definitely not a boar, unless it’s a giant mutant boar, which would be kinda disappointing, actually. Whatever it is, it’s huge. When it came upon Mr. Locke that first time and we saw Locke from the creature’s POV, it looked to be at least twenty or thirty feet tall! And I hope Sayid doesn’t take long on his trek around the island because I really like him, too. Anyway, four years late, I’m totally hooked.

And thus ends my completely unsolicited review of movies and t.v. Carry on.

I arrived ten minutes early to my appointment and the waiting room was empty. It’s a very small waiting room. There are a total of six chairs. The lights are dimmed, there’s a small water fountain on one of the two bookcases (neither of which holds any books, only magazines, plants, and a water fountain), and a single computer speaker on the ledge of the receptionist’s window playing classical music at a very low volume.

I get it. I know what’s happening here. Everything about this waiting room screams, “Relax.” The first time I visited this waiting room (empty then, too), I cried. But I’ll get back to that in a minute. My second appointment was later in the morning, eleven a.m. instead of eight-thirty. I sat down, and the receptionist opened her window and asked, “How can I help you?” I told her. She closed her window and disappeared into the back. While she was gone a woman with a small child came into the waiting room. They sat down across from me and the mother began to speak to her daughter.

“Now, when I go in there, I want you to wait right here, okay? Don’t go out in the hall and don’t come back into the doctor’s office, okay?”

I was looking at my shoes. I didn’t want to make eye contact. But I was listening. The child didn’t respond.

“I need to you acknowledge me,” the woman said in a calm voice. “Yes ma’am or no ma’am?”

“Yes ma’am,” the girl said.

I continued to stare at my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the receptionist had returned. I hoped it meant the doctor knew I was here and would come to get me any minute. My introversion had skyrocketed and I wanted nothing more than to be away from this woman and her child. They weren’t doing anything wrong; I just didn’t want to be around anyone.

“Excuse me?” the woman said.

I looked up from my shoes and made eye contact with her.

“Do you know this area pretty well?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Sorta.”

“Do you know where Urban Outfitters on Lamar is? Not the one south, but the one that’s north?”

I thought for a second and then said, “The only one I know of is on Guadalupe, across from the University.”

Her eyebrows crinkled in, confused. I added, “Do you know where Tower Records used to be?”

“Yes,” she said, a little too exuberantly if you ask me.

“It’s in that same building, just a few doors north of that.”

“Is the parking still pretty bad down there?”

“Yes.”

The receptionist opened the window again and motioned for the woman to approach. The woman got up from her seat and–while I prefer not to use verbs like this in normal conversation, it fits here–she pranced up to the window. At the window, she stood on her tiptoes even though she was tall enough to see over the counter. This woman, I thought, is really fucking happy. Too happy, if you ask me.

The door to the back opened and the doctor poked his head out. “Michael? Come on back.”

I got up and followed the doctor, thinking that despite how desperate I am to be happy, I don’t think I want it to be like that. I don’t ever want to prance anywhere and I certainly don’t want to stand on my tiptoes unless I absolutely must.

* * *

Around May 23, 2008, I had the first of a series of breakdowns. I told my doctor that I thought I was having a nervous breakdown but he said that’s kind of an ambiguous term and isn’t really used to describe anything anymore. After I told him what my symptoms were he said I might be experiencing a major depressive episode. A week later, I was diagnosed with “adjustment disorder with mixed disturbance of emotions and conduct.” Athealth.com says this about adjustment disorders: “A person with adjustment disorder often experiences feelings of depression or anxiety or combined depression and anxiety. As a result, that person may act out behaviorally against the ‘rules and regulations’ of family, work, or society.”

As for the major depressive episode, here’s what Wikipedia says about it:

Over a two week period, the patient has consistently experienced five or more of the following symptoms, and these behaviours must be outside the parameters of the patient’s normal behaviour. Either depressed mood or decreased interest or pleasure must be one of the five (although both are frequently concomitant).

