My mood not to blog has passed, at least temporarily. Let us gather one to the other and revel in my incoherent and oft'times very vague thoughts.
My mood is as variable as the wind. It always has been thus. I used to make myself smile by telling myself that I had "an artist's temperment." This may or may not be true, but since I have never been in the habit of holding my paintbrushes bristle-first in my mouth, I cannot, like Goya, confess to brain fevers caused by lead poisoning. I don't even write letters to my brother, so I cannot admit to that august personage that I am wracked by depressions and manic episodes, as Vincent Van Gogh did to his sibling, Theo. I'm not even in the habit of working in any way with my menstrual blood (since I'm a man, for a start,) so Annie Sprinkles has nothing to fear from me, while I sure have plenty to fear from her.
I do, however, know where some of this black blood springs from. It fountains up from me, from dark springs deep inside. It boils up from actions and events which at the time I had no control over, and at times didn't even understand.
I remember an incident that happened very long ago; I might have been all of 5 or 6 years old. I was lying on my parent's big four-post bed, and my mother was working at the sewing machine making clothes for one member of the family or other. We were that poor. She had all her tools layed out on the bed, and I was, as a curious child, digging through all those myriad strange tools, most of them homemade.
There was one unusual item there, made of a rolled magazine that had been taped into a cylinder then placed inside several consecutive white tube socks, the kinds with three coloured bands at the calf. I still don't know what it was for, but it looked sort of plain lying there amongst the patchwork pincushions and colourful threads, so I managed to find a red felt-tip pen and put a big smiley face on it's plain white furry surface.
Apparently this tool was to be inserted into material that needed to be ironed in a round shape, or at least that's what my memory tells me the reason was, and the ink would transfer onto material if there was the slightest heat and moisture involved and my inking it had ruined it's effectiveness as a tool, but whatever the reason I received a truly profound verbal blistering from my mother when I proudly, innocently, showed her my masterwork.
I don't know if she was tired, hot and bothered from the summer weather, I don't even know what she had on her mind at the time, what sort of stress was preying on her, but she let loose with a lot of anger that I know now wasn't earned by me, but I sure cashed that particular check.
It scarred me pretty deeply. I've never realised that until, quite frankly, these past few weeks. I have inside me a deep need not to let let down those close to me. A profound need. And when I feel that I have done that which I think is best, or helpful, or gentlemanly, I feel better inside. I feel I have done my part. And if that gesture or behaviour is not received well, or earns me some mis-placed anger or a verbal lashing that rightly should have been poured onto someone else's head it brings back that 5 year old boy, standing beside that bed weeping, unable to understand why my gesture of love and goodwill has earned me beration and anger.
And then I get furious, with that white-hot anger that only that 5 year old boy can feel, the pure rage that is uncontaminated by intelligence or social desires or superego. It is the cry of a young boy who feels that he has been wronged deeply and has no words to set it right. It feels powerless, it feels empty and it feels abandoned, and it feels animal in it's intensity. It is pure and burning and now all it does is lead me instantly into that sort of depression that not even drugs can blunt entirely.
I can only hope by that lancing it thusly with my words I have drained it of some measure of power, because I know full well and with eyes wide open that it is I who am going to have to change, because chances are pretty slim that anyone else is going to change just to give me a little contentment of spirit.