I made an animation based on a song I wrote called "Once You Die."

The animation is posted on Vimeo.com, under my name: Anne Beal, and the video title is "Once You Die."  

 here is the link ---> http://www.vimeo.com/7693425

It is about my experience with suicide.  I animated only 20 seconds of the song; you can listen to the whole song at www.myspace.com/annabelleallways . 

There are 40 reviews of Invisible Driving on Amazon.com, with an average 5 Star rating.  It's also been reviewed on many national and international Bipolar websites (links available at http://www.invisibledriving.com.)  Industry gurus Dr. E. Fuller Torrey and Dr. Jim Phelps have given it rave reviews.  In general, it is evaluated specifically as a memoir of manic depression, with an eye to how it can help those interested in learning more about the illness.  The following is, I believe, the definitive Invisible Driving review.  Not merely because it is brilliant and brilliantly written, but because it describes the totality of the book as a work of literature.  I hope you enjoy it.  It was written by London-based author, editor, and critic Justina Jase and appeared first on her blog, then on Amazon.uk.

The relationship between genius, artistic creativity, and mania has been studied at length, and it’s a deep vein. But to say that mania is a state of pure creativity is an oversimplification; rather like saying an erupting volcano is a good source of energy. There is truth to the statement, but who among us can control a volcano? When I was writing Invisible Driving, my memoir of manic depression (http://www.invisibledriving.com) (Amazon.com) I had to reconstruct my manic episodes with great care. In doing so, two things became obvious. The first was that my creative energies were at their highest, I existed in a state of constant, unfettered creativity. The other was that creativity was far beyond my grasp, it was controlling me, in a sense, my new persona was the greatest single product of my uncontrolled creativity – I was a fabulous fiction. In hindsight I understood that, while the sensation of unbridled creativity was seductive, it could never qualify as art, since art is the result of a careful balance between creativity and control. In mania, there was no control.

Back at home with a brain that boiled like a cauldron of Louisiana gumbo. What to, what to, what to do? Zelda bubbled up to the surface. Used to work together at an agency, still spoke now and again. Liked to feed me freelance. Didn’t see her much, used the phone. Had always been a chemistry between us which I’d been very careful to discourage. Married chicks had always been off limits, police barricade, don’t cross. And if that were not sufficiently sufficient, and it were, she was moody, spoiled, and unpredictable. Cheese not squarely on the cracker. But to quote the redoubtable Lord Buckley, “If you get to it, and you cannot do it, there you jolly well are, aren’t you?” Which is another way of saying, I was looking at all career options, full-time freelance, free time full-lance, ad copywriting was a favorite. Half a dozen thoroughbred accounts in the barn and I could be completely independent. Fuck the corporate world and how they did me, wouldn’t treat a stepchild like that, but like they always say, he who laughs last, laughs flaff flaff flaff flaff flaff. With projects pouring in from Zelda, and all the other angels I would meet, prosperity was unavoidable.

A Manic episode can elevate instantly. One night I was washing the china, the next night I was China. For months after I was desperately racing. Going nowhere. Going off. My mind glowed like a rocket, wildly churning out ideas. The ideas were totally unconnected, or, at best, hinged on a sliver of wordplay. At first this made me feel powerful, it’s unbelievably entertaining. After a while, it was like having a demented television set in my brain that I couldn’t turn off.

Everything is, the way it is, for a reason. Or, it isn’t. Or both. Or neither. It’s so hard to tell. But I can tell you. I can tell you a mile away. I can tell you’re a mile away by the Luke in your eyes. Matthew. Mark. John upstairs on your left. A marvelous hat was timed by all. All’s well that’s oiled well. If you think the party is dull, circulate, if you think it’s fun, circle seven. Every won played Counts. Except those who played Contessas. The Count’s divorce was uncontessad. At the auction she was chomping at the bid. The subway in London is the fellow peon tube. Tube B or not Tube B? I once met a Jewish gangster exiled in the islands, his name was Bermuda Schwartz. European? No, it’s just ice in my pocket. Don’t step in the poodles. She was only a stableman’s daughter, but all the horsemen knew her. Then there was the performance artist who said, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I’m like.” Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts Albert Finney. Remember that bastard Lester Maddox? He was a racist, and a brutal hatemonger. He was the Lester of two evils. Stop, I’m killing me! Want a drink? No thanks, I’m not drinking any more. Of course, I’m not drinking any less, either.

These are glory days for Invisible Driving. I’ve discovered the core position, The Empty Car. While performing The Empty Car I’m in the driver’s seat with feet on pedals in the normal arrangement but all of me above waist level is bent over, resting on the passenger’s seat. I have the mirrors set so that I can still see perfectly well but to all observers the car is unoccupied. It’s incredibly funny. We’re talking radnopolis funny. Impossible for me to pull this maneuver without cracking up into a squizzling, snerchified hysterical laughter. I laugh with a nervous, giddy delight at the sheer absurdity of it. I laugh with a childish delight at the outrageousness of it. I laugh with an anxious excitement, agitated by the risk. But I laugh most uncontrollably as I imagine the reactions of the passengers in the cars who see this apparition. The ghost car.