I’m so fucking pissed off right now I could bust a gasket. Only Tessa, quietly slumbering next to me, keeps me from ripping the refrigerator out of the wall and throwing it onto the sixth hole of the golf course we’re hovering over. I just spent an hour and a half writing to this blog, some damn good stuff mind you, and then the computer pulled its usual bullshit freeze. I haven’t lost that much writing since some gonad turned my Mac off one night at the farm, losing two pages of a novel that only ended up frustrating me into a ball of cynicism anyway. Is there anything positive to come of this, some Buddhist sense of impermanence that can offer solace?
Im trying, and my self-supplied answer is NO.
Ill try to cut this down to its bare essentials: we’re in Napa Valley now, staying in the ass-end crook of Meadowood, the resort for which my dad is “cultural attaché.” This place is as white as it gets, in both attitude and sartorial choice: denizens of Meadowood line up to tell you how much the owner, Bill Harlan, loathes dark clothes on the croquet field. As Tessa and I suited up in the mandatory collared shirts and dainty skirts for tennis, I had paradoxical feelings of being both blessed and complacent. It’s been hard for me to get around post-tragic New York lately without feeling guilty, but being at Meadowood, it’s almost impossible to shake the feeling that you’re one more white American driving an SUV and complaining about your massage therapist. The decadence here is precious, at least; there are no porn channels on TV.
Speaking of troubling clouds (I know that phrase was in the first draft), the flight from NYC to here was thankfully uneventful, as long as you dont count the raucous turbulence over Nevada, or the scarily aborted take-off. JetBlue knows everything about their passengers except how tall they are; the personal TV sets are an unbelievable blessing, even if my legs stopped receiving bloodflow somewhere over Canton, OH.
Ive been trying hard lately to rectify the things in my life that are rectifiable, you know, the whole “wisdom to know the difference” yarn. Everything from dentistry to my emotional health is going to get an oil change, and one thing I start next week is therapy with Dr. Block, who lives a few hundred yards from us in Park Slope. Our phone conversation alone was better than my two visits to the state-appointed therapist, who sat me down in a windowless room and stared at me until I started to stammer. Hopefully Dr. Block can direct me to a good psychiatrist who will provide drugs, rather than the withering glares and suspicious grunts provided by the fine folks at NYU.
I know theres a certain honor in solving your problems through therapy alone, but sometimes you need a pharmacological remedy too, and this is one of them. I know my Prozac experiment (’98-’99) was ultimately unfruitful (and this time I’ll know not to quit taking the pills cold turkey) but this time I’m trying Celexa, which Tessa’s therapist hailed as “Prozac perfected.” I’m not so much of a feckless naïve nutball to think that Celexa won’t have its own share of problems (I’m preparing to ejaculate only on Sundays) but it’s got to be better than the horseshit I’ve been putting myself though. Besides, it’s only 10mg a day, which is more of a gentle massage than a massive rolfing.
I want to keep a good diary of this drugs effect on my psyche, and since “Prozac Diaries” is already taken, I want to call this section “The Celextant” because:
a) the sextant is what ancient mariners used at night to determine the course of their ship, something I need very much right now
b) and, c,
c) Ill never miss a chance to use a really stupid pun, especially if it’s tangentially involved with my seratonin levels.
The Celextant, April 10, 2002
Took my first pill today from Tessas stash. It was halved by Tessa in May 2000, approximately four months before we started dating, a positive metaphor not lost on either of us.
Actually, maybe it was best that I lost the first draft of this. Its way late, but this is better writing.