Here’s a piece I wrote two years ago, when I was bouncing from mood to mood:
I don’t know what to call it. I don’t feel grumpy. I don’t feel anxious. I don’t feel depressed. Today, I just feel weird.
Weird, in many instances, is good. Great art comes from weirdness. Great music comes from weirdness. Great poetry comes from weirdness. Great theater and dance come from weirdness. Great reforms, too, often come from people who are not afraid of seeming weird to those on the other side of the issue.
So I am going to designate today my day to feel weird.
Significant others don’t like weird. They like normal. They like dinner when it’s your turn to cook and discussions that move forward in logical steps. Kids only like weird if it involves Mom being so weird she’s willing to run up her credit card on a shopping jaunt. Friends are leery of weird too, even though they have a fab time discussing your weird among themselves.
But today I am weird. Sorry, everybody. My hormones are bouncing on the weirdness trampoline and shouting out, “Weird, weird, weird.” I’m just going to join the party and bounce along with them.
Back to now, when my moods aren’t so bouncy. The clever and curious painting was done by my daughter Laura when she was in high school. This weird man needs a weird name. Any suggestions?