the Bipolar Bear and I - part 2

i like bears, at least conceptually, and that's a good thing because there are more bears on my street than in most European countries. sometimes walking the dog at night, there are encounters. sometimes there are encounters
in the back yard, or the front porch.

bears are powerful, impressive creatures that could kill
me with one paw behind their back. i respect them
and their right to be here too, and as much as possible,
i stay out of their way.

teddy bears were not invented in Canada, and there are reasons. anyone who has ever found themselves up close
to a real bear and lived to tell will never recall an overwhelming urge to cuddle.

but if you lived somewhere that bears were functionally extinct, the nostalgia is so predictable as to be inevitable.

the last thing i need to help through the ups and downs
of bipolar living is something cute. Bambi, pink ponies and all the rest use their helplessness like a weapon, launching pre-emptive strike on realities that need to be noticed,
talked about and changed.

no thing and no one changes for the better by substituting "Poor me, poor, poor pitiful me" for a broader and more informed, inclusive perspective.

the bipolar bear is frozen in an eternal present, where
the obvious - sometimes i'm up, sometimes i'm down - is presented over and over and over, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

if nothing real gets revealed, nothing gets learned and nothing ever changes.

if this is how bipolar living represents to the uni-poled, nothing's going to change. best case, there might be
a little more pity going around.

fuck pity. if you want to get real about something,
let's get real. til then, get your damn bear out of my yard.



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