Tag Archives: mania

Thursday 04/13 2017
Alternating Currents: On Bipolar and David Leite’s Memoir

“Mania is, as Leite described, neon. If I am full-blown manic, I am All; I am the Greatest Writer Who Ever Lived, I am a Deity and, as such, require My Pronouns and Titles to be capitalized. I rive skulls, rend nature, exert Myself upon the universe, Intelligence and Sex and Creativity, a Perfect Creature, Napoleon, immune to even heat-death, My mind red-shifting, driven by murmuring voices which I can hear but never make out. I am a Run-On Sentence, a Living James Joyce Passage, and I file essays with 386 word lede sentences, which are, really, as apt a metaphor as I am able to offer, a truly definite porthole, in My Indomitable Opinion; I am Ego, Great and Powerful and Right Ego, gloriously and deliriously thrilled with Me, Myself, the complete and utter inverse of bitter depression, I’m not good enough, not smart enough, not pretty enough, flipped and reversed and shot screaming up in to the night like a bullet, a Catherine Wheel, a cruise missile, a Saturn V, the Immolating Flight of the Wendigo, the very thoughts and prayers and animus of the Earth and creation itself, King of the Towering Peak with tears lashing My eyes, and everything laid out before Me, for Me, to be manipulated by Me; I am Galactus.”

Read the rest of the essay in Paste Magazine

Thursday 05/22 2014
To Be Galactus

“But mania! Oh fucking good Lord God, when the manic swings come along? Then I am Everything. I fight tears of euphoria; I am sexuality personified, intelligence and wit made manifest; I am the light in the darkness and the darkness. I am, and this is very clear, the Greatest Writer Who Has Ever Lived. I am beyond Richard Sherman, beyond even Kanye West. The air is thin up there, and intoxicating. When I am there, I am nothing but ego, no filters, no public relations inhibitions and machinations. It is like living in a Tom Wolfe paragraph—one of those hot, buzzing, electric, alive, incandescent neon tube buzzing pink paragraphs—or, if the mania tacks darker, a Bret Easton Ellis run on. I place upon my head that ludicrous plumb teapot of a helmet that Galactus wears, and the Universe is mine, to hold, to crush, to devour, to effect myself upon.”

Read the rest at The Classical