July 1 2003    Rabbit rabbit.

I did some writing on Sunday that I hated. Yesterday when I read it again I thought it didn't suck. So I worked some more.

Sigh.

Then I made popcorn and watched Pollock.

                                     8:33 AM

July 2 2003   I've lost my rhythm. Can you tell?

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.

Heh.

                                     8:10 AM

July 5 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've been reading about this wiki on a couple of people's pages and I thought about it on Wednesday as I walked past a bar. The specific question was how are we defined and formed by the place we live?

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."

Once, Taj Mahal came in and we sang I Cover the Waterfront together.

How did it shape me?

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.

                                     9:47 AM

July 6 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.

                                     8:53 AM

July 7 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.

But maybe that's just a hope.

                                     8:59 AM

July 8 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.

                                     8:24 AM

July 9 2003   I have mentioned that I love my Board of Supervisors. I really do. Except when they are fat phobic. But they do have some cool ideas. Liveable wage. Watch dog commissions to make sure the police are held accountable. And then there's the yucky one who wants to be the mayor. Eeeww. I have my own choice for mayor.

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?

                                     9:13 AM

July 10 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.

                                     4:04 AM

July 11 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.

Sigh.

My BFB bag came. It's very cool.

Notable moment in the day. Me wandering from book shelf to bookshelf muttering, "Where the fuck is my Rumi?"

                                     8:02 AM

July 12 2003   

1:04 AM. Thud from apartment to the left. Sound of angry voices.

2:27 AM. Sound of keys in door of apartment on the right. Crash. Something, or someone, seems to have fallen.

3:04 AM. Sound of female and male voices on the street. Very loud. Not happy."Cloths! Give me my cloths!"

4:15 AM. Clump. Clump. of shoes on wooden stairs in back of building. Door slams.

4:22 AM. More things falling in apartment to the right. Big things.

Pain in stomach from digestion that is suddenly not going well.

Ohhhhhh.

                                     4:05 AM

July 13 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.

Yeah.

Well.

So?

Oh. I'm tired.

                                     8:42 AM

July 14 2003   My friend Cynthia has a fellowship at the Headlands Center for the Arts and she read at an open house there yesterday. She's a wonderful writer. Deb and I went swimming in the morning and then to hear Cynthia.

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.

Heh.

And so I'm off to my pensum.

                                     8:47 AM

July 14 2003   But one more thing.

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.

You believe me don't you?

                                     12:33 PM

July 15 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.  

So close to being finished.

Sigh.

                                     8:56 AM

July 16 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.

                                     9:31 AM

Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck. - Iris Murdock

July 16 2003   Apropos to yesterday's post I watched Iris. It was one of the most beautiful love stories I've ever seen.

Put me in a mood though.

It's like what Kurt said.

                                     10:52 PM

 July 17 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.

George is doing an interesting new project.

Meg asked everyone to do this.

She asked on Monday. But maybe it's not too late.

Craig is another show. The opening was last night and I missed it because I'm an air head. And because I'm ascared of people.

I gotta get ready to meet with Stephen.

                                     8:41 AM

July 18 2003   Sometimes, after a meeting with Stephen, I have such a headache.

I know that doesn't sound good. And it may be the two double cappuccinos I always have. But I think it's just that he fills my head up with too much. And that is good. But it gives me a headache. Sometimes.

There is a structural issue with THE BOOK. I know it. And I know I have to fix it. And I haven't been sure how. That was most of what we talked about.

That and city politics, the lies of GW and the need to deal with rejection when it comes to publishing.

Maybe that's why I had a head ache.

I came home and worked for a few hours. I usually have CSPAN or 26 on while I write but I was just too focused. I received a lovely mix tape from Laurie (thank you so much) but I didn't listen to it yet. The only way I could fend off the head ache was to focus on the writing.

I almost bought cigarettes on the way home. I felt the need to call up the meaner parts of myself. Pushing back into the writing feels like misery. It's not really that big of a deal. But I was feeling so close to done. And I still am. But the kind of work I need to do will be tedious and require me to remember things I'd just as soon forget.

Oh well.

When I came home I thought I'd stay up all night and write. But by 9:00 it was clear that was foolish. So I read for a while and went to bed. But I couldn't sleep. I read until 2:00 AM. Woke up thinking about writing. I guess I should get to it.

