Posting Problem, Medications and Rachel

The chief purpose of this post is to discover whether posting through Internet Explorer will eliminate the irritating text comment interruptions.

I was quite productive today but don't have the patience to tell you all I did. I did feel an obligation to reveal the medication cocktail that freed me from longstanding clinical depression:

Lamictal: 150 mg. BID (twice a day)
Wellbrutrin: 300 mg AM, 150 mg PM.
Prozac, 80 mg AM.
Abilify, 5 mg AM.

I think the addition of this new antipsychotic (Abilify), that affects the Dopamine 2 receptors more selectively, proved the difference in my treatment. I think it worked adjunctively to enhance all the other medications. Given the failure of two antipsychotics attuned to a more traditional dopamine receptor prior to it, I wonder whether the D2 receptor might be more important for my treatment-resistant depression (since bipolars suffer the most serious suicidal depressions, and the hardest to treat).

Norm, you there? Was I too mean to you about your poem at Alsop? I have no gauge anymore; the truth is in such short supply, and I like to speak my truth. Those who know me know that I never seek to diminish another poet, only to react honestly according to my lights.

Alright. Done with that. I need not be paranoid toward you or I am ruined as a literary correspondent entirely.

I still don't understand the dearth of comments about the spooky photographs of Rachel and I a little over a month before her demise.

I LOVE YOU RACHEL AND THINK OF YOU EVERYTIME WE DON'T RUN OUT OF FORKS BECAUSE WE TOOK YOUR KITCHEN STUFF AND HAD BEEN VERY SHORK ON FORTS. I MEAN SHORT ON FORKS. HORTS ON KORFS. WHATEVER. FORTS ON WARTS. FARTS WITH CORKS.

ENJOY YOUR FAMILY'S DRAMA WHILE YOU'RE IN THE BLEACHERS; LUCKY FOR YOU, YOU WEREN'T BORN INTO A BORING FAMILY! I BET ALL YOUR NEW FRIENDS PREFER WATCHING YOUR FAMILY'S TAPES.

Love,

Papa

3 Kilobunnies!

My Daughter Sang for the Queen!

I see my brief foray into pop culture has resulted in little attention, but given the overwhelming presence of the Sopranos' last episode in the blogosphere, I am not surprised. But I was right about Tony, Sil and Phil. And culture accretes so quickly; in Ray Ratto's column in the S.F. Chronicle today, he opined that the Giants were "as flat as Phil Leotardo's head." That came out in print less than twelve hours after the earlier showing of the Sopranos finale.

On another front, I polished a previous blog into a respectable essay: "My Struggle with Literary Narcissism," now appearing at a fine new online journal, Umbrella, about which Norm Ball informed me (his essays have appeared in previous issues). The essay is confessional, theological, psychological and literary. (What you have come to expect from me?)

I may have mentioned it, but I also have upcoming poems in Byline and Contrary, two paying journals. I have quit writing poetry for the nonce and now introduce myself as someone into "marketing."
That is, I am marketing old chestnuts instead of harvesting new ones.

Tonight we head for my eldest daughter's, where we shall soon see our rambunctious grandson and afterwards proceed south for baby Sarah's high school graduation. Here's a picture Sarah again:



As poet Teresa White wrote me, "When I met her she looked like Alice in Wonderland; now she looks like Helen of Troy."

Sarah hopes soon to be in her own digs with friends, employed while auditioning for further roles in her acting and singing career. I just found out from my sister on Saturday that Sarah had been in an elite choir to serenade the Queen at the commemoration of Jamestown. My other daughters may be so inured to her success that they left this morsel out, but I was still a little hurt by it. No matter. I'm a proud papa, even if my last teenager doesn't think of calling me. She has a lot on her plate, and her peer group, at this stage of development, is more important.

If this sounds like the intellectual defense of rationalization, well, it is.

At least, due to my psychiatric training and modicum of honesty with myself, I know which defense I'm using!


All for today,

C. E. Chaffin

My Baby Goes to Her Senior Prom

Yes, that's my baby, Sarah, gussied up for her senior prom. She was actually born after my first wife and I separated, but she spent nearly every weekend of her life with me until I moved to Mexico, when she was already a teenager and not much interested in wasting her weekend with Papa. She's the only daughter I didn't obtain custody of; my other daughters, Rachel and Keturah, are 29 and 27, respectively.

When a father says his daughters are beautiful he is of course suspect. But I've never had to say of any of them, "she has a good personality." Or, "she has a sweet face." That day may come, but I doubt it. They are a handsome lot and will always be beautiful to me. But unlike some, I have objective proof as well!

Because Sarah is seriously interested in pursuing an acting career, she is committed to staying in the LA area for the foreseeable future. She's the only daughter who hasn't yet been up here to visit me in the redwoods. But I'll be down there for her graduation in June. Meanwhile I haven't heard if she was prom queen; she was nominated. All our lives she and I have had this routine: "Who do you think you are, Queen of the Prom?" To which she responds, "And you're chopped liver!" I think I actually got to show her chopped liver at a deli once. She was thoroughly disgusted, although gastronomically she is the least challenged of my picky-eating progeny.

What I'm most proud of is not Sarah's looks but her humility. Despite her getting nearly all the starring roles she's ever auditioned for in community theater and high school, both musicals and dramas, she doesn't act like a diva. She is truly concerned about others and has a natural compassion. She is also charismatic and always draws a circle of friends around her. And, thanks be to God, she's my one daughter who seems to have been spared any trace of the bipolar gene.

I've written three poems about her but I won't upstage her today by posting one. And, of course, as she was the baby we have the fewest baby pictures of her--about which she has naturally complained.

She's pretty grown-up for 18 and will be seeking her own apartment after graduation. She already has a job.


Here's to you, baby!

Love, Papa (chopped liver)