© Copyright 2004                               A Cruise, "The Blues" and that Mid-life Muse: Dreaming, Dreading and Designing "The Big Picture" by Mark Gorkin, LICSW Once again it is transition time, hopefully, a season for rebirth. I need it. The golden glow from my excellent Caribbean venture as a speaker on Celebrity Cruise Lines is steadily fading. And spring presentation season this year doesn't get into high gear until May. I've likely been struggling with speaker withdrawal. The six-day cruise offered four "Celebrity Enrichment" programs -- each well received. This past month only one gig, unless we count the lunchtime series on April 14th at the IRS when six folks showed. Bad timing. Clearly, some of my malaise reflects the return to shore bound reality. These liners are more than just hotels at sea. Cruising feels like primal regression: you are immersed in a floating womb. There's food, food and more food, even a midnight spread. Breakfast and lunch buffets that could probably feed several war torn Iraqi towns. And heaven forbid you should even experience a pang of hunger before dinner. Not a problem with 4-6 PM pizza by the pool. (My guilt buster was brisk walking around a portion of the upper deck outdoor jogging track after breakfast -- 14 times to a mile -- and doing my threefold workout -- treadmill, Nautilus and stretching -- in the health club before dinner.) And speaking of dinner, they must have brought in waiters trained by Jewish mothers. Our waiter appeared insulted if you didn't accept his offer for seconds on everything, especially deserts. Really, how can you have Baked Alaska and Tiramisu? I mean the guy even begged one woman to allow him to cut up her steak. The service definitely encouraged the coming out of your inner prince and princess. You couldn't take two steps from the buffet line before an attendant appears, practically snatching the tray out of your hands to deliver you and your repast to a table. Of course, we're not just talking oral overload, but aural as well. From a poolside Calypso-Reggae band colorfully clad in island shirts at lunch to contemporary and pop performers in the various lounges. There's a talented piano man by the proverbial bar taking requests throughout the day and evening. Oh yes, and at night, you have the Century singers and dancers doing their best to capture a little Broadway, a little Vegas, a little '60s. (And after performing a workshop "Shrink Rap" ... a participant roped me into doing raps for an on ship guest talent show. As I said, it was difficult escaping the music or the absurdity. Have no fear American Idol!) If you do, somehow, find yourself out of earshot and are having musical withdrawal, you can always wander into the casino. No sensory deprivation there with its jangling slots and psychedelic lights. And speaking of lights, on a Caribbean cruise all you need is some sun and a chaise lounge for constant stimulation -- from dripping sweat to dreamy sultriness. And when the lights went out, sleeping at night was blissful; preverbal memories (or fantasies) while being gently rocked and swayed to sleep by the ship's and Mother Nature's natural seafaring rhythms. Too Much of a Good Thing? Like I said, just about everything is geared to evoke a totally sensuous, womb-like state. (Of course, some have the equivalent of morning sickness. One convenient rationale for the continuous feeding is that eating supposedly reduces the likelihood of seasickness. Yeah right! Fortunately, after brief first night queasiness, I quickly got my sea legs.) Obviously, this cruise scene is not hard to takeâ¤|but not for twenty-four hours a day, especially if you are out at sea for several days before getting into an island port. While others questioned interrupting Eden-on-the-seas escapism with work, call me Type A (certainly better than calling me Ishmael. ;-) Preparing and delivering on board programs added some structure, if not determinism, to all that irresistible freedom. Maybe my New Yorker genes are still stronger than my laid back, Big Easy N'Awlins ways from the '70s and '80s. (And my quip for moving to DC in the '90s: If NYC and New Orleans had a baby it would look like Washington, DC. Though, naturally, I can't vouch for its legitimacy!) Actually, if you want tranquil without feeling tranquilized, then at sunrise or sunset head to one of the ships higher decks. Grab hold of a railing and simply look, north south, east and west. For 360 degrees there is only a never-ending, as far as the eye can seescape of water, horizon and sky. Oh yes, there's also the mesmerizing white foamy wake as the ship plows through this expanse of sun shimmering royal blue and gold or through the moon and star cast, darkly mysterious, if not foreboding, horizontal purple majesty. Suddenly, the all too human cacophony, hedonistic indulgence and over the top absurdity fades away. One is face to face with an eerily still "big picture" -- the vastness of earth, the smallness of homo sapiens and, even, of seemingly massive cruise ships. I'm part of nature's canvas, billions of years in creation, connected to a higher power. Simultaneously, I feel humbled. And there's also an existential emptiness within head and heart that mirrors this seemingly infinite, ineffable