Thursday, July 16, 2009

On Love, Future, and Ativan

The minutes ooze by like molasses, the clock ticks heavy. Void days lead to sleepless nights. Time bleeds together. My mind is on fire, manic with thought, but the days, the days reflect nothing of that. One listless day, after another, wasting, wasted, gone. My dad asks if I've been beaten up, and where I got the two shiners. I look at him through bloodshot eyes, and I say, "I wish it were that easy, pop."

It's no wonder one mid-afternoon after lethargically dragging myself out of bed and tripping into the warm water of the shower, I begin to halfheartedly sing Minus The Bear's "Get Me Naked 2: Electric Boogaloo." Silly name, relevant subject:

"Try to get some rest,
count backward from ten.
You've gone too long without sleep
I know you won't rest stressed, so give up, just give up.

And don't say no to pills,
Ativan won't kill.

You said, 'My life's like a bad movie,'
And I said, 'It's true of all us.'
You said, you said, 'I've got to wake up so fucking early,'
And I said, 'Maybe the directors turned on us.'

Outside the five sounds like the ocean,
relax, don't keep your eyes open.
Don't look at the clock,
your brain will never stop.

You said, 'My life's like a bad movie,'
And I said, 'That's true of all us.'
You said, you said, 'I've got to wake up so fucking early,'
And I said, 'Maybe the directors turned on us.'

Don't say no to pills,
Ativan won't kill."

I was going crazy. I needed to get out. A trip to the Getty Art Museum would do me some good.

With a Sigur Ros CD and a short drive south, I arrived at my cultural destination. Having frequented the Getty (there's not a whole hell of a lot else to do 'round these parts) there weren't too many new surprises. The French Bronze sculptures were refreshing, but other than that, it was the same ol' trip to the impressionism room, spewing pretentiousness at a high school art history level. However, an unexpected stroll two floors beneath Van Gogh's "Waterlilies", and Renoir's "Le Promenade" led me to a fantastic photography exhibit.

Two photographers: Paul Outerbridge and Jo Ann Callis. The former didn't impress me too much, mostly commercial bullshit, but Callis, really wonderful stuff. Among her many other masterpieces, she went through this tri-picture stage, in which she would juxtapose three seemingly different object, and show how similar they really are. They all, in fact, had uniting factors, light and fluffy, sleek and shiny, etc.

"Cake, Hat, Pillow"

"Glove, Balloon, Shoehorn."

You get the picture (no pun intended).

So, I got to thinking, if I had a series like this, what would I include. Well, this is where the title is relevant. Why can't I sleep, why am I always so fucking anxious? The answers:



and the cure


"In a world where certainties are wonder Ativan is prescribed by so many caring clinicians."

Ah, must be nice, but it's the easy way out. I gotta take this thing head on, look it straight in the eyes, and...well, enjoy some more insomnia. So, come thought, come brainstorm, and for the love of all things good, come sun, come morning doves, so I can finally rest my head, and drift out of consciousness. But until then, with a fire in my eyes, and bags down to my cheeks, I'll linger on past, present, and future, and sing the Electric Boogaloo.

-Bohemian Dandy.

1 comment:

  1. Ativan was presribed to me after weeks of feeling sick because of stress, and moderate panic attacks. At first it gave me the feeling of being nauseous as if I was drunk, but I started to eat a little bit with it and that helped. I have since quit taking it, however my doctor is going to start me back on it to help with my IBS. I have to say that I have taken other "anti-anxiety" medicines, and this one gave the least amount of haziness, and after taking it for 3 months, I never felt dependant on it. (Even with a history of dependency.) buy ativan online