                                     8:22 AM

July 19 2003   This was so odd.

I began to work on the big restructuring project and I had three documents open. I was cutting stuff from the main document and moving it to one of the other two. And then I started to type and something happened. It seems I locked the docs. I have no idea how. My loopy all-over-the-keys typing might have had something to do with it. I couldn't get back into the main document. I have recent back ups so it wouldn't be a total loss. But I'd been working for about an hour and I was bummed. I rebooted and everything came back in  recovered docs. So I was checking frantically to see if all the changes were there and the phone rang.

It was Mom. She's home from the hospital and sounded fine. She's still using a walker but she seems to be mending well.

Then I had to get ready to go watch Gabe. He's been in theater camp all week and his class was doing a performance. It was so great. They did improve theater games. Gabe is a natural performer and story teller. I laughed so hard my cheeks were tired when it was over.

I came home and tried to work but I couldn't do it. I couldn't concentrate. Not for nothin. I tried and tried. It was like my brain had snapped.

Three Seasons was on IFC. I missed the beginning but I watched most of it.

I hope my brain comes back today.

                                     8:33 AM

July 20 2003   Yesterday morning I was listening to a panel discussion of African American women talking about memoir and autobiography. I found it deeply comforting.

Sometimes I just don't why anyone would want to read this book that I'm writing. It's just my life. But if you said that to me about anyone else's memoir I would go on for hours about the importance of telling the stories of ordinary people's lives and how we are trained to only be interested in the lives of the famous and memoir subverts that limit and the stories of daily life are so much richer and substantive. I mean, I am telling you. I would go on for HOURS.

But I'm reading my book while I work on it. Over an over. And I'm reading about the time I stole nail polish when I was kid. And I'm wondering why this is important. And I have to remind myself. Again and again.

So listening to the panel reaffirm the value of telling our story was a good way to start the day. And then I had to go Think Tank, which is a group of women who have been working with health at any size stuff for awhile. We get together to support each other and talk about what's going on with the revolution. We all acknowledged that fat hatred is ramped up more than we've every seen it. I wanted more discussion about how it all makes us feel.

After the meeting, as I was standing on the curb, waiting for the light to change, on my way to the bus, a fellow in car drove by me really close and shouted, "Get your big ass back up on the curb."

Uh. Hmm.

I was on the curb. This guy was just being a shit head. But it just struck me. It's the kind of thing that happens to me often enough that I am not shocked, or surprised. Sometimes it hurts. It depends on my mood.

Yesterday it just made me wonder if my book will do anything to make fat life more real and less abstract for anyone. I know that other fat people will see something of themselves in the book. But what about other people? Will they get it?

Because as long as, when you see me on the street, and automatically conclude that I must drink big cups of soda and eat tons of junk food, I'm not really human. I'm this thing called fat person, I'm this lesser being who has allowed this terrible thing called being fat to happen to myself. I have allowed it and I deserve what ever mean thing that anyone shouts at me from a car. If you understand that there is more than one kind of fat body and fat life and that I am someone with humanity and a complex life story, then maybe you won't imagine that it's OK to say something shitty to me. And frankly, even if someone does drink big cups of soda and junk food they still deserve some dignity.

A friend of mine and I were talking the other day and I was ranting about the obesity epidemic. And she said," The good thing about the obesity epidemic is that it's making people think about not drinking those big sodas. I mean when you go to another country where they serve things in eight ounce glasses you look around and see that people are just healthier."

Uh. Hmm.

This is a very good friend. Someone who I love very much. A friend who is well read and thinks deeply about things like bias and discrimination and the danger of making abstract, generalizing statements. And she and I have talked a lot about this stuff. And she knows I don't drink big cups of soda.

Which thing hurt me worse? The guy on the corner? Or this statement by my friend?

And where is this country? The one where every one drinks from eight ounce glasses and lives in perfect health?

Even really smart, deep thinking people will hold on to bias and prejudice in the name of health and moral living and the right way to be. And they will be upset when someone yells at me in the street. But they won't imagine that they are part of what creates that possibility.

I came home and watched The Hours. For a while I was thinking it might not be a good thing to watch but in the end it was. It was very beautiful and life affirming.

I didn't get any work done though.

                                     7:24 AM

July 21 2003   I went swimming with Marilyn and she took me out for a late birthday lunch. Came home feeling kinda spaced.

