Eureka. After yesterday's four-hour bike ride I felt good. Really good. Good in a way that, I now recall, used to feel normal. As the evening progressed the notion dawned upon me--I've been DEPRESSED. For, like, a YEAR. Symptoms of low-level, chronic depression have been:
*sleeping too much, even for my slothlike bioprogramming, ten or eleven hours a night;
*overeating, particularly things like bagels and pasta;
*drinking too much tea, a large, very stout pot per day, to the point where I get ghastly caffeine withdrawal headaches when I try to do a Mastercleanse fast;
*reading too much, while overeating and drinking too much tea, because the spot by my kitchen window is perfectly set up for it, what with the bookstand and the plants and the sunlight and the comfortable chair and the teapot;
*sluggishness, lack of motivation, fatigue, feelings of hopelessness and despair;
*renting too many videos and not leaving the apartment often enough.
What astonishes me is that I managed to conceal this depression from everybody, including myself. People tell me I look good, like a weight has been lifted, that I seem fine. I thought I *was* fine, kind of. A little chubby, but basically fine.
In addition to this, despite the depression, sluggishness, apathy, and despair, I have still managed to produce enough kick-ass new works to fill a one-person show in Manhattan, as well as spares for BWAC, apply for ten or twelve grant/residency/exhibition opportunities, run a healing practice and come up with a new business plan. Just think what I will be doing now that I've realized that biking to Coney Island=serotonin boost=increased energy, wakefulness and creativity. I hope I get ANOTHER show really soon; to this end I have further abused my credit card and ordered another roll of linen from Jerry's, plus three more stretcher bars. If, by some insane chance, Mary Boone stumbles into T. Moser over the summer and calls me up, wanting to make a studio visit, I Will Be Ready.