March
1 2004
March, they say, comes
in like a lion. And I'm feeling
the growl.
Just
in case I haven't been clear,
although I'm sure I have been
and if you've been reading me
you may already know this about
me, I am not ashamed of being
fat.
Let
me say that again.
I
am not ashamed of being fat.
I
feel the same way about being
fat as I do about the color
of my eyes, or my skin, my height,
my shoe size, the wave of my
hair. All these attributes of
physicality are an expression
of my genetic heritage. My ancestors.
My people.
My
hair, by the way, is turning
white in a few places. That's
the thing about a life in a
body. The body changes. I love
my white hair. Most of it is
in the front and on the right.
I see it when I brush my hair
back. It always makes me smile.
Oh
and I have a few scars. One
really big one on my foot. Big
truck. Long story. It's pretty
ugly but I'm not ashamed of
it. It's part of the story of
my life, written on my body.
And
I am fat. Very fat. Could I
eat less and exercise more and
lose weight? Sure. But
it's been my experience that,
even with more exercise and
less food I don't ever really
get thin. Thinner. But not thin.
But that's not something that
makes me sad.
I
am not ashamed of being fat.
My
body. My life. My choices. I
did not chose being fat. But
I have willfully chosen not
to be ashamed of being fat.
I willfully chose to not obsess
about everything I put in my
mouth and push my body through
an athletic amount of movement.
I eat what I want. I move as
much as I want. There are days
I am not in touch with my body.
It's part of the process of
being who I am in the world.
I make no apologies for who
I am in the world.
I
love beautiful, healthy, real
food. Later today I'll get the
box
of fruits and veggies that
I get every week. Last night
I made brownies. I hadn't made
brownies in a long time. It
was fun. They're good. I enjoyed
them. I'll be enjoying them
for a few days. Anyone who thinks
I shouldn't eat the brownies
can kiss my fat ass.
I
also ate a nice dinner of chicken, Swiss chard and fingerling
potatoes. Not that that's anybodies business. I made
myself a nice dinner and I made myself some dessert.
It was a rainy Sunday evening and it felt good to have
the oven on and smell chocolate baking. I don't always
take such good care of myself. Last night I did.
Today
I'll go to my yoga
class. I love my yoga class.
I love my yoga class because
it locates me in my body. I
feel my muscles. I feel the
tightness and the release. I
feel my weakness and my strength.
If
you're wondering why I'm going
on and on about all this, well,
it's just because there are
times when people's sanctimonious,
mean spirited need to feed me
their diet of shame puts me
over the edge.
The
body police want me to feel
shame. They can't reason through
their own hatred. They want
me to comply with their notions
of morality. They want to threaten
me with illness and death.
Well.
I'm not dead. I'm not sick.
I'm here today. I'm here on
this first day of March. I'm
feeling a growl and a roar.
I'm feeling strengthened by
the friends I have who have
taken the time to question their
assumptions about weight. I'm
feeling solidarity with my fat
brothers and sisters who have
stopped swallowing shame.
I
am not an apologist. I am a
fat woman. I'm pretty cute,
by the way.
I'm ready for another day of
the story of my life. My life.
Not the one some people think
I should be living. My life.
I hope you all have a lovely
first day of March. I hope you
have a lovely first day of the week. I hope the choices
you make about your body are the ones that work for
you. I know the ones I make for mine work for me.
March
1 2004
Susan
is listening to the same radio
I am. Hearing the news about Aristide being kidnapped.
I am livid. I see nothing of this in the mainstream
media. I'm hoping the alternative media will push until
the truth comes out.
March
2 2004
The nicest part of my day will
be voting for Dennis.
I'm not happy that I'll be voting for Barbara Boxer
given that she feels the need to claim marriage for
heterosexuals. We have a few propositions on the ballot
that it's gonna bug me to vote for. And I might not.
I'm still thinking about them.
Laurie
wrote a wonderful letter
to her Senator. Such a good idea. I'm listening
to Democracy
Now as I type. My thoughts are all over the place.
Yesterday
Sally came up to me in yoga and said, "You seem
like you're out of your body." I had to laugh.
It was a struggle. By the end of class I felt more in
my body but my mind is in such a rev right now. I did
a little bit of yoga this morning. I might try to do
more in a little while. I need to get grounded. I do
think my warrior pose is looking good.