So I fooled around trying to learn CSS again. Failed. Again. But since I'd spent so much time trying to make a change, I felt like I had to do something.

I had a nice long talk with Jeanne the other night. We reminisced about India. As a result she sent me a copy of a book by Gaura Devi, which I have been reading a little bit before I sleep. Gaura Devi was in Hairakhan when I was there. She was often the person who translated Baba's Hindi. I never felt like she liked me.

It was always a bit disorienting. Baba said something in Hindi and then someone else said it in English. I never wanted to take my eyes off of Baba but it felt impolite to not look at the other person when they were speaking. There was always more than one thing going on in the communication.

But once I walked past Baba and he said something to me. I automatically answered that I was on my way to take a bath, which we did in the river by the way. As I walked on I realized that he'd spoken in Hindi; I answered in English. And it all seemed right.

I have a really long chapter on my India journey. I was really looking for a father. And I found one.

                                     9:02 AM

July 22 2003   I got a lot of work done.

I found some old writing and it seemed to answer some of my problems. I don't even know when I did the writing. It must have been for workshop but it sees kind of incomplete as a stand alone piece. But it had more detailed writing of some parts...oh this is all too complicated. But suffice it to say that I got a lot of work done.

And I need to keep working.

                                     9:17 AM

July 23 2003   I was at City Hall yesterday. There was a meeting about the task force on childhood nutrition and obesity. Remember when I went there before?

So there was a meeting in which the "new language" of the resolution was discussed. They still wanna make fat kids a target. It was difficult. I got angry. Imagine that.

Jennifer, Marilyn, Sondra and many others were there. There is a man who works for the Human Rights Commission who was so fantastic. But then there were the people who just don't want to "back away" from the idea that fat kids need to lose weight.

I keep typing sentences and then deleting them. My thoughts are forming and reforming and generally popping. But I'm tired of saying the same old things. And I'm frustrated. People just want to remind fat people that we're going to die. What is that about?

There will be thin people who get Diabetes, have heart attacks, strokes. Their joints will hurt; they will feel low self esteem and depression. And what is really sad is that none of them will be able to say it's because they are fat. No one is worried about their health.

And if I have a heart attack ... it will be because I'm fat. It's just that simple. Doncha see?

Oh. Yeah. I smoked and did drugs and worked double shifts of a stressful job and have never had consistent health care. But. Come on. If I were thin I could handle the stress of all that much better. And I was accosted by stranger in a car who wanted to yell hateful things at me and I have total strangers call me at home to tell me to lose weight. Sure. Those things got my blood pressure going but come on. Those things wouldn't happen if I were thin.

I thought I would get some writing done when I got home but I was in such a state of abject frustration. The Supervisor will make her decision about whether or not to take out the six or seven words that target fat kids. But even if she does we're going to need to hawk this task force. Because they just don't understand why we don't want fat kids to lose weight. And, ya know, it isn't about that. What we don't want is for kids to be publicly weighted. We don't want a fat kid sitting in a room where a teacher says you don't want to eat a Big Mac or you'll end up looking like Tish. We don't want kids to be so afraid to eat that they develop eating disorders and DIE.. And we want the thin and average sized kids to have people who care about their eating habits and make sure they get exercise.

And we don't want fat hatred to be articulated in public policy.

We're just crazy that way.

                                     9:13 AM

July 23 2003   I've been working on a blog for one of the list serves I read. I first had it in Blogger and things were so frustrating that we moved to MT with help from Dru. Dru, who I want to hug and kiss right now. But that's not a new experience for me.

So please go look at the  SHOW ME THE DATA blog.

This is a group of folks who really think about the health issues associated with weight.

                                     10:11 AM

July 24 2003   Renee came over for dinner. I made what I thought was a lack luster meal, chicken with corn in a light gravy, roasted potatoes and mixed green and cucumber salad. It just didn't seem too special. But she was so happy. It's nice to have someone love even the ordinary food that you make.

She's wanted to listen to Joni and sing alone. So we ate and sang with our mouths full.

                                     8:20 AM

July 25 2003   Sonya took me to the Ritz for tea. Pretty fucking fancy. And nice to sit and talk with Sonia.

It was good to get away from the screen and the tedium of line editing. I have a cramp in my right arm from highlight, click, cut, paste.

