I've
been deeply discouraged for the last few days. In the
morning when I try to write my post I am dry and wordless.
Maybe it's because I'm using up my writing energy on
THE BOOK. But yesterday I didn't really write at all.
There's
no way that I'm going to succumb to this. I need to
finish THE BOOK. And I want to write my little page.
But I'm feeling things faster than I can process them
and I'm not keeping up.
So
I woke up this morning wondering what to do about it.
I thought I might take a week off. But I don't really
want to. I love the reading blogs writing my own portion
of my day. I've been doing this first thing for a few
years now and I love it. Usually it jogs me into writer
mode. But not lately. I'm wondering what to do.
And
right now I don't have an answer.
So
I'm employing a technique that I've used in all my journals.
I'm writing about not writing.
July5 2003 In
the past few years, while
I've been writing on line,
at several points during
the day, I have the thought; I should
write about that tomorrow.
It can be when I'm cooking
or maybe I hear something
and react or maybe I see
something.
I
used to live in a bar in
the Hotel
Boulderado.
I slept at home but I went
to the bar right after work
and on my days off I went
there for breakfast and
stayed most of the day.
When
you hang out in a bar you
drink. But if you're there
all day you drink slow.
You know you have time.
On Sundays I stopped in
the lobby, bought a NY Times,
an LA Times and a Daily
Camera.
The bartender made me a
Bloody Mary and a double
cappuccino the minute I
walked in. I never had to
ask. I sat at the bar and
read papers and ate eggs
and drank and smoked and
talked to the bartender.
Maybe I'd have another Bloody
Mary. But at a certain point in the day I'd switch to
Scotch. Scotch is a good sipping drink. I drank it on
the rocks. The first sips were strong and oaky. And
then there was the watery ice cube crunching finish.
It
was a little bar with one
big stain glass window.
The light filtered through
green and blue and prism
glass. Rainbows danced around
the room at certain points
of the day but it was mostly
dark and smoke filled. Jazz
was the music of choice.
Before
I hung out there I worked
at the restaurant that was
on the other side of the
bar. Once I served Charles
Mingus a roast beef sandwich
in the bar. I saw William
Burroughs there. When I
was drinking there I often
drank with John
Steinbeck IV.
He was chaotic. I loved
him. I can still picture
the brown liquid pouring
from the glass across his
full lips into his mouth.
He drank in one gulp. And
then he'd talk. And I mostly
listened. But I got a word
or two in. His brother Tom
liked me because the first
time he saw me he tried
to take one of my Sunday
morning papers. And, he
said, I didn't even look
up. I just reached out a
hand, slammed it down on
the pile and said, "Mine."
I
was in my late twenties,
early thirties. I was living
like I was dying. I was
living in a dark recessive
world. Sipping Scotch and
blowing smoke. Memorizing
the names on the rows of
bottles. Talking trash and
existential despair.
I
used to go there with one
of the great loves of my
life. He
drank Dos Equis. I drank Johnny Walker
Black. I started smoking just so I could feel the brush of his fingers
when he lit my cigarette. We bought little folded magazine page squares filled
with cocaine. I felt the warmth of his fingers under the little mirror that he
held while I lowered the rolled up dollar bill to the line of white powder. It
might not have been love. He might not have been my soul mate. But he was right there.
He was there until late
in the evening when he would go to the other woman’s house to ... sleep.
I
thought about it as I walked
past the bar the other day.
I wanted to go in and sit
there in the stale beer
stench and have a drink
in the middle of the day. I wanted the relief
of the dark recess and the
burn of alcohol as it hit
the back of my throat.
But
this is another time.
So
I walked on down the hill
to the
store
and bought tea
and bagels and red snapper.
I
did my dying time early.
And it shaped me in ways
that I may not fully understand.
But I thought about it all
and then I thought - I should
write about that.
But
I went home and worked on
The Book instead. I sent
a pile of writing to Stephen
early.
Thursday
night I woke up at 2:30
having a panic attack. I
breathed through it. Got
out of bed and wrote some
more. One minute I like
it. The next minute I hate
it.
I
wrote most of this while
everyone in my building
was on the roof watching
the fire works. I just wasn't
in the mood.
I
think all this tension is about finishing The Book.
