More coherent review to come later. This book is exactly as absorbing as every review promised it was.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
FREE STUFF GUYS
My dear friend Marla is conducting a contest on her blog. It involves great books by the truly fantastic Candice Millard, and everyone should enter. Go! What are you waiting for?
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Lately, things have felt a lot like this:
(courtesy of BenduKiwi)
Hoping things soon get to something more like this:
(painting by Mauritz Frederick Hendrick de Haas)
Monday, November 19, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
I voted yesterday. I am proud to have participated in elections on both the state and national level, and I am proud to be part of a country that has reelected Barack Obama.
In other news, I ate a giant kale salad for lunch and feel so good about that choice. Listening to my body: sometimes it works.
In other news, I ate a giant kale salad for lunch and feel so good about that choice. Listening to my body: sometimes it works.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Following http://myfriendsaremarried.tumblr.com/ is one of the best decisions I've ever made. I'm glad I'm not the only snide cynic out there. Caveat: I have a lot of totally awesome friends who are in totally awesome marriages and do not evoke any of those reactions from me. It's all the other ones. We all have some of them. They gross me out. Sorry, guys.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
9:30 on a Wendesday morning and this article has me sniffling at my desk. A Special Olympian responds to Ann Coulter's abhorrent use of a derogatory term with astonishing grace and compassion. It's the sign-off that gets me. After her display of ignorance and hate, this man still signs his letter, "A friend you haven’t made yet." That, friends, is the mark of a good person.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Maintenance, cont.
Taking up where the last post left off, another form of maintenance we can talk about is in appearance. As I said, I don't do a lot in terms of grooming. I'm not into makeup, or high-upkeep hair. I get a mani-pedi about once a year as a big splurge. My cuticles are the stuff of nightmares. Where I do put some time and effort is my clothing. I believe strongly that it does not take much (time, money, discomfort) to present myself in a way that makes me feel collected and confident. Not every day is a success, but I shoot for an over-50% success rate in not feeling like a total disaster.
And that is at the root of why I do put care into my appearance. "Appearance" is a fraught subject for people of all kinds, obviously, but in this case I'm writing about it as a young, white, feminist, biologically female and also self-identified as female. So what I will discuss here is my relationship with physical appearance coming from that place, which is the only place I can speak from with any authority. Having established that, I can move on to the actual point: there's really no winning in this arena.
I've always felt torn between wanting to be presentable and wanting to be valued for more than my looks. There is an assumption I've felt more than heard that a woman who is concerned with appearance is categorically vapid. On the other hand, there's the pervasive valuation of women based on physical and sexual merit that we see in every ad, magazine, novel, everywhere.
To be clear, I do not try to dress well because I want to be more attractive to men. I don't do it because I feel I'm only worthy if I assimilate. I don't do it because I want to be admired for my sense of style. There are all manner of terrible things you can have in your head when you're getting dressed every day, and I try not to listen to them.
I put in the effort because I view clothing as a way to construct an exterior identity. No matter what I'm feeling inside, I can use the things I put on my body to project what I'd maybe like to be feeling, or to help me feel differently. When I'm sick, or exhausted, I tend to dress up more because my clothes can make me feel excited, composed, and sometimes awake, even if I am none of those things. And I do believe that clothing tells people about us before we can open our mouths. For example, I think it's pretty clear from my wardrobe that I do not dress for the benefit of straight men. You'll not find me in many miniskirts, resplendent with cleavage. My ex, in fact, always used to say, "I like that you dress so modestly."
Nor am I a classic twinset-and-pearls, though. I am more likely to wear the twinset with this fantastic, gaudy, alligator broach I found at a flea market. Or to wear the pearls with mixed patterns and a hat. These choices reflect fundamental aspects of my personality. I am largely composed and polite, with a sense of humor and a streak of snark a mile wide. I'm interested in fashion, the arts, and other fine things, but can't stomach pretension. If you know what you're looking for, you can see all of this in what I'm wearing. Today, it's a Scottish wool scarf with a cable-knit cashmere sweater, slim-cut maroon pants with hot pink polka dots, and patent driving mocs the color of Kermit's face. It's all there, just a different way to read me. I don't think this is frivolous, nor do I think it's the only interesting thing about me. It's one more aspect of me, and one of the few things I can control.