and solitary seascape. Of course, this is just surface; out of sight is an incredible panoply of sea life. Actually, this contrast truly hit home snorkeling off of St. Croix, Virgin Islands three years ago. Watching the Discovery channel just can't create the same reality, as when a fish the size of a moving mailbox glides by while you instinctively gulp and intuitively grasp that if this monster shifted direction by three feet, you could be a lunchtime deposit. Still, I can't deny the parallels between my "Tale of Two Cities" existence back home: limelight intensity, sights and sounds and connections while performing on stage, including the performance anxiety upon diving into the unpredictable array of audience creatures; in contrast, feeling alone, lacking needed pressure and somewhat adrift when off. The intensity and anxiety seems to help keep some of the existential demons at bay. The Winter of Despair Some of the disconnect is related to the breakup of a long distance, electronic affair. An intense relationship that, in the end, despite thousands of phone hours, was more elusive hope than substance, more virtual than verifiable, more "romantasy" than reality. Also, since returning north a dozen years ago, mostly business contacts and a men's group have replaced a once strong circle of friends. Why? One rationale: DC doesn't have the same collection of readily available artistic N'Awlins "oddballs and outcasts" with whom I felt at home. But there's more. Until recently, the paucity of Post-9/11 speaking and training work and concomitant diminished income evoked those ancient, still gnawing cockroach-like inner voices (you know, ones immune to extinction) berating me for not being more productive, not earning more money...not being "successful" (likemy six-income figure brother). Not to mention credit card debt to stay "afloat." (I wish a pun was intended.) Perceived unworthiness may breed solitariness. And hovering in the shadows is the Holy Grail quest to get published...."The Endless Manuscript." A new editor must be found to give a final proof in order for me to self-publish. And the enthusiastic Acquisitions Editor from the midsize publishing house lost the first round with house decision makers: "Too many stress books out there." But perhaps most troubling is that my life may be imitating my art. Am I experiencing that self-created Bjorn Bored Syndrome? The syndrome is named for the late '70s - early '80s Swedish tennis great, Bjorn Borg. Despite a stellar career, for example, five back-to-back French and Wimbledon titles, Borg suddenly burnt out on the circuit. Perhaps it was the mind-body numbing from endless hours of practice. Maybe the novelty and thrill of winning titles was waning. My Bjorn Bored formula: "When Mastery times Monotony provides an index of Misery!" Even securing a prestigious contract providing management coaching and team building services for an office high up the National Institutes of Health (NIH) food chain doesn't truly rev up my motivational motor. I've walked this consulting/coaching talk many times before, under significantly more difficult circumstances. At present, the intensity and challenge is lacking. Of course, I'm pleased that the Office Director really appreciates my counsel and that he's getting very positive feedback from staff. (And I am very thankful for some steady income.) I don't even feel excited or driven to write. I'm surprised this much has flowed from my pen this late afternoon. It's not just the up in the air status of the book. There's little sense of something new or compelling to express. My best writing comes from the heart and is birthed by angst or some hypomanic state (or both). Currently the writer's mind appears fallow. Alas, there is no engaging woman on the psychic and libidinal radar screen for intimate connection and inspiration or, even, mutual distraction. There's still unfinished grief from recent aborted relationships. Most critical, though, is understanding how my loneliness, how a sometimes too unstructured life and how the biochemical war between the sexes, sparking those hormonal highs and lows, drive unrealistic expectations and impatient fantasies of instant intimacy and magical love. With these issues so close to home, head and heart a writing project anxiously awaits, a project I periodically approach...then some large, still somewhat vague sadness wells up and I back away. The fear may also be artistic: I want to stretch as a writer, placing my relationship sturm und drang in a short story frame. Exploring a new writing style and format feels a bit dicey. (All of my relationship issues confined to a short story...Talk about another fantasy.) Still, perhaps it's time to walk my Stress Doc talk, to try breaking out of the Bjorn Bored Box and "Confront the Intimate FOE: Fear of Exposure." In my head I know the drill: shake up the life puzzle; grapple with the angst, start designing and assembling new pieces. Now test out the product or process. Engage with the feedback, generate a learning curve and nurse any ego wounds. Then start all over...until it finally feels right. But the vision, alas, must come from the heart and soul. Finally, just turning fifty-five, I suspect age needs to be thrown into the psychic mix. An