I'm still reading the Guara Devi book. When I was in India I felt so judged by her. And I wasn't wrong. She was with Baba to learn to renounce the material world. I was there trying to understand how to embrace it. It was hard for her when all the westerners came. She writes that Baba was the ring master in a circus. She admits that she is Calvinist in her approach to spirituality. But now I'm reading and I'm judging her.

Which is just goofy.

I forgot how many special things Baba did for me. I've been so estranged from the story of my self as a devotee. I was so happy being a guru girl. But then ...

I dunno.

I don't feel regret. But I do feel like I need to remember.

There's a great article about Marilyn.

Oh dear. I guess I need to get back to the highlight, click, cut, paste action.

                                     8:02 AM

July 25 2003   I keep looking through old pieces of writing to cannibalize for THE BOOK. But they don't all really fit. I found this piece that I wrote in my first creative writing class in college. Which was about six years ago.

                                     1:17 PM

July 26 2003   I love this. (via Mena)

Elayne is doin the Blogathon.

I thought about it. But I just did the 100 and it was not as much fun as I hoped it might be. Of course I was doing it in a flagrant attempt to get people to pay attention to me. Elayne is raising money for a cause.

There's a new (wink) Blogger in town.

I had a sudden emotional breakdown in the middle of my work on The Book. yesterday. Full tilt existential ouch. I think I might need to call it done. I have one more meeting with Stephen. I'm supposed to get all the writing to him by the 1st. I have a week to keep working. But. I dunno.

Sigh.

(added at 11:06) It turns out that Laurie and Monica are doing the Blogothon too. But they're on a team blog. It took me half the morning to figure out where they were posting. And, actually, they don't seem to have posted yet.

                                     8:18 AM

July 27 2003   I really have no interest in reality TV. Or at least I didn't until The Restaurant. Having worked in and open more than my fair share of restaurants (not my own but other people's)  I knew it was gonna be good. I missed it last Sunday but I saw part of it last night. It brought back memories.

I tried to stay up late with the blogathoners. But I flagged. They did good.

                                     8:45 AM

July 28 2003  The Restaurant was on last night. I LOVE IT! But I wonder about people who haven't worked in a restaurant. I wonder if it seems real to them. Let me tell you. IT IS.

I have a split in my personality when it comes to restaurants. I have all these Marxist, hippie, peace and love views about life. But I've worked in restaurants all my life and I have REALLY clear ideas about how it should be. The host should make you feel welcome. The waiter should make sure you have what you need. The bus person should not stack dishes at your table. It's about service. And service is a spiritual value for me. But customers are notorious for wanting the impossible and waiters are always dealing with putting on a smile for them. It is crazy making to have to take seriously all the petty demands of the kind of customer who must have things their way. This is well played on the show. The first night is a free food for friends occasion and the "customers" are so impatient and mean.

ON THE OTHER HAND. One of the reasons I think working in restaurants is spiritual training is because you have to do the impossible. You have to be nice to ass holes. You have to make people feel welcome and cared for. The waiters on the show are already bitching about everything, especially the money they aren't making yet. (The place has been open two nights.) Waiters can be so narcissistic. But they also deal with so much.

And if you're a cook it's more intense.

The show, so far, is focused on waiter drama and Rocco and people complaining. What I'd like to see more of is the brute misery of life in a kitchen. The food in this place seems pretty average. There is a scene in which Rocco is trying to expedite the food and he looses it. So typical.

He seems like a nice enough guy. And he's very cute. But he is just so typical. He's being a star while his staff is hating life.

Because after all the cameras go away this place has to be about serving food. And the food has to be good. And the service has to make you want to come back. The reviews on the place aren't great. But maybe when things settle down they'll find a stride.

Could I do it better? I'd do some things better. But I can't imagine trying to open a restaurant with a camera following me everywhere. This guy is under so much pressure.

The business is grueling and heart breaking and it destroys your body. And there is a part of me that always wants to open a restaurant. Because all the things that make it hard also make it fun and real and compelling.

The only other time I got hooked into a "reality" TV thing was in the beginning of the Real World. I thought it was kind of amazing. But it seemed to lose some authenticity as time went on. People who audition for the show now must know what their getting into. I don't think the first crew did. Actually the first time I got hooked by a show was when the Loud family put their lives on PBS. That was the real real.