• For the better part of nearly every day, the patient reports a depressed mood or appears depressed to others.
• For most of nearly every day, interest or pleasure is markedly decreased in nearly all activities (noted by the patient or by others).
• Although not dieting, there is a marked loss or gain of weight (such as five percent in one month) or appetite is markedly decreased or increased nearly every day.
• Nearly every day the patient sleeps excessively, known as hypersomnia, or not enough, known as insomnia.
• Nearly every day others can see that the patient’s activity is agitated or slow.
• Nearly every day the person experiences extreme fatigue.
• Nearly every day the patient feels worthless or inappropriately guilty. These feelings are not just about being depressed, they may be delusional.
• Noted by the patient or by others, nearly every day the patient is indecisive or has trouble thinking or concentrating.
• The patient has had repeated thoughts about death (other than the fear of dying), suicide (with or without a plan) or has made a suicide attempt.

The first time I visited this office, I was going through the worst of it. I’d been experiencing a lot of these symptoms off and on for weeks but I hadn’t experienced so many of them at once until recently.

Although I said it had been building for weeks, years is probably more like it. In fact, I’m sure I’ve had this adjustment disorder for a very long time. The depression appears to be a side effect. I should have gotten help sooner, but I didn’t. In my family it is a strongly held belief that if you are blue you just need to pull yourself out of it. Feeling down in the dumps? Go have some fun and get over it, the implication being that depression is something we can control; it is something we have power over; it is something we bring upon ourselves. It was very difficult for me to admit that I needed outside help. And so when I walked into the doctor’s office that first day, when no one was there, not even the receptionist, I cried because I was terrified. I was afraid that I was going to tell the doctor what had been going on with me and he’d say, “You know, chief, those aren’t very big problems. You just need to go out and have some fun and get over it.” The thought that I would have to get over this whatever-it-is by myself had kept me awake for days.

In the waiting room that first day, there was a clipboard next to the stereo speaker on the receptionist’s ledge with the paperwork I was supposed to fill out. I began writing down all the pertinent answers, sometimes having to wipe my eyes in order to see the forms clearly. At the top of the stack of forms was a note that read, “WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED, PUSH WHITE BUZZER ON WALL AND DOCTOR WILL COME OUT.” I did as I was instructed and within a minute the doctor came out, just like the note said he would.

* * *

Several people have told me over the last several years that I might be depressed. It’s not that I didn’t believe them, but the idea that depression is something I’ve brought upon myself kept me from seeking help. If I did this to myself then surely I can undo it, too. Right?

On Thursday, July 17, I took the kids to Schlitterbahn. I’d only been there once before, on a Saturday last summer, and it was incredibly crowded. Every single patch of water was occupied. People were standing shoulder to shoulder. To say that it was a miserable experience for me would be an understatement. But this year, my friend Mike went with me. Being there on a Thursday meant it was appreciably less crowded. Mike spent the day watching the older kids while I spent the day hanging out with Gabriel at the kiddie pools. It should have been a better experience than the summer before, but for most of the afternoon I sat in the shadows fighting back the urge to cry. And for the most part I was successful. But a couple of hours later I met up again with Mike and the older boys. I asked, mostly as a courtesy, “How’s it going?”

“I’m fine,” Mike said. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

I’d been trying very hard not to burden other people with my problems, but Mike’s subtle invitation to talk opened the floodgates. I told him that I thought I might need to be on medication.

“I’m surprised you’re not already on it,” he said.

At work the next day, I spent most of the morning scouring my provider directory for a psychiatrist who could see me as soon as possible. I was surprised by how hard it is to get a quick appointment in this town. Apparently, there is a shortage of psychiatrists here. Some had openings in October; another had an opening in two weeks. I made that appointment thinking that I might have to go see my primary care doctor for some interim help. Just as I was about to make that call, I received a callback from one of the psychiatrists I’d left a message with earlier. He could see me the following Wednesday.

* * *

When describing what medication does, my doctor said, “Imagine a bowl holding all your emotions. Sometimes, your emotions become so intense that they spill out and cause a disturbance in your thinking, behavior, sleep … in every aspect of your life really. Medication doesn’t take away any of those emotions but it makes the bowl bigger. It makes it easier to handle the emotions.”