It is close to done. There are ways in which you can
always keep working on any piece of writing. But
there is a time when you need to say enough. And I'm
close to that place, both because it is the last step
in getting my MFA and also because I need to stop writing
it. Writing a memoir is a weary solipsism.
Thanks
for the comments. I am, as always, deeply grateful for
my friends.
July6 2003 I
didn't write a fucking thing
yesterday. I looked at the
chapter where every sentence
begins with the word I.
And then ... I ... played
with my SIMS
(Don't even click on it
if you're on dial up.).
There
are two things I like about
playing with the SIMS. I
like the story I tell myself
about them while I play
and I like making the houses.
I tell myself that these
are signs that I play in
an elevated and creative
manner. The truth is that
my suppressed consumerist
comes out and wants to buy
two of everything. And in
the SIMS, I can.
No
matter how much stuff you
buy them they can't really
enjoy it all. BY the time
they get to work and eat
and sleep and do self improvement
and take care of all those
pesky bathroom needs there's
no time left to watch the
big screen TV. And then there's
the effort to make and keep
friends. Goodgawd. It's
too much like life.
So
I quit playing for weeks
at a time and then one day
I want to try something
and days, or should I say
daze, go by.
I
got Superstar for my birthday.
Um. Let me say that correctly.
I bought myself Superstar
for my birthday. Which is
madness because I have no money
and am waiting for some student
loan money to come in so
that I can pay bills. So
I tossed the cost of the
game onto my debt
load. Madness.
There's
one of my SIMS who is pretty
famous already, which says
something unfortuate about how much I've played. I wanted to build
him a big mansion. So I
did. It must have taken
an hour and then I clicked
on one thing too many and
my computer froze. I had
to reboot and I lost everything.
It was a gold toilet. The
thing I clicked on. It was
a gold toilet.
What
was I thinking?
I
went to Cheryl's house for
dinner, which was delicious
and fun.
And
real.
Then
I came home and rebuilt
the mansion. No gold toilet
this time.
I
really need to work on that
chapter where all the sentences
begin with I.
July7 2003 A
few months ago my Mom sent
me a Guidepost
in which there was an article
by a woman who lost weight.
She had been (I dunno maybe
she still is) a compulsive
overeater. She got involved
with OEA
and
someone gave her a rock
with the word hope on it.
I've seen these rocks in
novelty stores. They are more glass than rock and they
are different colors and kinda pretty. They have a variety
of different words etched into them. This woman got
one that said hope. She used it to meditate
and hold the hope that she
could lose weight. And she
did.
Mom
didn't get the idea of the
little rock with the word
hope etched into it. She sent
me a rock. Just a rock.
A plain rock.
I
kept that rock for reasons
of my own.
As
it turns out my Mother wrote
a note to the women asking
her to write to me. Mom thought
I might hear the good news of hope about weight loss
coming from a success story. The woman felt such a desire
to bring me the good news that she looked my phone number
up in the phone book. And last
night she called.
I
fought through a world of
emotion to have a conversation
with her. She was nice enough.
I'm nice enough. We are
two people coming from different
ideas. She is writing a
book. Imagine that.
This
is not the first time
I've been approached by
someone who has lost weight
and is proud of the fact
but think they have a lot
in common with me because
they're pissed off that
the world is so mean to
fat people. It's always
a mixed thing for me. I
strongly support the idea
that people have a right
to do with their bodies
what they will. And if people
find a way to love their
bodies ... it's all good.
But they have nothing in
common with me. They've made entirely different choices.
Ya
know she was a nice enough
person. Calling to bring
me the good word about hope.
She wanted me to know that
I can lose weight.
And
my Mom. I know she's worried.
I know she wants me to be
healthy and happy. I know
she means well.
But
after I spend some time
trying to understand the
nice well meaning people
of the world I feel my own
feelings. I feel my rage.
Imagine
someone who you don't know
calling you, in your home,
on a Sunday evening to tell
you that there is hope.
You don't have to be ugly
and unhealthy any more.
She asked me if I had a
relationship. She asked
me if I thought I might
have a relationship if I
lost weight. Called me.
In my home. On a Sunday
evening. Because my Mom
asked her to. To tell me
that there is hope. I can
lose weight and men will want me.
So
that is what love is.