March
2 2004
You know what I wish? What
I really really wish? I wish I would go to one of the
progressive blogs that I read, one of the ones not written
by a fat person, and see something written about fat
politics. I wish I'd read someone thinking out loud
about the ways they've thought about weight and bodies
and choices and assumptions.
I
know it's hard. People who aren't fat sometimes think
they are. Especially women.
And
there's so much else to write about. So much going on.
There was an election today. The results were so predictable
it made me tired listening to them. I listened to hours
of political analysis of why it all went the way
it did. I'm freaked about Haiti.
I'm shaken by the news from Iraq.
There are important things going on in the world. Serious
things. I know there are issues. Gay marriage. Rape
trials. There are events. Award ceremonies. There's
so much going on.
But
after a few days of things like what happened at Dru's,
after I go on a rant, after I feel bathed in the support
of my fellow fat friends and a few of my not fat friends
I find myself wishing. One of the things I love about
Sandy Swartz is that she isn't fat. And she
gets it. It comforts me.
March
3 2004
On the other hand, maybe it's
a fat thing. You wouldn't understand.
It's
been a cold winter in SF. I don't remember a colder
one. The heater is right in the middle of my apartment
and usually does a fine job of keeping me warm. This
year I've been closing the doors to the kitchen, bedroom
and bath in an attempt to get the living room war. As
I get closer to bed time I open the door to that room
and hope it'll get warm. My PG&E bill has been horrifying.
Last
night I kicked the covers off. I was in a night sweat.
But then the sweat on my skin got cold and I pulled
the covers back. And pushed them away moments later.
it was like having a fever.
It
seems warmer this morning. The sun is shining.
I've
been doing yoga first thing. It's a wonderful way to
start the day. Sally has these great things she says
to us as she talks us through the postures. things about
strength and being able to feel the support of the earth.
Living
in a city where the earth occasionally shakes makes
that almost comic. But I get the deeper meaning.
They
say voter turn out was low. But the joint was jumpin
when I was there.
March
4 2004
Oh my. I am drinking the strongest
cup of coffee. I've been drinking green tea in the morning
and coffee in the afternoon, or not at all. But the
last few days I've been craving coffee late at night.
I haven't had it because it just seemed like a bad idea
but I keep wanting it. So this morning I decided to
drink some first thing. And I made this really, really
strong cup. My eyes are spinning.
March
5 2004
I
spent hours looking at photos
and film of the Gay weddings
in SF looking for my friends.
I know four couples who got
married and I wasn't invited
to one wedding. Harrrrrumph.
Might have been the fact that
I never go to parties. Or the
fact that two of the couple
were married in the first two
days when everything was in
hyper drive. I heard that Leslie
had been on CNN but I didn't
see her.
I'm
not sure it could be harder
for me to write than it is right
now. If can be harder,
I just don't want to know. Of
course I did have to stop and
clean my keyboard with a Q-tip
and isotropy alcohol. Oh yeah.
It had to be done. Not because
the keyboard was particularly
unclean but as long as I was
cleaning it I didn't have to
be writing. It's just so hard.
It's
not always this hard.
Yesterday
I read two posts that wove together
for me. Mark
linked to Jonathon's
reentry post. It's a lovely
post full, of things to ponder.
One of which was the nature
of blogging and the quality
of relationship it creates.
And then there was Dru
linking to a
post by Aaron.
There
are so many conversations swirling
around in all this but of course
this is my blog. Heh. And I'm
thinking about my request for
dialogue on fat politics. Glovefox
had, in fact, written some musings
about her own process with weight
loss and the perspective her
experience
creates relative to size issues,
for her. She and I had some
conversation in her comments.
I think it went relatively well.
A
few years ago I saw the film
Last
Chance For Eden. Lee Mun
Wah makes these films in which
he gathers a group of folks
together to discuss issues of
race and in this one sexism.
He films the discussion. I remember
one white woman who was frustrated
to the point of tears during
the race conversation because
she didn't want to be thought
of as racist. And then in the
sexism conversation she was
frustrated to the point of tears
because the men wouldn't cop
to their sexism.