It seems like there should be a study about how people change when the camera is on. Maybe a sociologist might do the study. Do we know any?

OH yeah. Dr. Pattie Thomas. And it just happens to be her birthday. Happy birthday Pattie!

                                     9:08 AM

July 29 2003  I spent an hour printing out THE BOOK. I have to babysit the printer. Things always seem to go wrong. And I had to refill the paper four times. This book is FAT.

It put me in a mood.I was feeling fear and futility and pride and loss and oh just a heady mix of stuff. I kinda wanted to drink. And smoke. But I made tilapia and green beans instead.

And then Mom called. My Aunt Dolores passed away. Anything I try to write about her seems off. She was just good. She was a wife and a mother and church member. Two of her sons and her husband are already gone. She'd been told by her doctors that her time was close so it wasn't a surprise.

My feelings are ... well I don't know. I loved her. We weren't close. I admired her. I am sad.

But there was something about my Aunt Dolores. Any big deal about her death would seem wrong. She lived well. She died peacefully.

I watched Secret Ballot. A film that every American who doesn't get it together to vote should watch.

I've looked at life from both sides now from up and down and still somehow ... you know the rest.

                                     7:34 AM

July 30 2003  Jenni has some friends who are doing the Breast Cancer Three Day. I'm hoping I'm employed in time to sponsor one of them.

I had an interesting moment yesterday morning. I read Kurt's comment to my post and the e-mail for the balloon hat of the week in succession. The man in the photo has Alzheimer's. In the e-mail the balloon hat fellow wrote a quote from David Serls.

"Seeing death as the end of life is like seeing the horizon as the end of the ocean."

And it was then that I cried. I had been filling up with tears but not really crying. And something the generosity of Kurt's comment and the photo and the quote - all in a row ... I dunno. I just finally let go. And it felt good.

It felt good to let the flood of memories move through me and let the sadness fill me and then remember that it's all part of the process.  

And then Gabe arrived. And I was in the land of the eleven year old boy. We went to see the Laura Croft movie. Which was OK. I mean, when I see a movie with Gabe my experience is colored by his experience. And he was diggin it, so I was diggin it. And then we ate lunch and came back to my apartment to wait for his Mom to come and take him to his guitar lesson. He turned me on to a game on Nick.com in which you rescue animals and care for them until they are better and then you set them free. I played for two hours. There was something so comforting about healing virtual animals and setting them free.

I'm telling ya.

Both sides now.

                                     7:27 AM

July 30 2003  It's loves illusions I recall. I really don't know ...

                                     8:12 PM

July 31 2003  So I was back in City Hall. The language of the resolution is as good as it can get. All the references to fat kids are gone. But it was obvious that they were just trying to make us happy. And they really want us to know that fat kids are all gonna die if they don't lose weight.

It's so hard to bear the self righteous pedantry of people who use kids to make the case for their bias.

Just so I don't have to explain myself ... again. I am aware that many kids eat too much crap and don't get enough exercise. I am aware that many Americans eat too much crap and don't get enough exercise. But here's something else I'm aware of. Many of those kids, and adults, are thin or average sized. And when all the kids are eating their veggies and dancing in the streets some of them will still be fat. I want kids to eat good food. I want everyone to eat good food. And I want everyone to move their butts. And I want bodies to be all shapes and sizes and ages and colors and genders and ethnicity. I want diversity to be protected and I do not want the size of my ass to be the measure of my worth.

The language was changed but the goal is the same. Target the fat kids. The supervisors were clearly biased toward the public health folks who wanted to tell horror stories about fat kids.

There's a commercial on right now for a car, an SUV, in which there is a television and two kids are sitting in the back seat watching a cartoon and eating from a bag of chips. This is America. We drive and don't walk. We eat crap in the car. We watch screens so we won't have to talk to each other. And if we're thin or average sized ... it's all good.

But if we're fat ... oh well. We need to get out of the SUV and the chips and the screens. And, really. I think people should get out of the car and away from the chips and the screens. But what I could not get the supervisors to give a shit about was that not all fat people live like that, many thin and average sized people do and to insinuate other wise is discriminatory. The looks on their faces seemed to say that they were indulging the lunatic fringe.

I'm tired of begging.

                                     8:27 AM