Last
night I had a dream about
a man who I met a few years
ago to whom I was (am) attracted.
He was hugging me. We were
just standing there holding
each other and it felt so
good. I tried so hard not
to wake up. The dream was
so real that my body felt
... well you know. And the
dream stayed with me all
day. I was feeling good
about having such a nice
dream and bad because maybe
that's all I get. A dream.
Unless
I comply.
When
she asked me if I had a relationship I wanted to say
yes. I wanted to say that I'd woken up in the arms of
a wonderful man. It wouldn't have been a lie.
She
shared story after story of compulsive over eating and
paused so I could tell my own stories. But I don't have
them. She shared story after story of the food she eats
for comfort and waited for me to commiserate. Food can
be a comfort. I have had the experience of going out
to eat a lovely meal, or even fixing myself a lovely
meal and feeling a bit better about life after I was
fed. But I haven't found the ice cream that can take
away sorrow. I wish that I thought eating ice cream
would work.
So
we had a civil, albeit oppositional, conversation. I
hung up the phone and believe me, I wished I had the
magic ice cream that makes anger and hurt and frustration
go away.
I
do have the rock. I have the rock to remind me that
love is sometimes idiotic. And sometimes it expresses
itself in ways that hurt. And maybe I can hope for a
time when people will understand that there is more
than one fat narrative and that all fat people are not
compulsive overeaters. If a person is compulsively eating
in a futile attempt to fend off difficult emotion I
hope that they get help. I hope that they can learn
to eat for health and pleasure. And some of them will
lose weight. And some of us will always be bigger. Some
of us always were. And some of us don't believe that
we are ugly, or particularly unhealthy, or unlovable.
July8 2003 For
some unknown reason I was
thinking about Marx.
I like Marx. Marx said he
was not a Marxist. It seems
to me that to call one self
a Marxist is kind of missing
the point. But I like him.
And
then I heard this
guy
talking about him on Living
Room.
Talking about alienation
and fetishization and all
that hyper analytical big
word stuff
that I love so much. (You
can listen to it on the
site if you're feeling the
need for some yak yak on
Karl.) He
( Richard Lichtman. Not
Marx.) teaches at the Wright
Institute,
which is where I wanted
to go and do a thesis on
fat psychology, internalized
oppression and rejection
of the notion of the body
as product.
Heh.
Or
I wanted to do the History
of Consciousness
so I could study with Angela.
And if money were no object
I probably would. Although,
if money were no object
I think I would take classes
in painting
and spend the rest of my
life with a brush in my
hand.
George,
whose birthday was yesterday,
(More hugs to ya G.K. ) sent
me a link to this
test.
(Guess who
it said I should vote for?)
And news of other Dennis
fans.
What
would Karl say?
So
I was sitting around thinking about Marx and who I should
vote for and whether or not I should make my SIMS
a newer bigger house and the phone rang. Kristina
and her Mother were hanging out in a
restaurant
up the street. I put on some shoes and socks and beat
feet up there. We ordered a bunch of green food. Green
beans with brown butter and hazelnuts, rabe, spinach,
peas with mint. And roasted beets with ricotta salada
and arugala, Figs with procuitto and figs with marscapone.
I was really happy to see her Mom. I wouldn't be feeling
too happy to see my own Mother right about now.
For
the moment, unlike so much of my working life, I own
the means of production. Which is to say that I own
all this kooky blah blah yak yak and the computer with
which I am trying to shape it all into something readable.
Which is to say that I best be working on THE BOOK so
that I can finish the graduate program I actually did
do.
Yesterday
at the board a riot almost
broke out because the yucky
one went to Mexico for a
vacation which held up the
vote on his stupid care
not cash bullshit. People
were pissed. The Supes did
pass a measure
that will take some of the bite out of care not cash
but it may get shot down next week.
The
mayoral race in SF will be almost as intense as the
presidential race because the yucky
one is well funded.
Watching
the Supes and the upset of the people who were there
to speak out against care not cash was a Marxist moment.
The divide between the haves and the have nots in this
city is extreme. And people have had enough. I wouldn't
normally be critical of a supervisor taking a vacation.
I
myself might like a vacation in Mexico.
But the timing on this one is heartless and disrespectful.
My
mayor
introduced a commendation to MSNBC yesterday for firing
the savage
and encouraged the radio station to the same. Doncha
love that?