* * *

I’ve been in therapy since March of this year. One of my biggest problems is negative thinking. I tend to read a lot into things. You can look at me a certain way and I will probably manage to take it as a criticism of some sort. I don’t do this voluntarily. I can’t help it. My therapist has given me a lot of good advice on how to re-frame negative thoughts. The best advice came in the form of a worksheet. On this worksheet, I am supposed to write down my immediate negative response to something. Then, I’m supposed to write down the facts of the situation. Then, in the succeeding columns, I am encouraged to isolate the source of the initial negative thought and re-frame it in logical, more positive terms. Nine times out of ten, I was successful in doing so. But then came the first of these breakdowns. With it came a profound sense of hopelessness. None of the advice my therapist had given me worked; I couldn’t re-frame the negative thoughts. I ended up riding it out, just like I’d been taught to do as a kid. Just get over it. Within a week I was feeling better. But I hadn’t gotten over it.

Over the next several weeks, I noticed a significant change in my behavior. I found myself making impulsive decisions. A friend told me that all I seemed to be doing was reacting. And it was true. I wasn’t making deliberate, sound decisions but merely reacting to these useless, negative thoughts that I’d been mostly successful in re-framing prior to the first breakdown. What I understand now is that, to use the doctor’s metaphor, the bowl wasn’t big enough. My emotions were spilling out and I found myself doing things that I knew were irrational, but I couldn’t stop myself. I kept trying to re-frame the negative thoughts but I couldn’t. At one point I began to feel guilty for not being able to apply my therapist’s advice. So feeling like I’d let her down, my sense of hopelessness had given way to worthlessness.

* * *

On July 15, I made a big deal over my two year anniversary of sobriety. I posted the news on my website and on Twitter. I decided to make it a public announcement for one reason: accountability. I wanted everyone to know that I had made it two years because had I kept it a secret I might have started drinking again. The Saturday before, I hosted a cookout at my house for some of my kids’ friends and their parents. One of the parents brought a bottle of wine. I helped her open the bottle and then poured her a glass. For the first time in almost two years, I felt the urge to pour a glass for myself. Now, this type of event has worked out quite well in the past. I’ve hosted several parties at my house wherein people brought their own alcohol but I never once felt the urge to drink on any of those occasions. But that Saturday in early July, I really wanted a drink. I had a cigarette instead.

* * *

As best I can tell, there is no pharmacological treatment of adjustment disorder. Therapy is it, which I’m in. There is, however, pharmacological treatment of depression, and as soon as I left the doctor’s office that first day I went to fill my prescription: Lexapro, 10mg per day for the first week, then 20mg everyday thereafter. Apparently, I’ll be taking it for a while.

* * *

Over the past few weeks I’ve made some regrettable decisions, which I suppose is part and parcel of an adjustment disorder. But I’ve made some good decisions, too. The decision not to drink was a very good decision. The decision to get help was also very good. And while they haven’t made up for the bad decisions, I’m hopeful that in time I’ll learn to forgive myself; I’ll learn to focus on the positives instead of the negatives; I’ll learn to adjust. I think the medication is helping. I don’t feel any happier yet but my thinking is much more clear, my decisions more deliberate. And right now that’s enough. I know I just need to be patient.

I just need to wait.

I’ve been sober for exactly two years. Fuckin’ A.

So I woke up at 4:45 a.m. for some insane reason and couldn’t get back to sleep. Since no one is awake at that time of the morning–not my kids, not my neighbors, not anyone I know in Austin–I tried watching some T.V. to pass the time. You’d think that with eleventy billion channels there’d be something worth watching on T.V. at a quarter to five in the morning, but there isn’t (I’d actually go so far as to say there’s nothing worth watching at any other time either, but that’s just bellicose). I tried to watch Secretary again but couldn’t do that either. So I decided to tackle yet another project (don’t worry, I’m still working on the credenza; it’s about half finished), which was to finish up the fence/gate for my backyard . It’s a project I’ve let languish for almost six months. I poured the footings and set the posts back in January. But I stopped there and have had nothing but gateless posts sticking up out of the ground ever since. So now it’s mostly done. I’ve still got a few minor adjustments to make to it, but at least it serves its purpose now.

My video store, as well as IMDb, categorizes the movie Secretary as a comedy. IMDb also categorizes it as a drama and a romance. I don’t have much of a problem with the drama or the romance labels, but comedy? Really? I sat down to watch this movie tonight thinking it would be ha-ha funny. It, um, well, wasn’t really that funny at all. Or maybe it’s just not my kind of funny. Don’t get me wrong, it was a fascinating movie, just not very “funny.”