These
conversations are difficult
and hurtful. The really gross
things that are said about fat
people don't hurt me as much
as the little unconscious things
I hear and read by thin and
average sized people. Particularly
people on the left.
Ms
Lauren says (in comments) I can do a guest post
about fat politics. On the one hand that's incredibly
generous and kind and the other hand it's not exactly
gonna get it done.
The
other day I was reading Ms Lauren and she's talking
about her photo and she say something we often hear
about the photo maybe making her look fat. It's not
a horrible thing. I'm very fond of Ms. Lauren and her
blogging. And she has a right to not want to look fat.
And I don't think it's a big deal. But there was this
part of me that wanted to leave a comment about looking
fat being a good thing.
One
time Marya
Hornbacher came into a room and asked me if the
jeans she was wearing made her look fat. Now, there's
so much to think about in that moment and she and I
talked about it all.
What
is so bad about looking fat?
Every
individual has the right to make choices about their
bodies. Every individual has the right to opinion and
preference. But we do bump into each other. We do hurt
each other. Things will be said. Things will go wrong.
Growth is a messy business.
Some
of this is coming up for me because of the discussion
on Dru's
blog and the
post that brought it all on. And hearing the piece
on
the news about fat women making less money and trying
so hard to make the distinction between personal experiences
of our bodies and a politic. A politic that talks about
how we as community are diminished as a whole when we
are diminished as individuals. And there's an interesting
funny double meaning in that notion when it comes to
fat people.
I
keep thinking about being in the doctors office when
I was a kid. My mom trying to figure out why I was fat.
We lived in Pittsburgh. Lots of hills. We walked everywhere.
we lived with her mom and dad and my grandmom did feed
me well. And mom baked. We didn't eat fast food.
I
was a kid who liked to read and day dream and
drift. I was never a kid who liked to play sports. But
I was also a preteen who loved to dance.
And
through it all I was fat. And there was my mother trying
to understand what was going wrong.
It's
not about how I feel about being fat. It's about fairness
in the market place and in health care and in representation
and in access.
We
all write about the things that catch our attention.
And, as I said before, there's a lot going on. Of course
I'm going to be aware of constant reports on the nightly
news about obesity with the photos of fat people cut
off at the neck. Do you ever notice that? Fat bodies
as an icon for disgust and contempt but don't look at
the face because then you might have to deal with
their humanity. It just seems like every once in a while
some of the great thinkers we have in the blog world
who aren't fat might notice something once in awhile.
Just
for the record, I do know that there has been blogging
about fat politics on Alas,
a blog. Barry self identified as fat but I think
Pink Dream Poppies is not fat. I'm not sure why I think
that. I'm not sure why I feel the need to mention it
excpet I've been thinkng about it.
To write, even in obscurity is worthwhile. As Samuel Becket put it, writing
is a way of leaving "a stain upon the silence." Tai
Moses via Michael
Gates via Tonio
One
of the teachers in my MFA program said that he didn't
write for a year after he graduated from his MFA program.
I was so smug. I thought it wouldn't happen to me. I,
after all, have A BLOG.
December
was hard and January
was worse. February
just went by in a blur. Here we are at the point of
the year when people pay quarterly taxes and I don't
even have an income. And writing feels like trying to
wake up from the deepest sleep.
There
are now two pieces of writing revving around in the
back of my head. One about the boxes my mom sends me,
full of the things she wants to get rid of and the box
of things I'll be getting from aunt as she sells of
her family home. The other is a piece about how notions
of health have become a mechanism for social control.
I can feel both pieces. Just at the tip of a synapse.
Last
night, when I was trying to go to sleep, it seemed
like I could feel my brain pulsing. I had just read
a couple
of posts
and, with all the stuff going on here, my brain was
just throbbing. After twenty minutes of tossing about
I got up outta the bed and pulled The
Bluest Eye off the shelf. Marilyn bought me a box
set of six Toni Morrison novels for my birthday a few
years ago. I've been thinking I want to start at the
beginning and read them all. Rereading the ones I've
already read. Maybe now is the time. Sometimes reading
pulls me out of silence.
Not
that I've been silent. And not that I'm ever going to
quit writing about fat politics.