And that is at the root of why I do put care into my appearance. "Appearance" is a fraught subject for people of all kinds, obviously, but in this case I'm writing about it as a young, white, feminist, biologically female and also self-identified as female. So what I will discuss here is my relationship with physical appearance coming from that place, which is the only place I can speak from with any authority. Having established that, I can move on to the actual point: there's really no winning in this arena.
I've always felt torn between wanting to be presentable and wanting to be valued for more than my looks. There is an assumption I've felt more than heard that a woman who is concerned with appearance is categorically vapid. On the other hand, there's the pervasive valuation of women based on physical and sexual merit that we see in every ad, magazine, novel, everywhere.
To be clear, I do not try to dress well because I want to be more attractive to men. I don't do it because I feel I'm only worthy if I assimilate. I don't do it because I want to be admired for my sense of style. There are all manner of terrible things you can have in your head when you're getting dressed every day, and I try not to listen to them.
I put in the effort because I view clothing as a way to construct an exterior identity. No matter what I'm feeling inside, I can use the things I put on my body to project what I'd maybe like to be feeling, or to help me feel differently. When I'm sick, or exhausted, I tend to dress up more because my clothes can make me feel excited, composed, and sometimes awake, even if I am none of those things. And I do believe that clothing tells people about us before we can open our mouths. For example, I think it's pretty clear from my wardrobe that I do not dress for the benefit of straight men. You'll not find me in many miniskirts, resplendent with cleavage. My ex, in fact, always used to say, "I like that you dress so modestly."
Nor am I a classic twinset-and-pearls, though. I am more likely to wear the twinset with this fantastic, gaudy, alligator broach I found at a flea market. Or to wear the pearls with mixed patterns and a hat. These choices reflect fundamental aspects of my personality. I am largely composed and polite, with a sense of humor and a streak of snark a mile wide. I'm interested in fashion, the arts, and other fine things, but can't stomach pretension. If you know what you're looking for, you can see all of this in what I'm wearing. Today, it's a Scottish wool scarf with a cable-knit cashmere sweater, slim-cut maroon pants with hot pink polka dots, and patent driving mocs the color of Kermit's face. It's all there, just a different way to read me. I don't think this is frivolous, nor do I think it's the only interesting thing about me. It's one more aspect of me, and one of the few things I can control.
Monday, October 15, 2012
In Which I Consider Maintenance
In a blog post today, my dear friend Traveling Marla discusses the idea of being "high-maintenance." In the comments section, she let slip that she thinks of me as a "high-maintenance, confident" friend. I think she meant this as a compliment.
It's had me thinking all day. The thing is, I am incredibly lazy in most ways. I wash my hair once a week. I wear dresses because it takes the guesswork out of pairing separates. I pluck my eyebrows because I can't commit to a threading appointment. I got highlights in August for the first time in my life, because I've always known I won't keep up with coloring. And that's just the grooming.
I think that Marla may have been referring, at least in part, to exercise. Specifically, to the idea of exercise of which the purpose is becoming or staying physically attractive. We all know the type: women you see at the gym every single time you're there, all waxed and bronzed and highlighted, with sinewy muscles that haven't felt the sweet touch of gluten in years. I admire the resolve of these women, but I am not one of them.
I do exercise regularly, but not for the sake of vanity. I do it because I was raised by parents for whom physical activity was a given, so it was always something we simply did, much as we ate and bathed and my sister and I fought. I started dancing when I was four, and later took up cheerleading and track as well. I became accustomed to the satisfaction of exhausted muscles before I knew there was any other way to do it.
