What's Wrong With my Differentials?

What the fuck do I have? Adult ADD or something?

I can't do any one thing for over ten minutes now, except write. Now that my back and shoulder doesn't hurt any longer, I can do some marathon writing. Just in the last forty eight hours, I went marathon on my screenplay. Typing constantly, only stopping for brief intervals to nap. Not even to eat. I just warmed something small in the microwave and ate it at the keyboard. I'm a Wild Boy once again.

Several of my friends (the few that I do have), have told me to watch The Radiant Child on Netflix. It's a docu- mentary of a talented Black artist in the 1980's, Jean-Michel Basquiat, who took the art world by storm and then killed himself with an overdose of Heroin at the age of 27. It is 93 minutes long. This is my seventh attempt to sit through it. I've been capable of pushing ten minutes at a pop. Is it because the movie is boring and stupid? No, not at all. In fact I love it because it shows in great detail the New York City of my youth.

Although maybe four years younger than Jean-Michel Basquiat, I was eighteen in Nineteen Eighty and at the pinnacle of my game for the rest of my entire life. It's all downhill from there gang. But that's another story. I remember a lot of what is mentioned in the movie with a sense of longing for my past and deep melancholy. To see the fashions, the hangout spots, the young women who were so free with their bodies it was like Heaven...sometimes I wonder if I will see myself standing amongst the crowds in the documentary, moving like a nightcrawler though the faces.

Well, if this movie is so fucking good to you Hb, then why can you only watch ten minutes of it. I don't fracking know. Maybe it's because of this emotional ITCH. Yeah, that's the best way I can explain it. I sit down, and do something, and then I feel this uneasiness. Then a general, nebulous discomfort, which grows into anxiety. I'm nervous, afraid, WIRED in less than seven minutes of doing almost anything other than writing. It's like I'm about to miss an VERY important appointment.

I do whatever I'm doing faster, more urgently until I can't do it any longer. I've wasted enough time!!! I drop what it is that I'm doing, turn off whatever it is I'm watching, close the magazine that I was jerking off to (yeah, I haven't jerked off in a week because it just takes too fucking long and I don't have the time for that shit!), and move onto something else. Mostly it's back to writing. The only respite from the ITCH.

I relax then. My shoulders sag, my heart-rate slows. I am at peace with my fingers tickling the keyboard. It's almost like flying on a smooth jet ride. Although it's somewhat rapid. My racing thoughts push my fingers to the limit. Making them try to keep up to the Indy 500 in my skull. My thoughts are too fast for my typing. But I've come to realize that, and just thank my lucky stars for this emotional outlet.

Hell, just this morning at something like Three AM I've already typed two, long assed blog posts. And a third one, in less than three hours, is on the way. Before starting I made a plate of rice and vegetables. Only three tablespoons though. What shocks me is not that it's so little, or that it takes me too long to eat such a small portion, but that I count the spoonfuls.

I"m rationing out food, and I'm not even aware of it.

It's just because I can't digest it fast enough.

Hb

PS: Hey, this post is 4x7...four lines of seven paragraphs, just like I promised.