Ivy Roller

I’ve spent the past couple of weeks hypomanic, and the flight of ideas that I’ve experienced have been above all else intensely gratifying.  Note that I described the experience of having them as providing gratification.  The ideas themselves have ranged from brilliant to nonsensical, and their speed reached a new high last night that compelled me to begin writing a few comments about it in my journal.  What began as an effort to document the experience of the flight of ideas and the effect it has on both mind and body, launched into a 39-page pseudo personal narrative that is best described as void of focus.  I’ve decided to include some excerpts from those pages here for the entertainment and bemusement of anyone who happens to stumble across this post.

“Suspense is the mental equivalent of foreplay.  Suspense can also be tormenting at high levels.  As can foreplay.  Music takes on the power and ability to consume me—mind and body—and refuses to let go.  The repetitive movements in sync with each successive beat are addictive and provide enormous pleasure that rivals orgasm.  The music must be turned off, not simply down, for me to be able to stop and do anything else—even hold one thought in my mind.  The most potent of this variety of intoxicant?  DJ Tiesto’s “Lethal Industry” (2007 Richard Durand Remix).  Hands-down.  It turns my body into a machine… with mechanical movements rising and sinking precisely at each beat.  Some of the sentences that come into my head when I feel like this are exuberant in their magnificence, the craft of creation.  Everything is flowing—thoughts, blood, time, air—I can hear them in unison; even though they make no audible noises, they are anything but silent.  Proving to be particularly challenging right now is being able to catch and hold on to—even briefly—every thought that creeps, slides, runs, flies, or races into my mind.  Oddly enough, none of them approach with a pace that could be labeled as walking.  That would be too casual, too simple a form for transporting themselves.  My mind is caught in a rainstorm.  But instead of droplets of water falling, thoughts are falling—randomly and rapidly.  An idea for a new high-risk sport just came to me: Extreme Descriptive Writing.  Think about it.  It has proven both dangerous and reckless.  Casualties often include cohesion, conclusion, and climax, just to name a few.  Motherfucking Sentence Structure!  Look at it!  It is literally littering these pages, turning them into an oozing wound… The pages are the wound, and the littered sentences plastered all over them is the pus oozing from the wound.  Sentences and pus share the same goal: They just want to get out.  A Doberman and a Poodle are the same thing.  In that they are dogs.  Not just dogs, but dogs first.  The breed is simply a variety of the (one) species itself.  Oh my God, I just had to slam the breaks on the thought exploration vehicle.  Upon writing the word “species” it began careening down the human body tunnel.  I would have ended up overwhelmed with the wealth of material there.  Again: Sentence Motherfucking Structure.  Notice it.  A flood has officially (wait, all of a sudden I have no idea what a flood does.  It floods.  It is one of those Mr. McShifty words that is of dual purpose and nature.)  I’M DONE.  I’m rendered incapable of using words that are simple, words that function in only one capacity, or have only one definition when my mind is like this.  Thought process is one of the many casualties of mania; other early victims include judgment and sleep.  Flood is a word casualty.  Fatally flawed by dualism and definition abandonment.  I am going to begin honoring specific words in recognition of their simplicity.  And the first Simpleton Award goes to: the word ‘door’.  Well done.”

Filed under: Mania by cindy