These days, I work out for my sanity. When I'm too sedentary, I get lethargic, moody, restless, easily offended, and start to eat terribly. This is such a distinct pattern that when I talk to my mother and get unreasonably irritable, she says, "Honey, are you getting enough exercise?" And every time I say, "No, I'm not." And that, really, is the crux of it. I work out so I can sleep at night, and so I don't bite the heads off of everyone I interact with in a day. That it means I don't have to worry as much about my carb-and-dairy-fat-heavy diet is another bonus.
Having said that, tonight I did absolutely nothing except eat an entire box of Amy's shells and cheddar. So.
It's had me thinking all day. The thing is, I am incredibly lazy in most ways. I wash my hair once a week. I wear dresses because it takes the guesswork out of pairing separates. I pluck my eyebrows because I can't commit to a threading appointment. I got highlights in August for the first time in my life, because I've always known I won't keep up with coloring. And that's just the grooming.
I think that Marla may have been referring, at least in part, to exercise. Specifically, to the idea of exercise of which the purpose is becoming or staying physically attractive. We all know the type: women you see at the gym every single time you're there, all waxed and bronzed and highlighted, with sinewy muscles that haven't felt the sweet touch of gluten in years. I admire the resolve of these women, but I am not one of them.
I do exercise regularly, but not for the sake of vanity. I do it because I was raised by parents for whom physical activity was a given, so it was always something we simply did, much as we ate and bathed and my sister and I fought. I started dancing when I was four, and later took up cheerleading and track as well. I became accustomed to the satisfaction of exhausted muscles before I knew there was any other way to do it.
These days, I work out for my sanity. When I'm too sedentary, I get lethargic, moody, restless, easily offended, and start to eat terribly. This is such a distinct pattern that when I talk to my mother and get unreasonably irritable, she says, "Honey, are you getting enough exercise?" And every time I say, "No, I'm not." And that, really, is the crux of it. I work out so I can sleep at night, and so I don't bite the heads off of everyone I interact with in a day. That it means I don't have to worry as much about my carb-and-dairy-fat-heavy diet is another bonus.
Having said that, tonight I did absolutely nothing except eat an entire box of Amy's shells and cheddar. So.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Times has a story today about an orphaned baby walrus finding a new home, and it is adorable. The best part, though? This face.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Dear Pittsburgh drivers,
It would mean a lot to me if you could stop:
It would mean a lot to me if you could stop:
- honking when I stop at a stop sign.
- honking when I stop at a red light.
- honking when I do not block an intersection because that is how traffic patterns get fucked.
- honking when I yield to pedestrians.
- riding up my ass when I accelerate at a reasonable speed because we are on an uphill entrance ramp and while you seem to have jet packs strapped on the back of your car I am driving a manual with a touchy transmission that's old enough that, were it a person instead of a car, I'd have to be having awkward talks with it about responsible sex.
- thinking that "yellow light" does not mean "slow to a stop," but rather, "GO GO GO DO IT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
- thinking that a four-way stop means "everyone stops except me."
- thinking that having our bumpers make out while our cars are moving will make me drive faster.
- thinking that because you are mean to me while we are driving, it will make me also drive like a douchehat.
Kisses,
C
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Monday, October 1, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Pumpkin spice everything
(via Starbucks)
Am I the only person in the world not currently shitting myself over this? I don't want my beverages to taste like pumpkins. Give me a piece of pumpkin pie next to a latte or a beer and I'll be a happy girl, but I prefer them to remain separate food groups.
On the other hand, I am currently shitting myself over mutton sleeves:
Monday, September 24, 2012
My favorite headline of today (and possibly ever):
Donatella Versace Actually Called Her Designs ‘Subtle’
Friday, September 21, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
This evening I watched "Covert Affairs" while I made a bunch of pie crusts for this brick oven party I'm going to tomorrow. (Any time I get to reference some brick oven party I'm going to, it makes me happy about the state of my life.) Anyway, I had this show playing in the background while I mucked around in flour and butter. As I watched, I realized that Annie Parker is a complete, unbearable Mary Sue.
