Pax Nortona – A Blog by Joel Sax

This will get me in trouble, but whatever.

Every so often I err and fall into an online game. Not the kind like Farmville, but something where people spend hours in chat rooms. Here you find the people your psychotherapist warned you about; the ones who drink and chat, the cyber-sex addicts, misogynist teenage boys, and people who have no social life besides playing online games. There’s a whole culture based on flirting and another based on being cruel to other players. I have found myself assimilated, at times, into the latter — a very tempting prospect for me and anyone else because this is a game based on Arthurian England except it is all numbers.

I’ve seen these behaviors before when I ran my own online game. The drinkers seem to believe that having a mood disorder is cool. What better beverage than liquid bipolar disorder? I have never understood why people insist on trying to become insane. I’ve been there. It’s no fun. Can’t they take my word for it?

The online romances have many faces, but I will speak directly of only one kind that makes me laugh. There is a breed of male who finds it entertaining to take on the personae of a woman. Most of these are misogynist assholes who give themselves charming names like “Sloot”, etc. An especially humorous subset are the ones who style themselves as lesbians for the express purpose of seducing women. The trouble is that most of the lesbians you meet online in these venues are actually men so any two lesbians you meet are likely to be men. And so men who spit on the idea of homosexuality end up cybering with other men like themselves. This is called “role-playing”: I call it interactive porn¹ .

The teenagers who hang out in these places probably don’t need any further description. Like the males described above, their primary interest is prurient in nature. The game possesses a marvelous facility for taking revenge on these brats that I, alas, have sometimes taken part in.

Which brings me to the last group: those who have no life outside the game. There are people who play the game while they work. There are people who play the game because they are disabled. Many of these drink and game. Many of these don’t do much outside of their job than game and talk sex ² . And I find myself in an odd place. I am there, admittedly because I don’t have much of a life. But I attend meetings where I help others, I write, I photograph, and I teach adults English. I am openly mentally ill ³ . So here I am, setting fire to a bridge that I have with other people. Is there any way I can live with this and respect myself? It’s a hard question to answer and I don’t doubt it will be shoved in my face once this sees publication.

1. I once had a character who was a transvestite. “She” was the endless butt of hate mail written by men who were out for a little meat. I warned them at the start there would be something different, but their glands wouldn’t let them say “no” so — you understand me perfectly well. [↩]
2. I watched an hour and a half long conversation about corsets just yesterday. [↩]
3. You can imagine how well that goes over with some people. It’s worse than the real world. [↩]

In the middle of one of the chapters of Gorky Park, I found myself thinking of Chernobyl and why it indicated that the course of deregulation was all wrong. Chernobyl wasn’t put up by any plan other than the blind zeal to make a mark of Soviet proficiency. Nuclear power for the sake of magnifying the glory of the State. There was little if any thought given to safety or to purpose. The thing was just reared out of the Ukrainian soil and started up. One day it blew up and killed the earth for miles around. That was Chernobyl.

The politics that led to Chernobyl are very much like those that are affecting our course as a nation today. Politicians have been pressing for deregulation without any purpose except to inflate the accomplishments of big business and the pocketbooks of CEOs.

I’d like to suggest that public works fail under three conditions: when big business is allowed to set the terms (when there is practically no government under deregulation plans), when government is allowed to do the thing solely for its own sake (the Soviet problem), and when government is corrupt and takes bribes from business interests (the classic Latin American model and what we have in the United States with the lobbying system). When we have seen great successes, government and business have worked together not to ensure business profits but to see the public is served. I think of the Interstate Highway System, the national parks, the space program as a few examples of this success.

I fear for America. Corruption has been reaching out and trying to eliminate government for the sake of a few. Both parties pay lip service to this problem, but only liberal and progressive Democrats do anything about it. Just as the Nazis adopted the word “socialism” to cover their fascism, so, too are the Republicans and conservative Democrats making appeals to populist rhetoric to cover up their stealing of the Commons that we all own by right as citizens of this great land. I also think awareness of this subterfuge is growing, so I have not lost hope even though the party that brought a Chernobyl of sorts down upon the American people not so long ago is desperately trying to cast the blame on those who work hardest to resurrect a strong partnership of government and business, founded upon accomplishing the right kinds of things for the majority of us in the common American marketplace and forum of ideas.

The media was quick in its assessment: Joe Stack was a “madman” not a “terrorist”. As far as I know, no one has produced evidence that Stack was receiving medical care or had been locked up even on a 24 hour hold¹ .The real evidence suggests that he knew exactly what he was doing and he had been inspired by the political rhetoric of the extreme Right Wrong.

Let’s take a moment to evaluate just what motivated Stack. Stack moved against a government institution. He and those who support him believe themselves to be attacking “tyranny”. But what is the reality? They lost the 2008 election. A fair vote was taken and the result was the People of the United States chose a president other than the one they wanted. They are sore losers. Knowing full well what they are up to, they have done their best to bring the country down by disrupting free discussion of the issues, threatening the president, and now cheering this assault on the people who collect the taxes we all pay to keep the nation together. They say that they are patriots but they threaten the United States by their action. Most importantly, they understand what they are doing and move purposefully towards their fetid goals² They move to frighten those who differ from them, to hold the country hostage so independents will join them not out of conviction but out of fright, and destroy the country. Intimidate and destroy is their modus operandi. The word for anyone who engages in this behavior is not madmen or mentally ill, but terrorist.