I have a tendency to jump from hobby to hobby, pouring myself into each one for a brief period of time before moving on to the next. Some months I’m so consumed by music that it’s all I think about all day long. I write lyrics at work; I hum melodies into my phone; I get so wrapped up in recording something in the evening that I’m genuinely surprised to discover that it’s two in the morning.

Currently, I’m pretty focused on woodworking. The problem with this hobby is that it’s somewhat noisy. Oh sure, there’s gluing and sanding and fitting pieces together, and none of that is particularly noisy (except for the random cussing when things don’t fit together quite right or I pinch my finger in a clamp). But then there’s the cutting and the drilling and the routing (my router is by far the noisiest power tool I own, even louder than my Skilsaw). So when I have an evening free, I head straight to the workshop as soon as I get home where I cut and drill and route as much as I can, knowing that at nine (ten at the latest), I’ll have to stop otherwise someone’s going to call the cops.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve built a medicine cabinet/vanity for my bathroom (I placed my order for my mirrors today which should be ready on Monday, and then I’ll have to fix a couple of mistakes and then paint the whole thing, but otherwise it’s finished). Then I made a storage box for Alison’s bathroom. I’m pretty happy with it, although there is a blemish or two that I’m sure I’ll notice every time I look at it. That was actually pretty fun to build because it was small and there was a considerable amount of detail that I needed to concentrate on. I built a greenhouse a few years ago and I was pleasantly surprised by how imprecise I could be with my cuts and still manage to make things fit together. On that large scale, a not-so-perfect 90-degree cut didn’t matter. With this storage box, anything less than 90-degrees meant that the whole thing would be lopsided. Again, it’s all about scale.

Which reminds me of guitarmaking. Some of you may already know that I’ve built two guitars, one of which I call Frankenstein (even though Frankenstein was the doctor and not the monster) because of the patchwork of odd implements I used to put it together: a piece of old andiron for the truss rod; a steel plate on the back of the headstock with a couple of steel pins inside to keep it attached to the neck; and a maze-work of electrical tape on the back to keep the wiring from getting caught in my belt. This might go without saying, but I don’t ever play that guitar. However, I’m hanging on to it because, well, I made it.

The other guitar I built was actually quite nice. I called it El Vato. It was a classical guitar, which means it was a hollow body, which means I had to bend wood. Bending wood was really fun. First you soak the pieces in a bathtub for a couple of hours (which I couldn’t do now because I don’t have a bathtub anymore), then you bend the pieces around a pipe heated by a blow torch (or if you’re me, you just use a clothing iron to heat up the already soft, wet wood and then bend the wood around a piece of PVC) to reach the desire curvature. I ended up having some problems with the fretting of El Vato but it was a nice-looking guitar if ultimately unplayable. But that’s not something I can go back and fix now because, sadly, El Vato is gone. That’s a story I might tell you about someday.

In the past, I’ve also built a nightstand for my mom, a couple of bed lamps for Julien and Gabriel, a coat rack for Julien (and a half-finished coat rack for Gabriel), a playscape for the boys, and an odd assortment of router and table saw jigs that I no longer have a use for.

And now I am beginning work on a credenza for my bedroom. This is going to be an interesting project because it’s a scale I’ve never attempted before. I’ve built small things and large things, but never medium-sized things. I know that precise cuts will be required, but the way I’ve designed it there aren’t too many cuts at all. And yesterday at lunch I bought a mortising chisel and bit for my drill press from Woodcraft Supply (it occurred to me recently that I could spend all my money at Woodcraft Supply and not feel the faintest hint of remorse (although the same could be said about Musicmakers during those periods when I’m consumed by music)). I’ve never used a mortising chisel before and so I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll cut the dadoes with my dado blade but then I’ll square up the ends with the chisel. It’ll be fun, I think.

Anyway, I realize that this is mostly just a summary of my recent activity rather than a story with a beginning, middle and end (or even a point). But it’s about all I have to offer right now.