I also realized that I feel most myself when I have my hands dug into something, when I'm baking or cooking or getting muddy. When I'm reattached to the physical world somehow. I spend so much time in my head. It's the danger of being an introvert raised by people who value thoughtfulness. There's almost never a time when I'm not thinking. It's a beauty and a relief when something takes me out of my head and back into the sensation of dough between my fingers, or moss under my feet. This is why I need to move back to the woods.
I also realized that I feel most myself when I have my hands dug into something, when I'm baking or cooking or getting muddy. When I'm reattached to the physical world somehow. I spend so much time in my head. It's the danger of being an introvert raised by people who value thoughtfulness. There's almost never a time when I'm not thinking. It's a beauty and a relief when something takes me out of my head and back into the sensation of dough between my fingers, or moss under my feet. This is why I need to move back to the woods.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Clafoutis is a French dessert, sort of a baked custard traditionally made with fresh cherries. It is one of my favorite things in all of the world. And then I found this recipe for caramelized apple clafoutis, meant to be served with one of my all-time favorite cheeses. And I'm going apple picking this weekend. You'd best believe this will be happening in my kitchen and it will be amazing.
Interesting article in the Times today about involuntary muscle response in dancers who watch other dancers. Makes sense to me.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
The cold marches on. I've moved into the sneezing-and-coughing stage, which is at least a departure from the runny-nose platform of the weekend.
Every time I'm sick, my mother says, "Drink a couple of glasses of wine. I promise it'll help." Every time, I tell her that I've played that game and it always makes the cold last longer. In my increasing age, I have learned that when I'm sick I have to be a saint until it passes. It sucks for a few days, or a week, but it's better than the drawn-out decline I face if I give in and have the glass of wine. A little self-control now pays off in the end.
Over the past week, roughly half a dozen people have, upon hearing the congestion in my voice, advised me to drink whiskey to kill the bug. For a while I was good. For a while I stuck to my regimen of tea and water and trying to get more sleep. On Sunday, Katrina told me, "Oh, you're sick? Drink some whiskey. Works every time." So I thought, "Screw it." I went home, opened up an essay to revise, and poured myself a modest little glass of bourbon. It singed pleasantly in my throat, in my sinuses, on my chapped lips. It warmed me from the inside. The revision went well, and I crawled into bed anticipating perfect health when I woke.
Instead, I woke up equally congested and on the edge of losing my voice. So much for my dumb friends and their advice. Sticking to the austerity plan until this thing moves on for good.
Every time I'm sick, my mother says, "Drink a couple of glasses of wine. I promise it'll help." Every time, I tell her that I've played that game and it always makes the cold last longer. In my increasing age, I have learned that when I'm sick I have to be a saint until it passes. It sucks for a few days, or a week, but it's better than the drawn-out decline I face if I give in and have the glass of wine. A little self-control now pays off in the end.
Over the past week, roughly half a dozen people have, upon hearing the congestion in my voice, advised me to drink whiskey to kill the bug. For a while I was good. For a while I stuck to my regimen of tea and water and trying to get more sleep. On Sunday, Katrina told me, "Oh, you're sick? Drink some whiskey. Works every time." So I thought, "Screw it." I went home, opened up an essay to revise, and poured myself a modest little glass of bourbon. It singed pleasantly in my throat, in my sinuses, on my chapped lips. It warmed me from the inside. The revision went well, and I crawled into bed anticipating perfect health when I woke.
Instead, I woke up equally congested and on the edge of losing my voice. So much for my dumb friends and their advice. Sticking to the austerity plan until this thing moves on for good.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Telling snapshot-in-words of my desk this afternoon: aloe plant, mug of Gypsy Cold Care tea, ibuprofen, empty peanut butter jar.
In more cheerful news, my current apartment has two separate, perfect writing nooks. I've made them in the dormers at each end of the apartment, one in the living room and one in the bedroom. Right now I'm in the living room. My detritus-ridden desk looks out the windows onto a maple tree just beginning to turn. There's a cold breeze coming in, wet with rain.