The best way to confront them is to simply state “Not in my nation.” And to press the media to use the term terrorist without partisanship. If I start threatening these people with violence or if I bomb their homes and offices, you may call me a terrorist, too. But look hard: I doubt you will be able to find a context in which I am guilty of such expressions.

UPDATE (2/24/2010): Happen to notice that the press is not talking about the victim, Vernon Hunter? Not only is it suspicious because Hunter was black (and a real hero, unlike Stark) but also because it dehumanizes federal. employees by making them faceless.

1. I would be interested in seeing a blood workup to see if he had been drinking, but that kind of thing is rarely released to the press because, shucks, everyone drinks. [↩]
2. Though it might be interesting to see what the average blood alcohol levels at a tea bagger gathering might be. [↩]

There’s a disorder – officially recognized as a culture-specific syndrome in the DSM-IV — known as koro whose sufferers — all men — are seized by the terror that their penis is shrinking. This has been so bad in some regions that government sound cars have been dispatched to assure people that there is no such illness and that their fifth appendages are just fine. The comfort does not, I gather, keep men from measuring and re-measuring themselves, particularly in this age of Internet mail offering help with penile length.

I don’t discuss that flesh, so this article is going to take a factual if not spiritual left turn before we get to any juicy details. I’ve found myself worrying about the lessening of another faculty, namely my mind. I have observed that many people who sought me out before my 2005 diagnosis with bipolar disorder no longer seek me out. Nor have I often heard “intelligent” numbered among my qualities lately. This rushes me to conclusion that I am losing my intellect, that it is shrinking beyond recognition.

Readers of this blog have heard this plaint before. From talking to other sufferers of bipolar disorder — at least those who aren’t in the extremis of mania — my condition is not at all unknown. The question is whether it is a trait associated with age and bipolar disorder or a mass hysteria common to us? Are we imagining our deficit or is it caused by our illness being allowed to chew on the corners of the brain or the radical settling of our moods by the medications we take?

I have my ears cocked but so far I have heard no reassuring announcement from a government radio truck¹ . I just want the phone to ring or email to appear in my box asking my opinion on some matter of local self government or some writing or something other than the day to day of my illness² . Readmit me to the human race please.

1. perhaps a good sign since this might well indicate a hallucination [↩]
2. But note that I receive no calls about that either. [↩]

This blog now has a Facebook fan page at: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Pax-Nortona/318862335204

Note that you will receive links that do not appear here on the blog, mostly pertaining to mental illness and the brain.

He said: “Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn’t blame you if you do.
But ya ought to thank me, before I die,
For the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye
Cause I’m the son-of-a-bitch that named you “Sue.’”

The dragon-scaled back ring of the telephone invited one of my dorm mates into the hall. He then knocked on my door and I began the conversation. The rabbi for the Claremont Colleges had seen my name in the Pomona College directory and wondered why I hadn’t been coming to synagogue. I chuckled slightly and said “Well, it’s because I’m not Jewish. I was raised Roman Catholic.” He took it in good stride, said a few jovial words, and let me go back to my homework. It made for an interesting anecdote for sharing around the dinner table in the days to come.

A couple of weeks ago on Facebook, someone saw my name in a political discussion and began excoriating me for Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians. I told the miscreant that he had no clue who I was and what I was about and left it there. It was only after a week of letting the incident mellow inside a fold of my brain that I realized that he’d made the same mistake that the rabbi had made: Joel Sax had to be Jewish.

When accused of it now, I tend to answer the taunt as Charlie Chaplin once did: “I don’t have the honor.” In my life, I have also been accused of being gay. My wife can confirm that I am not. A different tale deserves to be remarked upon here: once in my freshman year, I went to the school counseling center after hours because I was fringing on suicidiality. I happened to walk in on a meeting of the Gay Student Association. A young man pulled me aside and listened to me — without trying to seduce me or win me over to the cause¹ . That little piece of kindness mattered a lot to me then and I also recalled how it felt to be hounded for being gay even though I was not.

I’ve come to the conclusion that to be the object of hatreds for which I am undeserving has given me a unique insight into the pointlessness of racism, antisemitism, homophobia, etc. All that venom arises for no good reason at all as far as i can see. Perhaps it is an experience that more people need to go through. It’s easy to be outraged for being hated for the things that we can be rightly classed at, but you don’t get the absurdity of it as it affects others until you have been hated for that which you are not. I think most Americans live pleasant little lives in which they are never challenged by finding themselves outside their group of comfort. I see myself as having been blessed or lucky. All this experience has made me more compassionate and strong. Dare I pity those who have no clue?