July10 2003 My
Mom called. I was ready
to have a serious talk with
her about why it's not OK
to ask other people to call
me and talk to me about
weight loss. And then she
told me she was in the hospital.
It seems that one of her
hip replacements was broken.
They took it out and put
a new one in. She's fine.
But the whole thing has
been going on for a few
weeks and she wasn't
telling me. There's something
about that. It just hit
me.
She's
got friends and she and
K are living
in a retirement place so
they're totally hooked up.
They have meals and docs
and it's all good. But.
She's so far away. I'm so
far away. She drives me
crazy. That's why I live
so far away.
And
now. I just want to be closer.
It
hit me like a tsunami. What little concentration I had
was shot. I went to bed early and now it's the middle
of the night and I can't sleep.
I'm
awake in the middle of the night. Thinking about nothing and
everything in such equal measure that my thoughts have
a buzzing hive quality. I'm trying to talk myself down
with breathing and writing and maybe I'll take a shower.
But
I want to be on a plane, flying to NC, to take care
of my Mom.
July11 2003 There
just isn't anyone else who
can make me feel this way.
My
Mom and Dad split when I
was three months old. She
and I went to live with
her Mom and Dad. We shared
the room she had shared
with her sister growing
up. We were like sisters.
And best friends. It probably
wasn't the best thing. I've
spent years trying to determine
where she leaves off and
I begin.
There
is not enough therapy in
the world.
Things
have changed. We aren't
as close. But we have carved out a kind of closeness.
And I love her.
She
is fine. K is fine. There
is nothing I could be doing
if I were there right now. I wish
I could be there when she
comes home from the hospital
though.
I
did end up taking a shower
and washing my hair. I read
for a while and slept for
a while. Finally I decided
to do laundry. The repetitive
motion of folding socks,
underwear, towels, pants,
seemed to calm me.
Watched
Unchained
Memories.
I don't have HBO; it was a Netflix
disc. It's funny how the Netflix thing can work. I filled
my queue without thinking about what I wanted to watch
when. I watched Rabbit
Proof Fence
a few days ago. I'm not feeling too good about white
people right about now.
Ate
green beans and shitakes
with red bell pepper pasta.
Finished the reading The
Hemingway Book Club of Kosovo. It's
was so good. And speaks to the fact that hatred is not
always based on melatonin. Although, when the
writer was in Italy a man told her that Albanians were
darker.
July13 2003 I'm
a bit punch drunk from lack of sleep and worry. The
neighbors continued to howl at the moon last night but
not as loudly. On the left their kitchen wall is my
bedroom wall. When they come home at 2:30 AM and go
to the kitchen for snacks and chat I hear it all. But
they don't seem to do that too often. The neighbor on
the right was playing guitar and singing with friends
at 5:30 AM. Either they were very quiet about it last
night or I was so tired I didn't hear them. My building
is generally quiet. And the neighborhood can be so quiet
at night that I can hear the sea
lions at the wharf.
I
talked to K last night and Mom is fine. He says he's
fine.
I
did get some writing done. Which, I have to say, seemed
shocking. My concentration has been nil. I'm red eyed
and weary.
Mostly
I read. I'm not usually a mystery reader but this
book
was recommended by a friend and it's sucking me in.
Somewhere
on the web I read a comment about personal bloggers.
The writer was saying that our lives just aren't that
interesting.
We
got a little lost so we
didn't get there in time
to go visit her
studio.
We coulda stayed after the
reading but we were hungry
after the swim so we went
back to the city for food.
The
reading was odd because
while she was reading there
were people walking over
head and dancing, or something.
It just seemed to me that
they might have organized things to make sure the writers
had a quiet place in which to read. And the woman
who brought her rather large dog into the reading and
gave him water to lap at during the poetry might have
needed a slap. I mean, what the fuck is up with that?
The piece
Cynthia read was great. It
was new writing. She also
works
in science and she writes
about things
scientific
in a way that makes them
accessible. Elegant. Personal.
And she was the best of
the three people who read.
And I'm not just saying
that because she might read
my blog. I'm saying that
because sometimes writers
can be so ... precious.
And not in a good way. But
Cyn is funny and grounded
and smart.
I
got some sun and sea air.