At the other end, in the bedroom, I've set up my sewing table (now a table, converted from an early-20th-century sewing machine, found at a yardsale), upon which rests a borrowed Smith-Corona typewriter. Pulled up to the table is the diminutive, upholstered chair that sat in my grandmother's bedroom when she was alive. Later, that is where I'll sit to revise poems.
I'm dependent on, and influenced by, my physical space. Annie Dillard wrote of her bleak concrete study in the library of Hollins, and how its starkness helped her to live in her imagination. I suppose here may be something to that. I would much prefer, though, in the moments when I stare into space in search of a word, to stare blankly at the shifting leaves of a maple, or the parade of dogs out for walks on the street below me.
In more cheerful news, my current apartment has two separate, perfect writing nooks. I've made them in the dormers at each end of the apartment, one in the living room and one in the bedroom. Right now I'm in the living room. My detritus-ridden desk looks out the windows onto a maple tree just beginning to turn. There's a cold breeze coming in, wet with rain.
At the other end, in the bedroom, I've set up my sewing table (now a table, converted from an early-20th-century sewing machine, found at a yardsale), upon which rests a borrowed Smith-Corona typewriter. Pulled up to the table is the diminutive, upholstered chair that sat in my grandmother's bedroom when she was alive. Later, that is where I'll sit to revise poems.
I'm dependent on, and influenced by, my physical space. Annie Dillard wrote of her bleak concrete study in the library of Hollins, and how its starkness helped her to live in her imagination. I suppose here may be something to that. I would much prefer, though, in the moments when I stare into space in search of a word, to stare blankly at the shifting leaves of a maple, or the parade of dogs out for walks on the street below me.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Thursday, September 6, 2012
I have really great friends
No matter the day, if I can remember to take a minute to be grateful for all of the amazing people in my life, I realize I don't have it that bad. I am a seriously lucky girl. My family and friends are role models, support, inspiration, and always good for a laugh. Sometimes I am alone, but never because I have to be.
This past weekend I got to see a lot of the very important people in my life, from a lot of different phases of it. Guys, I know a lot of awesome people. They are all interesting, engaged, intelligent, and compassionate. They are the sorts of people who will pick you up when you're down and are always ready to dive into a great conversation about something you didn't know was so significant to you. That weekend felt like living inside a giant hug.
The best part about it is that keeping that kind of company can really snap me out of whatever self-involved, self-pitying funk I may have fallen into. I look around at the people I love so much, and remember that while many of them love me unconditionally, I still have to be worthy of having them in my life. It motivates me to pick myself up, remember how fortunate I am, and forge forward with the strength and determination that they deserve to see in me. They inspire me to be stronger, to accomplish more, to work toward the best version of myself. Simply by the examples they set, they make me want to live up to them.
So this is an open thank you to everyone who's had a positive impact on me. There are a lot of you. I am grateful for every one of you, and hope that I can provide half of the comfort you do.
This past weekend I got to see a lot of the very important people in my life, from a lot of different phases of it. Guys, I know a lot of awesome people. They are all interesting, engaged, intelligent, and compassionate. They are the sorts of people who will pick you up when you're down and are always ready to dive into a great conversation about something you didn't know was so significant to you. That weekend felt like living inside a giant hug.
The best part about it is that keeping that kind of company can really snap me out of whatever self-involved, self-pitying funk I may have fallen into. I look around at the people I love so much, and remember that while many of them love me unconditionally, I still have to be worthy of having them in my life. It motivates me to pick myself up, remember how fortunate I am, and forge forward with the strength and determination that they deserve to see in me. They inspire me to be stronger, to accomplish more, to work toward the best version of myself. Simply by the examples they set, they make me want to live up to them.
So this is an open thank you to everyone who's had a positive impact on me. There are a lot of you. I am grateful for every one of you, and hope that I can provide half of the comfort you do.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Dinner tonight
I've been food-obsessed. I joined a CSA about a month ago, and have been cooking all the time because I have so much produce around that I have to use before it goes bad.