1. so there, homophobes [↩]

The clearing of the two-day long storm made a walk along the skyline beyond our condo complex seem like a good idea and it was. Drake was enthusiastic as he always is and I set myself a reasonable goal of a mile in along the Santiago Truck Trail to a gate and then back again. I felt good, so the temptation to take a side journey along a ridge running alongside and above the main track got the better of me. And this wasn’t a bad idea either. The slope to the top wasn’t bad. I wasn’t winded or dizzy when I arrived at the cairn whose cross had been burned out by the fire. The slope down the other side required a little careful footwork, but the one time I slipped I was able to catch a burnt branch of something or other to brake my fall. My dog loved it. He dashed ahead and then back again, checking the landscape to our right, listening as I called to him to stop or come back for one of the biscuits I held in my left hand.

Then we came to it. The trail narrowed or rather the hill narrowed. Where we had had an ample ten feet on either side of the track before, there were now only inches. I looked ahead. Drake stood on about twelve inches of ridge. I found my body starting to shake. Don’t look down were the first words and then I’m not going any farther. The wind wasn’t blowing very hard, but the ground was soaked. I could easily imagine the dirt — and that was all there was — giving way on either side. A hundred feet down on the left and a thousand on the right is my guess of my danger. So I did a pivot on the spot where I stood which was already too narrow — mark about two inches on either side. The fear shook my legs and I took the smallest steps until I was back on broader ground. Perhaps in manic days I might have traipsed along, but I had my wits about me. I went back the way I came, the distance of about a third of a mile of backtracking.

The slope that I slipped on proved hard. My head and chest pounded by the time I reached the top, so I sat on one of the stones circling the cairn. Doggy thought this the finest of adventures and stood close to me, eager to get moving again. I caught my breath and then took an easy slope down to the main trail. Lynn waited for us at the parking area. I didn’t want to discuss the precipice or my terror.

The pain in my upper arms from dragging a small backpack from the lowest walkable territory to the highest in the San Diego Wild Animal Park is just one of the streaks that put me in a low place these last few days: Mel Gibson’s face in those commercials for his latest action film is another. I grew up knowing a younger Mel Gibson, one who didn’t have a pair of deep lines falling to each side of his nose like a thin, misplaced Fu Manchu moustache. I’ve been surrounded by ancient visages here at Lawrence Welk Resort, faces that crinkle at a grin, fall from the cheekbones and collect like lava below the chin line. This is Old Age and I am going to be seeing more of it in the years to come. Despite my wishes for youth, I am deteriorating. The life long eruption is that is me is approaching extinction.

I’m too tired to wrestle with my keyboard over this. Good night.

Lynn and I are examining a large model railroad setup in the back of my father’s yard in the desert. I am trying to guess why one of the trains isn’t operating right. It turns out that it has two engines, one of which is painted like a box car. A flash flood nearly knocks me off my feet as I discover a tortoise crawling across the sand at my feet. Several baby turtles — no larger than my thumbnail — appear in the water. I spy a pair of chameleons and a couple of anoles clinging to the redwood fence. I catch them and place them in a herparium decorated with green leaves.

Saturday’s hike was easy though the way was steep — I didn’t feel the grade cutting me with my shoulder straps as it did yesterday. I knelt to catch my breath several times on the modest uphills and a couple of times on the downhill. Drake, my Boston Terrier, stayed close until we came into sight of my wife. When I came home, I felt my forehead and it was hot. No idea what caused this though I nearly blamed my own psyche for its manufacture.

That’s a tendency best curbed, a relic of the old assume-the-guilt. I know that something was genuinely wrong — how could I explain the ease of Saturday’s walk compared to yesterday’s? From whence came the weakness that I felt from lugging a ten pound pack that had grown lighter because I drank some of the water I’d packed the day before? This was not laziness as the voice of my last therapist in my head suggested. It was real and it brought me down. I wanted to walk bravely up the slopes of the Santiago Trail, but couldn’t. None of the explanations — exhaustion, lethargy, laxity — were congruent with my experience. I could only assume that I was sick, so I told my inner therapist to just shut up.

I really need to check my incoming links more often. This blog was mentioned as one of the Top Ten Bipolar Blogs of 2009 by psychcentral.com. I didn’t expect it because as my readers know I am all over the board content-wise — I see myself as a person with bipolar who happens to write a blog. Thanks for the honor and welcome to everyone who has found me through the link.

I’ll have new photos and new material in the days to come.

There was this house that faced Baseline in San Bernardino. One of those white gothics whose paint faded from all the years of baking in the California sun. It had a porch and on this porch sat an old man rocking in his chair, watching the traffic go by. This old man had a face that was both doughy and skeletal as was typical of a certain phase in the gaining of decrepitude. His frame suggested that he, like many of the retired of San Bernardino in that age, had been a railroad man. Most striking about him was the hole where his nose should have been. At some time, surgeons or accident had removed his schnozz down to the bone and left an opening into the convolutions of his pink sinuses. As children passed in their parents’ cars, he would lift his right hand and point to the cavity.

“See,” my mother used to say. “That is what happens when you pick your nose.”