Here’s the deal: I’m a clutterbug. No matter where you go in my house, you’ll probably find a pile of something. It’s mostly piles of paper (drawings, notes, receipts, etc.), but you’ll also find cables, CDs, various pieces of musical equipment, batteries, pencils, pens, camera equipment, and books (yeah, there are a lot of book piles, too). But mostly it’s detritus that I just haven’t brought myself to throw out yet. I go through these sorts of Thoreauesque periods of wanting to trash everything, to simply my life and keep only the essentials; in other words, I just want to grab handfuls of junk and throw it all away. No, don’t even look at it, just throw it the fuck away! But I always end up asking myself, “What if there’s something important in there?” Well, the reasonable response to that would be to sort my crap into important vs. non-important items, which would probably eliminate fully three-quarters of the clutter in my house, but this task is so daunting (yeah, there’s that much crap) that I’m often paralyzed before I even begin.

But it occurs to me that it’s time to change my ways. I can’t take it anymore. And poor Alison, for as much time as she spends at my house she has been obscenely patient with my clutter. Her house is wonderfully clutter-free; in contrast my house is a sty. And I know it bugs her. Hell, it even bugs me! But I guess I’m just so used to living with it that I don’t see it anymore, I’ve been able to tune it out, so to speak. My room when I was a kid was always trashed. I hardly ever saw the carpet because there was always so much junk everywhere. I’ve gotten a lot better over the years but I still have a tendency to hang on to things, thinking, “I might need this someday.”

But I made an important first step in overcoming my clutter addiction today. I cleared out all evidence of oddfellow from chatterwaul.com. I was surprised by how many files there were with names like test.html, test2.html, test3.html, new.html, new.wait.html, this-might-be-important-someday.html, DONT-FUCKING-DELETE-THIS.html. It was, frankly, absurd. But I’m proud of myself: I let go of a lot of junk. Of course, there were some projects that I’ve held on to because, well, I put a lot of work into some of that stuff (like colectivo (which hasn’t been uploaded here yet but will be soon)). I’m happy to report that 15.8 MB of virtual clutter is gone forever. Be proud of me!

I guess the point of all this is that it was a lot easier than I thought it would be to throw stuff away. And although I can’t measure my progress eliminating physical clutter from my house in megabytes, I know that the difference will be noticeable. I’m hoping I can channel the same bravery I used in cleaning out my virtual space to cleaning out my physical space. Tonight, I’m starting with the storeroom. I plan to fill up my trash bin.

Wish me luck.

Sometimes, when I walk long distances — from my office to the cafeteria in the Capitol building, for example — I play this little game with myself. I pretend like the ground beneath my feet is a giant treadmill. I pretend that instead of me propelling myself through space I am, in fact, compelling the earth the move under me. Sometimes this doesn’t work, but other times I am actually able to convince myself that I am making the world turn. I don’t know whether this can be attributed to my degree of self-centeredness, which is often quite high, or if it’s simply a matter of being in the right (or wrong) frame of mind.

I played this game today, and it worked quite well. Starting in the stairwell, I imagined that with each step down the stairs I was actually allowing the earth to ascend a little. Then, all the way to the cafeteria, the earth turned beneath me with each step I took. Once I reached the cafeteria, I continued to imagine that I was causing the earth to turn and that, instead of me walking toward the lady at the register, I was actually causing her to move toward me. The world stopped turning as I stood at the register, pulled out my wallet, and paid for my food. I didn’t tell the lady that I was causing the earth to turn today. I think that would have been weird. She already thinks I’m weird, so why offer any confirmation? I left the cafeteria, making the world shift directions with each corner I turned. On my way up the stairs to my office, I was not climbing but rather pushing the earth down until my floor was in front of me.

Sitting at my desk now, I’m beginning to wonder if I should let go of the earth and let it start turning on its own again.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve occasionally had trouble getting to sleep. When I was a kid, I would lay in bed, wide awake, and listen to my dad snore while I watched the shadows on the wall from the trees outside my window. Back then, my patience for laying awake in bed was far greater than it is now. I used to be able to lay there for hours; nowadays, I get impatient if I’m awake for more than thirty minutes. One of the ways I used to help myself fall asleep was to lift my forearm (at the elbow) off the bed and then let it flop back down. There had to be a rhythm to it; it wouldn’t work if I lifted and dropped my arm at random. I would do this over and over again, concentrating on the timing so as to keep my mind focused on a single task. It was my version of counting sheep, I guess.