Tonight I decided to make leek and bacon quiche. It makes a pair of them, so I'll freeze one to break out some lazy night this winter when I don't have the energy to spend three hours on dinner. I had a busy, crazy weekend of travel and socializing and little sleep, and today I'm paying for it with a sore throat. When I'm coming down with something, I either crave vegetables or something really heavy and fatty. The vegetable cravings happen less frequently. The quiches are in the oven right now, and in a few minutes should be ready to come out. They may not be the greatest quiche that anyone's ever made, but it's so satisfying to have food that I made myself, from scratch. Food in which I know every ingredient. It feels better to eat it—my body is happier, my mind is happier. This is a simple idea that I need to remember.
Tonight I decided to make leek and bacon quiche. It makes a pair of them, so I'll freeze one to break out some lazy night this winter when I don't have the energy to spend three hours on dinner. I had a busy, crazy weekend of travel and socializing and little sleep, and today I'm paying for it with a sore throat. When I'm coming down with something, I either crave vegetables or something really heavy and fatty. The vegetable cravings happen less frequently. The quiches are in the oven right now, and in a few minutes should be ready to come out. They may not be the greatest quiche that anyone's ever made, but it's so satisfying to have food that I made myself, from scratch. Food in which I know every ingredient. It feels better to eat it—my body is happier, my mind is happier. This is a simple idea that I need to remember.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
A half-assed evening
Tonight I'm going to move a box spring, throw together this for dinner, and then run to a vaguely 1964-themed housewarming party. I'm doing the pasta because I have goat cheese and I want an excuse to drink wine while I cook.
For the party, I was considering not dressing up at all. Then I thought about how little effort it will actually take. My plan is to put on a mod little dress, my old-ass, secondhand pair of Ferragamos, and some eyeliner. I'll tease my hair a little, which will be easy since I haven't washed it in a few days and it's full of dry shampoo. That's all. It's going to be a good night.
For the party, I was considering not dressing up at all. Then I thought about how little effort it will actually take. My plan is to put on a mod little dress, my old-ass, secondhand pair of Ferragamos, and some eyeliner. I'll tease my hair a little, which will be easy since I haven't washed it in a few days and it's full of dry shampoo. That's all. It's going to be a good night.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Bad moon rising
It may not be a good sign that it's not even 9:45 in the morning and I am craving curly fries.
(Spoiler: the curly fries will remain an unfulfilled dream.)
(Spoiler: the curly fries will remain an unfulfilled dream.)
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Thoughts on genre
I'm curious about why some things come to me as essay ideas and some as poems. What is the distinction? Maybe that the poems are a way to talk about things I want to discuss without getting into the thing itself. They're a way to look sideways at something, to edge at it, and they have a distinct ending point. They're contained. Poems are a way for me to talk about some of the deepest, hardest truths in metaphor. There has to be truth in a poem, of course, but it's more possible in a poem to talk around something.
The essays are what I write when I want to go straight into the heart of something, put it out on paper in the barest and rawest way. Essays demand truth. Maybe not absolute truth — there are ways to hide in essays, to distract with one confession in order to keep another — but the narrator in an essay must be a trustworthy one. There's not the same kind of room in an essay for doubts of narrative authenticity, for fiction. Essays are for when I'm trying to work something out, and there is an itching bit of truth buried somewhere that wants to be dug out. It's still a process of discovery, and of metaphor, but I cannot begin an essay with a topic that I know I'm afraid of. For me, essays are a bit of a confessional. Whatever I carry into them will, I know, weigh on me until I set it down in ink. It will show in the writing that I'm holding back and keeping secrets.
This is, of course, the interpretation of a prose writer who dabbles in poems sometimes. My education is in prose, and I don't have the same hours logged in poetry workshops, debating the narrative integrity of fourteen lines. For some, I'm sure that poetry is where all of the blood and guts come out, and I don't want to give short shrift to the possibilities of poetic honesty. From what I know, though, in a poem you can mean blood and guts but say wine and curry, and it's often better if you let the vehicle stand and the tenor fade away, a watermark behind the flash of the metaphor. In an essay, you can say wine and curry but if you don't get into the messy stuff, the literal, you will have a revolt from your readers.