I could taste salt on my
lips. It was restorative.
And
I came home thinking about writing. And art. And people.
I
meet with Stephen this week. It's our next to last meeting.
And, really, The Book is so close to done. I'm sure
Stephen will prod more work out of me. But I'm feeling
the close on this project.
And
then what?
I
sent Stephen a pile of writing early and I have more
to take to him. I'm going to keep myself busy by reading
the whole mess out loud. It's a good thing to do. Any
repetitive rhythm, or off beat rhythm becomes obvious.
It's hard to stay conscious while you do it though.
It's easier when someone else is listening. Painfully
easier.
I
was reading Elayne
the other day, as I am wont to do. She was talking about
a
post by Anne.
There were two parts to the conversation in my reading.
One having to do with anti-intellectualism and the other
having to do with how fatness is folded into the portrayal
of the dumbed down American. In my sleep deprived sloggish
state (is that alliteration?) I felt a response deep
in the recess of my brain. And it is only now, long
after everyone else has moved on, that I am forming
that response into a post. I'm sure it has nothing
to do with not wanting to work on the other writing.
Elayne
and Anne both say
things
about anti-intellectualism with which I heartily agree.
I cringe when I hear people talking about college, or
education in general, as something for the elite and
not necessary. In fact, I was someone who said that
kind of thing. I worked in restaurants with a number
of Ph.D holders and I made snide remarks about the value
of their education in terms of how it informed their
ability to keep their stations clean. And then I went
to college. And I remembered how much I loved reading
and (uhem) writing and being in class and learning with
others.
I
do think that we have the president we have because
he was sold as a "regular guy". Well. That
and the fact that they didn't count the votes and the
Supreme Court decided that was OK. But I digress.
I
grew up in a white collar working class family who idealised
education. I was in that generation of kids who entered
the academy on the backs of their parents labour. Except
I didn't enter. The only time I wanted to be on a college
campus was when there was a protest occurring. It took
almost thirty years before I entered the academy and
when I did it was barely
the academy.
People in my school made fun of me when I used "big
words" People in my MFA program made fun
of me for using big words. We have a serious problem
in this country. People want smart-alec mean spirited
quips and not deep critical thinking, or beautiful language.
I have a friend who worries about the term critical
because "it's just so negative." Huh?
My
Mother thinks the minute they hand me the scroll I will
immediately be employed. She worked for years with people who
made more money than she did because they had a degree
and she did not. Twenty years later they still call
her with questions. And she still knows the answer.
So we do have some really loopy ideas about what education
is for and whether a piece of paper means a person is
actually smarter. But we are also living in a culture
that adores making fun of the smart kids, elevates the
pretty kids and persecutes the fat kids.
Which
brings me to the second part of the conversation. Anne
linked to an
article
with which Elayne took issue. I understood her issue
immediately since the article opens with the tired fat
phobic portrait of American life. We are all fat and
we all drink big cups of soda and eat bad food and love
our local sport ... uh ... teams. (Did I say that right?)
The rest of the article makes some interesting
points. I'm probably more with him than against him.
I do think we are infantalized. But there is that fat
indulged, indulgent American thing. And there is even
some truth in all that.
Of
course, being a fat American who doesn't drink from
big cups and doesn't really get sports (Not that sports
are bad. But could we pay teachers half of what we pay
sports guys?) and, well, you know, the knee jerk fat
representation pisses me off.
It
was in the comments that things got interesting. Anne
didn't really notice the fat phobia. Hmmmm.
I
frequently have conversations with nice, liberal people
who are shocked to hear some of the experiences I have
as a fat person. I tell them a few stories about people
saying things to me in the street and they are aghast.
They would never do that. They might talk about their
concern for my health but they would be very kind as
they did it. They walk into restaurants with me and
don't notice that I can't fit into the chairs. They
follow the host to the table and wonder why I have such
a miserable look on my face. But are they mad at the
restaurant? No. They just think I should lose
some weight. Because I must not have really tried.
It's
interesting. I like Anne. I'm adding her to my blog
roll. I don't think that she and Elayne (or I ) are
in any big disagreement. Just some clarification of
terms and acknowledgement of unconscious bigotry.
And
now I really, really, really am going to work on THE
BOOK.