Sometimes
when I'm going through a change I find myself in the
middle of sentences thinking that I don't mean what
I'm saying. And I can feel new ideas, not quite formed,
trying to coalesce.
My
blog is like the ledge I'm clinging to, praying that
I can find the words for one more day. I've read people's
good byes and been so happy when they come back.
Come back.
I
wrote about Emily when I was in college. Yes I did.
I read My
Emily Dickinson and My
Wars Are Laid Away in Books and poemspoemspoems
and I tried to tell
the truth slant. It wasn't that long ago. But it
was before my MFA program which, just for the moment,
I am blaming for my inability to finish, or start for
that matter, a sustained piece of writing. Instead I
tell my name to an admiring (I hope) blog
bog. Trying to leave my own stain
upon my own silence.
I
spent the day cleaning. Jane is coming from Oregon for
a few days. I made the kale and red bean soup
with kale and red beans this time. I'm drinking a glass
of wine
which, since I haven't been drinking wine lately is
hitting me in much the same way the coffee did the other
day.
Only
different.
I
have a Cassandra
Wilson festival going and I'm going back to my book,
where all my wars are lay to rest.
March
7 2004
My apartment feels good. It
has that little bit of extra polish that you do when
company is coming. I've known Jane for more than half
my life. I doubt she'd judge me too harshly because
of a few dust bunnies. But it just seemed like the thing
to do.
I
woke up way too early. Full
moon last night. Didn't sleep well. And I wanted
to be awake and showered and dressed when Jane got here.
She isn't due for a couple of hours and I'm all ready.
I ate some scrambled eggs and drank some tea. And did
the dishes. Maybe Jane will want to walk up into North
Beach and get some coffee and a muffin.
I
finished The
Bluest Eye last night. I know I read this book years
ago but I didn't remember much of it. I don't think
I had the emotional maturity to read it then. Even now
there are parts of the book that I know I pulled away
from emotionally. It is a devastating book. She managed
to write a scene of rape and incest in such a way
that I felt overwhelming compassion for the father and
the daughter.
The
edition of the book that I'm reading has an afterward
by Ms Morrison in which she talks about why she wrote
it in the way she wrote it. She didn't think the book
was entirely successful. She says that, "Holding
the despising glance while sabotaging it was difficult."
And that, for me, is the experience of the book.
Having to hold the complexity of why people are who
they are and how they sometimes pass misery from generation
to generation. But, most specifically, how the institution
of racism shapes self image.
And
the book is about the poisonous qualities our ideas
of beauty hold. The ways in which they drive us to madness.
This is a book I can imagine needing to read again.
I'm
going to jump right into Sula,
which I also read and also can't remember. Sometimes
I think I was sleepwalking for the first ten years of
my adult life.
March
8 2004
Jane and I went to
lunch, sat in the
park for awhile and then she went to spend
some time with another friend and I came home to bake
a cake. Her birthday was in February and Alexandra's
birthday is today. We're going to meet her at the Flower
Mart, and then go for lunch and then come back here
for cake and ice cream.
I
had trouble getting the cake out of the pan. One layer
split in half. I managed to get it put together but
it looks like it's been dropped on the floor. Plus,
I suck at icing. I make lumpy icing. I made some icing
for some cookies during the big Christmas bake and it
was lumpy. I think the problem is that I believe I can
hand whisk the powdered sugar in and I always end up
needing to use an electric mixer. But by the time I
get there some of the powdered sugar has formed into
lumps. Maybe I should sift the sugar but I don't.
What
the cake lacks in beauty it will make up for in flavor.
Mehak's
comment in my last post has already brought reaction.
I thought I'd answer her question in this post.
I wasn't sure where to answer it on her blog. I use
the word fat because I am fat. It's just that simple.
I am aware that there are people in the world who think
I should be ashamed of being fat but I'm not. I am aware
that there are people in the world who think I'm ugly
because I'm fat. I don't. I am aware that there are
people in the world who think I am lazy and gluttonous
because I am fat. I am not. I am simply fat. There are
other ways to describe my body. Words that people imagine
to be polite. But, as
Marilyn says, I find those words imprecise. And
maybe because people are so offended by a word that
is simply descriptive of something that I am, I use
the word.
And
now I'm off to spend International
Women's day with one of my oldest friends and one
of my newer friends, both wonderful women.
