"We are, all of us, living in the shadow of Manhattan."
- Professor Milton Glass, 1985

So here we finally have a new entry in this journal. I don't enjoy writing things like letters or missives and that is why my replies to the good people who contact me can seem terse. I _do_ make sure that I answer all comments or questions because it's important for the people out there who seem to like my artwork to know that I see every comment and they are all very important to me.

Lately I have been feeling the effects of depression and anxiety and it is unpleasant. It interferes with my art and taints everything I do and lessens the pleasure of every experience. I'm sure many of you out there may suffer this as well from time to time and you certainly have my sympathies. The anxiety has been a chronic thing going back to my childhood where I would worry about everything, including school, my parent's health and most things in between. For most of my life this was "just the way I was made" and I should learn to relax and not worry over what _might_ happen. I wish I could have just learned to relax but I have never had control of this feeling. I've just tolerated it as it occurred, year upon year.

It was only within the last ten years that I finally went to a doctor as was eventually informed that I had a "Anxiety Disorder." I didn't know what to say. There was a _name_ for this feeling? It was a tangible thing and not just "me worrying too much?" I was duly put on various medications which have, for the most part, helped a lot. I've outgrown some, replaced others and have found that changes do need to be made as my life progresses.

Recently, my upstairs neighbours have moved out and now I have to anticipate a new collection of noises and sounds from prospective new tenants. This is a normal thing for most and it is tolerated by renters all over. For me, the thing is that there is no sound insulation between floors and this will be the twelfth new set of tenants since I moved here 13 years ago. Hearing strangers moving around upstairs, hearing fragments of conversation, the bass levels from their stereos and so on seems to have really struck a nerve in me. It's irrational, of course but it really sets me off. I think there may even be a touch of paranoia within me as I have often imagined that people have been making noise deliberately. I know this is probably not true but once the idea is in my head, it's hard to shake off. In his novel "Red Dragon," Thomas Harris pointed out that "The price of imagination is fear." I believe that.

Now, I don't want this journal entry to take the form of a paranoid rant. I do not choose to feel this way. There have been those who would say,"snap out of it." "You're imagining things" and words of that sort. I'll say no more at this time since I've probably made my rather long-winded point.

And that point is.... uhm.... what is it again?... Oh yes. I'm feeling nervous and depressed and I hope my legions of fans will send me a kind word or two in my hour of self-pitying need.



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