July15 2003 Reading
a piece of writing out loud
is such a good thing. I
caught so many little places that
didn't work. But I get sick
of it. So I read for a while
and then made chicken salad.
Read some more and watched
Pie
in the Sky.
(Which was amazing and horrifying and funny all at the
same time.) I just kept going back into
it and I still have more
to do.
Planet
Organics
brought a bounty of peaches, blackberries, strawberries
and cantaloupe. And beets, which I roasted right a way.
It was hot here and having the oven on wasn't the smartest
thing. But I have a little salad bar in my refrigerator
right now. I blanched green beans the other day. I may
do the same with some corn. I just want cold food right
now. Big fruit salads in the morning and veggies and
chicken salad in the afternoon.
Plus
it all has to be something I can throw in a bowl quickly
and get back in front of the computer to the read-a-thon.
July16 2003 It
didn't seem likely that no one would respond negatively
to my
rant
and two weeks ago someone did via a letter to the editor.
I responded today.
(Scroll down.) I can't link to the letter he wrote but
it basically listed the things I'm going to die of because
I'm fat. The health issue, like so many things, is complex
and I just get frustrated when all bad health is tossed
into the fat basket.
A
new study
says that I may have Alzheimer's in my seventies because
I'm fat. It's ironic for me since the two people in
my family with Alzheimer's are the thin men not the
fat woman. If you read carefully what they are noticing
is that high blood pressure may cause Alzheimer's. Or
be part of what causes it. Again, in my family, my Stepfather
is on high blood pressure meds; my Mom is not. Guess
which one is fat?
Not
only is my stepfather not fat he was always active,
never smoked, or did drugs, or drank in excess,
never ate junk; he's a poster boy for a healthy life
style. And in his late seventies he began to decline.
In his family heart attack and stroke is common. I'm
not disparaging his healthy life style I'm just saying
that things happen in bodies.
My
Mom, who has always been a little fat but also very
active and doesn't really eat junk (she eats pretzels
and cookies but not fast food) and did smoke when she
was younger is on no high blood pressure meds. And she
is mentally sharp. For someone her age.
It's
just that bodies are all different. And that should
be OK. And things do go wrong. But I would like people
to think about fat people and high blood pressure. Stress
causes high blood pressure. And we (fat people) are
feeling some stress.
When
I was watching the Brigid
Berlin movie
I was struck by what happens to fat people when they
lose weight. She
was fat
all her life, from early childhood, and was every diet
and pill and lost and regained her weight over and over
and gained it all back again and again. She has a thing
for sweets. In the movie she ate piece after piece of
key lime pie with whipped cream. Now she goes to OE
and works with a sponsor and weighs everything compulsively
and charts all of her food. She's average size these
days. Except when she eats pie. She gains weight
quickly and becomes very depressed. So she obsesses.
In both directions. She eats pie in excess and then
she weighs lettuce.
I
know there are a lot of people with compulsive over
eating problems and my heart goes out to them. I don't
want to minimize what happens for them. But not all
fat people eat pie after pie. And when Brigid was a
fat girl she had a life. She had friends. She had sex.
She made art. There is much to pathologize in her life
but she doesn't seem to have a way to think about her
psychological problems. She "doesn't blame her
parents." Neither do I. But I do understand
how who my parents are shaped some of who I am. In ways
both good and bad. And knowing those things helps me
to make new choices.
And
there are some things you can't choose. I have brown
eyes. Like my Dad. I have a proclivity for fatness.
Like my Mom. I don't eat pie after pie. I couldn't.
I'd get sick. But I do eat pie. Sometimes.
I
just want to parse the issues. And I want it to be clear
that if I get Alzheimer's when I'm in my seventies that
it may be a result of a variety of things in my life
beginning with genetics. And then ... I did do drugs
and smoked and drank and never had regular health care
and worked and worried and felt the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune. And my bodies is a sum of many
parts. And it's fat. And that is not a part I will chose
to disown.
July17 2003 I
did some late night blogging.
Usually I read around in
the morning while I'm eating
breakfast. But I've been
trying to get to work on
THE BOOK early every day.
I
did do a bunch of work and
then watched the movie in
an attempt to wind
down my brain. But it wound
up my heart.
So
I looked for company. And
so many of my Internet friends
are blue. It was a heart
aching evening.