Method Madness
I have been long fascinated with mental conditions, even though telling someone to take a bus to Erragadda (literally, Red Rock, and the location of a mental asylum in that city), was some kind of a witty comeback in Hyderabad when I grew up there in 1980s. The mind (or is it more like thought?) to me is the final frontier, the mystery that can't be solved. And when in comes to women, give me a fine mind, and you will find me forthing at the mouth. Besides, many of the heros - Vangogh, for instance - I have hearded into my pantheon were certifiably mad; I sometimes wonder if induction into this pantheon first requires that these heros should have behaved outrageously, if not badly?
So it is with glee I read this article (pdf file), which discusses the connections between genius/ creativity and madness - the kind medical folk would be interested in. The most cheerful section of this article:
"Colin Martindale in 1972 studied 42 English and French poets, and found significant psychiatric illness in 45% of them. Arnold Ludwig (1992) in an impressive study of 1004 twentieth century artists and writers, found that 74% of them exhibited psychiatric symptoms at some stage of their lives, which compares with 32% for the national average. It must be admitted that labeling dead artists retrospectively with psychiatric diagnosis has raised many sceptical eyebrows.Fortunately, there are a few studies of contemporary artists, writers and musicians. In 1974, Nancy Andreasen from the University of Iowa studied 30 faculty members attending a writers’ workshop and found that 80% of the writers suffered from depression or bipolar disorder, compared to 30% of her matched controls.
Kay Redfield Jamison in 1989 studied 47 distinguished British writers and visual artists, and found that 38% of them had been previously treated for a mood disorder, including bipolar disorder, which compares to less than 15% of the British general population.
Arnold Ludwig studied a sample of 59 female writers attending a Women Writers Conference and found that psychiatric problems were four times higher in writers compared with non-writers. Finally, data from the US Bureau of the Census showed that the overall suicide rate among artists in the USA is three times the national average."
O what joy to learn that writers are more likely to be mentall ill, and are more likely to kill themselves - as if the basic difficulties of becoming one are not daunting enough*. Also in the face of this stack of data, I am debating if I should stop resisting from drugging myself, and see if Student Health will put me on Prozac, "you know like" tomorrow?
*Attention Pitaji: I know you read this; so here is another perfectly good reason why I shouldn't wed, not only before I hit the dreaded "30" but any time at all - I am more like to go mad, and kill myself. Tell that to those suitable girls, and let me know how many are still enthusiastic afterwards.
My Daily Notes
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Sunday Music - Nick Drake
Nick Drake’s music first came to me many years ago, at the height of Napster era, during what was personally a weepy time. I was pointed in his direction by my friend F, who told me to check the man out – this after I had mentioned a song I had <a href=www.youtube.com>heard in a Volvo ad. What I really like about Drake’s music is the way orchestral arrangements heighten the simple (thus extremely potent) acoustic line of his songs, and how it makes you want to go off on Drake-ish tangents of your own; “San Francisco Blues” I wrote earlier today is one example. Here is what I found of Drake’s music on YouTube:
As the voice-over on that documentary clip says, if I meet a girl who takes me to her room, and I find Nick Drake's records in it, well, I too would marry her.
Music Posts
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San Francisco Blues
Cup in hand, its black concavity a mirror
Which I gaze into, to reveal the today’s
Fortune. Who will come and who will
Go, hiding in the rattle of trams riding
Up and down the hills of San Francisco?
Among the breakers of the bay, Mountains from the countries we had Planned to visit – Japan, Iceland, Chile - Part the waters. The tugboats sliding Them through the channel currents
Invisible though, in the rolling fog as it
Clothes and unclothes the high span of
The Golden Gate. A red steel cello concerto
You called it then, as Bach unraveled quietly
Among disorder of our tangled clothes.
Sunday morning twilight it was then too. What light graces your face today in Anchorage, Under that northern sky? The saint’s mute Figure on the mantle doesn’t answer, his neck Tilted, I guess, under the weight of frangipanis
You had strung up for all of us to wear: Francisco, me, you, your black eyed pup. Among the stigmata of your love that have Remained: this clay statue, these withered Flowers, this coffee cup prediction of another Empty day filled with thoughts of you.
My Poems
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