March
9 2004
The birthday cake was a hit.
No one is ever as critical of my cooking as I am. I'm
not really that critical of my cooking. Baking
is different. I don't know as much as I would need to
know to adjust for things that go wrong. Given that
the cake I made spit into more than a few pieces coming
out of the pan I think it looked pretty good. And chocolate
is chocolate after all.
It
was a beautiful day. Being around flowers is always
nice. We had a nice
lunch. Pretty mellow.
Jane
doesn't listen to the news. And while I might have some
judgements about not being informed I must say
that when I asked Jane what she thought about Janet
Jackson she didn't know what I was talking about. I
love that. I love that she didn't spend one minute of
her life thinking about it. Until she came here.
Of
course, for me, not being informed might mean that you
wake up one morning in a country where censorship is
the law of the land. But being informed means having
to hold notions of complexity and sometimes find yourself
defending the rights of
people you personally find contemptible.
Ah
well.
I
just heard the news that Spalding
was found. And despite the fact that it seemed inevitable
that he would be found, I hoped that he might popup
somewhere. Maybe working as a dishwasher and writing
a book. Finding a way to reinvent himself.
March
10 2004
Jane did a bit of running
around by herself. Which was good because she likes
Macy's and The Gap and that isn't my thing. Then we
had some dinner
and came home for more cake.
Someone
read Avoirdupois
and pointed out that one chapter ended with me in California
and a few paragraphs into the next chapter I'm in Colorado.
That might not always be a problem but it was an easy
fix. So I actually spent some time writing yesterday.
Rewriting
is my favorite part of writing. I tend to write in a
gush and the go back and rearrange and plump and trim
and fuss. I really like it. On one hand, finding a gaff
like that in a book I've been calling done is a worry.
I sometimes wonder if I'll ever finish this book. If
I look at for more than a minute I start picking at
it. On the other hand, it was an easy fix. And after
two years of resisting my workshop's demand for more
scenes and more dialogue (two things I never intended
to write) (ever) I find that there is a scene, complete
with dialogue forming in a part of my brain. Maybe later
I'll go back and write it.
It
was a good feeling.
Yoga
was moved to Wednesday so I'll be going to class right
about the time Jane leaves for the airport.
March
11 2004
I left for yoga yesterday.
Walked out into a sunny day. Felt like my posture was
good and my knees were stronger. The bus came in a relatively
short time. I rode to the next bus, which also came
in good time. I needed to get on a third bus because
I wasn't sure where on Valencia the new place was. The
Valencia bus was sitting there at the stop. I waited.
And waited.
Twenty
minutes later the only way to get to class on time was
to get in a cab. But I was in a terrible part of town
for a cab. I finally got one and ended up traveling
in an arc that took forever and cost twelve bucks. Downtown
SF is a maze of no left turns and red lights.
I
got to class late and whatever good mood I'd been in
as I left the apartment was now frayed. Sally got me
a chair but I didn't get that time to shake off the
street that I like to have.
Sally
was doing this wonderful thing. She was telling people
to notice what was working and not what wasn't. She
reiterated that theme over and over through each posture.
I knew that was the way to go but the balance had shifted
inside me. The frustration of waiting for a bus that
never moves. The lack of information about why. Trying
to get a cab. Being in the cab going in all the wrong
directions because that city is just a maze. Spending
money I don't have on cab fare. I just couldn't quite
let it all go. Sally kept talking about finding the
place where there is no effort. I don't have a place
where there is no effort. Instead my mind was full of
need. I need more money. I need more health care. I
need a massage. I need help to feel better.
I
took a bus to the trolley. The
trolley can be a nice ride. Long. And slow. I had
a book. It can be a nice slow ride with a good
book. It can also be a ride filled with tourists. Packed.
Noisy. Hot. Long. Slow.
On
market street two women got on, both in wheel chairs,
both fat. They were jovial. Chatting with other passengers.
Engaged. Engaging. At the end of the ride two older
women got on and sat a few seats behind me. One turned
to the other and in the most venomous tone commented
on the size of the two women in the wheel chairs. Absolute
contempt.
Last
night I finished Sula.
