I just poured out a torrid comment on passion. I guess I be feelin’ it today.
My passion…that consuming part of me that pushes me to rant, pushes the pedantic part of me to the fore…Would I give it up? I guess I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. I’m facing the prospect of making another appointment, this time to REALLY assess whether or not I’m suffering bipolar (and whatever else they want to throw in the mix). And while I want to stop the up and down roller coaster, the thought of perhaps losing my passion along the way frightens me….
I may be the only one afraid of me losing it. I imagine it can look scary from the outside. I’ve been told I can be scary.
Can I lose that scary edge and still be passionate? Still feel that flame deep within me?
The logical part of my brain knows the only reason I began writing poetry was because I was emotionally torn and unable to talk about it. I liked using metaphors to reveal what I felt. It was easier than just speaking the words. And I got hell for speaking the words. I was berated. I hid my poetry from my family, but I readily shared it with teachers. And got PRAISED. They LIKED it. I had one teacher take extra time with me between and after classes; she was a poet herself. So my early artistic efforts brought what I felt I lacked: attention. Praise.
You know, if all artists begin art to express what they emotionally feel but can’t verbally express, I suppose in a weird way I owe my mother a thanks. She certainly set me up for this shit.
I both envy and pity non-artists. I envy what I perceive to be their lives; the routine, the safety in repetition and compliance. Certainly I envy the financial stability. I also pity it: the lack of variety and everything I think is meaningful to LIFE. The FIRE.
The fire. My brother told me for years I work in fire. I do, too. Get an idea and pound away, hour after hour. It becomes an obsession, an all consuming passion. The results have been as passionate as the process. And while they’ve served to release things in me, they’ve not left me feeling all that good about the final projects. I nitpick. I hear all the flaws, all the things I did WRONG. Not the millions of things I did well so that that ONE damned flaw sticks out.
…..You know, I guess I’m still working with fire, but I changed the flame. Before, the fire was red. Hot burning red and orange with licks of yellow. An unconfined fire, burning everywhere and everything. Now when I see the fire, it’s blue, like a gas flame. Narrow. Tight. Controlled. In my head it’s become a tool, not a force of destruction. I use it but I’m not letting it consume me.
I don’t know HOW this happened. I can tell you WHEN it happened; it was autumn 2014. Began in September, as I was going cold turkey off my anti depressants and the world was full of tears. I scrambled for something to occupy me, something to keep me from crying for just an hour or two. I turned to making music. And I saw the blue flame for the first time. For the first time, I reached out and USED that flame to begin fashioning sound. I wrote an entire release’s worth of new club techno. And maybe for the first time in my life I’ve written a few songs that have reached perfection. Utter. Perfection. I’ve been listening to my studio roughs for at least 6 months now. Got some changes to do on 3 songs. But the rest are sublime. My bro has compared my latest work to Sven Vaeth, whom I worship as a DJ. And for the first time, I feel like I can agree with my brother. It’s REAL good.
….I guess, now that I know I have that image of the blue flame of passion so strong in my mind, I need to learn how to use that in other areas of my life. Outside of music. Keep the fire in that narrow, tight, controlled mode. For some reason, now that I’ve got that image in my head it seems much easier to do. Maybe that’s just the mania talking right now; can’t ever discount what may or may not be a manic episode..Bleh. I really do need to get some sort of label attached, I guess. I keep reaching for labels but I don’t know if they fit. Kind of feels like going to the damned store and trying to find a pair of pants that fit. Yeesh! But maybe I don’t need to jump on the mediation bandwagon immediately. Maybe I can talk to whomever I see and tell them how I feel (now that I’ve sorted it out for myself!).
OH! And the self disparaging side of me wants to add ‘and maybe pigs will fly’.
I guess I just need to stand up for myself. Make up my own mind on what’s best for me right now. My GP told me I wouldn’t be forced to take any medications. I can’t be hospitalized without my consent. Doesn’t happen here. So I can move forward at my own pace.
*sigh* Knowing I tend to procrastinate and be lazy when I just don’t want to be bothered doesn’t help THAT thought.
I’ve been SO caught between a rock and a hard place! Told my bro I reposted a blog from a doctor. Told him how I was so amazed to see so many patients come in with anxiety and or depression complaints. He said ‘I’ve been telling you you’re not alone for a long time’. It’s true. He has. And I realized even THAT can be a trigger for me: I have a horrible memory of my sister screaming at me and telling me I wasn’t special or different, that I liked to PRETEND I felt different from everyone else but I was just faking it because EVERYONE felt and goes through exactly what I feel and go through.
*shudder* That memory is strong. It was repeated. A lot.
But I believe, somewhere BETWEEN my rock and hard place, somewhere BETWEEN the self degradation and grandiose thoughts lies the calm, blue flame. And I will keep reaching for that flame. Over and over again.