Now that I think of it like that, it's that very blending of bald, literal baring and literary weaving that fascinates me about essays. They can be about the language, the intricacy of sustained metaphor. The most beautiful moments of them, though, are often the ones in which the thing is stated as plainly as possible. It's a balance of different kinds of honesty, but it is, at the bottom of it, about honesty. It's reporting the world as it occurs in the essayist's eye. The interest is not in the thing itself, usually, but in the unique interpretation. The essay is a test of character, and of humility.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Interpreter of my own maladies
I am a physical interpreter of the world. I was raised by runners, grew up in ballet classes and cheerleading practices and track meets. I'm not a new-age anything, and am made uncomfortable by talk of auras and chakras, but I believe that the full moon and the low tide affect me. I understand things by how they happen around and within my body.
That tough time I mentioned got a little tougher. I notice the result, as always, in my muscles, in my legs suddenly weakened, my shrunken lungs. I feel hollowed, a rasping reed through which the wind cuts with every gust. I try to eat, but food feels like an invasion, an unbearable confusion. I sleep and dream of hopping planes to faraway places. I dream of escape, and of meeting generally damp-looking men who describe themselves as "physical phlebotomist poets." Most of the days I feel dizzy.
Most of the days I can bear this because I have been here before. When I get an emotional hit that's too big, my body absorbs the excess. It isn't pleasant, but I'm not worried. I've been here before and know that I will, again, feel hungry. I will, again, feel the strength wash into me like blood into a leg that fell asleep. It takes patience.
That tough time I mentioned got a little tougher. I notice the result, as always, in my muscles, in my legs suddenly weakened, my shrunken lungs. I feel hollowed, a rasping reed through which the wind cuts with every gust. I try to eat, but food feels like an invasion, an unbearable confusion. I sleep and dream of hopping planes to faraway places. I dream of escape, and of meeting generally damp-looking men who describe themselves as "physical phlebotomist poets." Most of the days I feel dizzy.
Most of the days I can bear this because I have been here before. When I get an emotional hit that's too big, my body absorbs the excess. It isn't pleasant, but I'm not worried. I've been here before and know that I will, again, feel hungry. I will, again, feel the strength wash into me like blood into a leg that fell asleep. It takes patience.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Some goals
I've been having a tough time lately. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing super traumatic, just one of those periods of a lot of change that I'm not handling as best I could.
I still haven't gotten the new apartment in order. It's been a busy couple of weeks full of social engagements and work stuff. None of this is an excuse. I have trouble feeling centered at all when my living space is in more than the usual disarray, and I know this about myself, and still have not taken enough steps to fix it. I blame only myself.
So, internet, I state a goal: today I will unpack some boxes. I know that doesn't sound like a whole lot of a goal, but I want to set something manageable. I have six hours before my next social thing, and in that time I need to unpack a bunch of stuff, take a trip to Home Depot, get some exercise, and bake something. All of this is possible.
First, I need to change out of my chic, layered pajamas (it's cold in the apartment this morning — glorious) and get my butt in gear. To productivity!
I still haven't gotten the new apartment in order. It's been a busy couple of weeks full of social engagements and work stuff. None of this is an excuse. I have trouble feeling centered at all when my living space is in more than the usual disarray, and I know this about myself, and still have not taken enough steps to fix it. I blame only myself.
So, internet, I state a goal: today I will unpack some boxes. I know that doesn't sound like a whole lot of a goal, but I want to set something manageable. I have six hours before my next social thing, and in that time I need to unpack a bunch of stuff, take a trip to Home Depot, get some exercise, and bake something. All of this is possible.
First, I need to change out of my chic, layered pajamas (it's cold in the apartment this morning — glorious) and get my butt in gear. To productivity!
Sunday, August 5, 2012
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