artist friend seems to have done a fairly extensive social survey of folks in the mid-life to preretirement crisis range. Her conclusion: after turning fifty it definitely becomes harder meeting a compatible partner. Even for men. Is it because we post-'50s know ourselves better? Have we become more picky? Or do we prefer being somewhat unhappy alone rather than miserable together? (What do you think dear reader? Email and I'll post your answers.) The Spring of Hope Well, maybe there's both self-doubt and a glimmer of hope. In my current mental state -- parts feeble, parts febrile -- trying to escape the boredom box, I've stumbled into a deep, dark Alice In Wonderland-like hole. My ego and confidence inflating and shrinking through the bipolar free fall. Then, just as the hole seems devoid of light and life, a spark... illuminating, perhaps, "the pass in the impasse." Capturing my attention is a Washington Post Book World review of, Seriously Funny: The Rebel Comedians of the 1950s and 1960s. And I grab the book and open it and, blessedly, it becomes a parachute slowing a rapidly cycling downward spiral. This holy passage leads me back, once again, to that expansive mindscape, both seemingly infinite and empty. But now, inspired by these "seriously funny" iconoclasts, the book has morphed into a life jacket and oxygen mask allowing me to view my existential surroundings without feeling as if I'm going under. Reading is slowly breathing life into a seemingly exhausted imagination. Yes, hype still springs eternal. For several years people catching my "Shrink Rap" performances would temper praise with familiar advice: "But don't quit your day job." My customary refrain: "It's too late!" Now, however, people are saying, "You should be playing the Catskills." (Hey, it's a start.) I can't say when this transformation of psychohumorist to fledgling standup comedian exactly happened. Maybe it's an evolution. Six months ago, maybe a year, I began to consciously play with all the artistic elements -- pacing, intonation, volume, nonverbal gestures; knowing that nearly every word was potentially a dab of color and I could decide how to lay it on the canvas. And now I'm truly bantering with the audience right from the start. For example, the first few folks in a room become our "Stress Poster People." It isn't just clever lines; the delivery, my whole essence contributes to the laughter and a more playfully provocative and electric connection. The DC Improv says they will market me with their corporate training ("Motivational Humor") division. Big surprise...for months they've been saying that their site will be up and running in two weeks. Rites of passage never are easy. Of course, I'm treading on dangerous water. Is audience laughter and high speaker ratings a substitute for love, for acceptance, for self-worth, for my "higher power" source? Okay, my narcissistic side cannot be denied, but there's more. There's also a skillset, a confidence, an outrageous side that's been growing for many years. And I want to display (and, yes, show off) my talents, a charisma, this maturing persona, and these thoughtfully clever lines on a variety of stages. So I'm anticipating Spring Training and, especially, Opening Day. The land based 2003 Stress Doc season begins in earnest next week. Believe me, there are still plenty of trials and tribulations ahead. And when I don't sufficiently connect with an audience or the audience doesn't get me, we're talking pain and ego-deflation. For example, in a recent presentation to a 120 mental health professionals, a number were uncomfortable with my Stress Doc presentation. Perhaps there were too many standard deviations from an acceptable or familiar professional persona. For me, for a couple of days, the post-mortem was more postpartum. So once again Freud was on to something. He claimed the mature individual has the capacity to work and love fully or, at least, meaningfully. (And I'm sure he would add rebounding from disappointment and psychic injury in a timely manner.) Challenges on both career and home battlefronts lie ahead. But this essay has opened up a window to my brain and soul. Until I'm in a real ball game -- whether as a dynamic speaker or a more relaxed suitor -- if I can at least passionately express myself in words then I'm not a "paper tiger." I can begin to shape this trying transition. Hey Stress Doc, listen to your own hard-earned andexploratory -based wisdom: "I don't know where I'm going...I just think I know how to get there." Surely words to help all of us wrestling with mid-life dreams ormid-career identities generate new possibilities and realities and to...Practice Safe Stress! Mark Gorkin, LICSW, "The Stress Doc" -, is an internationally recognized speaker and syndicated writer on stress, anger management, reorganizational change, team building and HUMOR! The Doc was recently featured on CBS TV's Newspath segment -- Workplace Violence -- and in Biography Magazine. He is America Online's "Online Psychohumorist" - leading a weekly chat group for AOL/Digital City -- http://www.digitalcity.com/washington/stressdr. (Keyword: Stress Doc.) Check out his USA Today Online "HotSite" - www.stressdoc.com. For more info, email stressdoc@aol.com or call 202-232-8662.