Eggplant, No Parmesan

It will be a hectic or high octane week, and either way, a stressful one, not that I'll ever know this life at the level Mike Wallace practiced it, nor would I want to know it at the level Mike Wallace practiced it. I am not telegenic, photogenic, or a good film capture. I knew Wallace went public about his depression, but did not know he attempted suicide after his litigation battle with General Westmoreland. Things like this bother me, that a man with such power and success could experience the sense of futility I have experienced most of my life. I've posted before that my depressive episode over Linda's conduct nearly sent me over the edge, but I've never attempted true physical harm. I lost my control with her, and verbally spiraled, went beet red, rolled in the kitchen, crying and then laughing in pain that two damaged women with such affinity and talent could engage in such degrees of hate. What she did to me was an act of hatred, just as much as I experienced it afterwards as an intensity of feeling, and yet people so less marginalized, like Mike, or David Foster Wallace, gave in, or nearly did. Odd world we live in.

For me it is an axis between fighting the bastards to the end, and the terror of aging into that horrible geriatric helplessness that was the beginning of my childhood. I could hate my father for that, the putting away, and that I've fought a losing battle all my life for his affirmation. I blame my mother instead.