That doesn’t work anymore, but I have a TV in my room that serves a similar purpose. The voices of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert are surprisingly lulling. While I still have trouble getting to sleep occasionally (sometimes I’m awake until one or two in the morning), eventually I do fall asleep. And it doesn’t matter whether I’m feeling good or insecure, or whether I’m happy or sad. I can lose sleep over just about anything, really. Hell, I once lost sleep the night before a camping trip because I was so excited!

The first time I can recall having been awake for several consecutive nights was a couple months before Julien was born. I’m absolutely sure it was anxiety over becoming a father. How the hell could I possibly be a dad? Here I was, this guy with a ton of flaws; I can’t be a dad! I’m only going to screw this kid up! That concern kept me awake for five straight nights. I think I managed to get an hour or two of sleep during that time, but of course that wasn’t enough. I spent those five days scrambling through a series of emotions; panic, fear, excitement. There were more I’m sure, but those are the three I remember the most. I had seen my doctor at one point and he had given me valium. It didn’t help me get any sleep, but it relaxed me enough that I didn’t care. Later, I got a prescription for Ambien, which knocked me right the fuck out. I won’t ever take that again. It was a controlled sleep; so controlled, in fact, that I remember waking up one morning and being unable to open my eyes, move my body, or speak. Basically, I was wide awake inside my head but had absolutely no control over my body. The first time that happened, I thought it was an anomaly and didn’t suspect any connection to Ambien. So I took it again the following night. The same thing happened the next morning and so I swore off the stuff. Fortunately, I didn’t need to take it anyway; the cycle of insomnia was already broken.

Another time I can remember being awake all night was right after entering graduate school. I had come to Austin to study library preservation at UT. Within the first few weeks of classes, I decided that preservation was not for me and so I made the decision to change my concentration. This made the director of the preservation department very upset. She reacted in a way I had not expected, basically suggesting that I had made an absolutely ridiculous decision. I was mortified that someone I barely knew would have the nerve to tell me that I was wrong to do something I wanted to do. I lost sleep over that, but it was only a couple nights instead of five.

Last Tuesday night, it happened again. I made the very ill-advised decision to go for a swim at eleven p.m. (I should back up and tell you that I bought an above-ground swimming pool for me and the boys last weekend. It’s only ten feet in diameter, but that’s plenty big enough for the three of us.) The day I filled it, the water was icy cold, but being out in the sun for a couple of days had warmed it up a little. I thought it would be relaxing to get in the pool that night. As it turns out, when the sun isn’t shining, it doesn’t matter if the water is only slightly cool. I was only in the pool for about five minutes but the damage was already done; I was wide awake.

At two a.m., it occurred to me that, holy shit, I was still wide awake! And so I fretted over that for a while until, when four o’clock finally rolled around, I realized there was no hope of getting any sleep at all. So I got up and puttered around the house; did some dishes, played some guitar, watched an episode of Dream On. At five, I made some coffee, and at five-thirty, when the sky was starting to brighten, I went outside, sat on the front porch, and watched the sunrise through the trees across the street. I was pretty tired by that point, and although I probably could have fallen asleep then, it would have been useless to try because I needed to be up an hour later to take the kids to the bus. So I began my day without having ended the one before.

The day was mostly okay. I got tired again that afternoon, and my drive home from work was mildly hallucinogenic. Colors were really vivid and the cars on the road seemed to be spongy somehow, like if I bumped into one I would just bounce right off and both cars would return to their normal shapes. By six o’clock, I was exhausted. I was scheduled to begin drum lessons that night but cancelled them earlier that afternoon. I’m glad I did because I was in no condition to learn anything that evening. I talked to Alison on the phone for a little while after the boys went to bed. I told her how I hadn’t slept at all and she advised me to go to bed as soon as I hung up, which I did. Within minutes, I was asleep. I woke up with my alarm at six-thirty the following morning. It was a normal night.

I know that won’t be the last time I’ll ever lose sleep. It is, after all, something I’ve dealt with since I was little. And frankly, unless I somehow learn to handle stimuli (both internal and external) with Machiavellian efficiency, I don’t think I should ever expect to be completely free of it. But on the bright side, it does seem to be getting better. After all, instead of losing five nights (or even two), I’m down to one.