I think I know why I have such a hard time remembering
these books. I read them when I was young and wanted
right to be right and wrong to be wrong. Toni Morrison
does not allow for that kind of simplistic thinking.
Everything
in this book, much like The Bluest Eye, is about relationship.
Relationships between women, between women and men,
between adult and child. Individual relationships. Relationships
to the community. Relationships and history. And poverty.
And racism. And sexism. And hunger. Sula isn't really
the center of the book. She is just one person in a
portrait of a town. But she is a vortex. An explanation,
of sorts.
I
put the book down and thought about Sally's efforts
to get us to focus on what was working. It's certainly
better than the alternative. But then again, when you
are in a
pose, (although my foot is on the arch of the other foot
and not up on my thigh) and your hip is hurting, it
is difficult not to notice the pain. In fact it's stupid
not to notice the pain. It's stupid to try and maintain
a pose that you can't maintain. You drop the pose. And
then try again.
And
so at the end of the day I was awash in emotions, Good.
And bad. And I had a dream in which the screen
door was broken in my childhood home. And someone was
going to help me fix it.
March
12 2004
MS
has an open letter in support of Martha Stewart.
Maybe it's because I'm reading all the Toni Morrison
but I feel support for people. People who I normally
don't care much about. Reading people in the context
of history and with an eye for the social constructs
in which they live makes it hard to hold anyone in a
one dimensional perspective. It's hard for me to worry
about Martha. But I agree with the MS letter. I agree
with Maria's
astute essay on Martha. I agree with my mom who
is very upset about Martha.
When
I was working in restaurants in the east people who
worked with Martha called her Martha dearest. I've always
had an appreciation for the detailed way in which she
documents things about food and gardening. But I'm
here to tell you that it's easier to have a little farm
in the country and a place in the city and make everything
from scratch if you have a staff. I own books and magazines
by Martha. I own them because there was good information
in them. And I do think she is being hung on some kind
of loopy corporate apologist cross.
But
it's not just Martha. I'm
not happy about what happened to Howard. I thought
about that yesterday when I turned on the television
to try and find some news about
Spain. There wasn't any. There was lots of talk
about nothing. It may seem odd to think about Howard
in that context but it's about media consolidation and
no news news and the dumbing down of us all. And, like
I said, I'm reading Morrison and thinking about difficult
people.
Yesterday
I did some laundry. I sat in the little garden behind
my building reading
while the machines hummed from the laundry room. I was
still feeling a little bit cranky about the getting
to and from yoga saga.
I'm
still cranky. I had bad dreams last night. I can't even
remember them but they were scary and I didn't sleep
well. I woke up at 6:30 and I didn't even want to try
to go back to sleep. But it's OK. I have things I need
to do today so I'm glad I'm awake early.
A
while back a friend of mine sent me a chain letter.
Normally I toss them in the trash but this one was a
kitchen towel swap. You have to send a kitchen towel
to someone and then send the letter to six more people.
And, if it works, you get 36 kitchen towels. There was
something about getting kitchen towels in the mail.
It just made me happy. I even bought the towel to send
to the person on my letter but I never got it done because
I can't quite face sending it to six people. If you
want to participate in the kitchen towel chain letter
let me know. Think about it. Kitchen towels in your
mail box. Wouldn't that be fun?
March
13 2004
I have a bad case of what's
the use goin on today. And it seems wrong headed because
I watched Bread
and Roses on IFC
yesterday. It's a nice movie. People working for their
own liberation. There are victories. And there are prices
to pay. I just got stuck on the unfairness of it all.
And that seems wrong headed.
But
whadaya gonna do?
One
of the hardest things for me to deal with is feeling
misunderstood. And that's really not a good thing for
a writer. Because no matter how well you write something
you may be misunderstood. it's just the way it is. Most
of the time I have a rapid compartmentalization process.
Process. Process. Process. But today I'm feeling slow.
March
13 2004
People, when they are making
a disparaging remark about someone's cooking, will sometimes
say that the person can't boil an egg. Well, I know
I can cook. But I sometimes worry about boiling eggs.
I do. It's something that I don't do very often. And
I always think there's some number thing. Like bring
to a boil and take off heat for ah-zoo-wah number of
minutes. My instincts are good and it usually works
out but I do actually worry the whole thing.
Yesterday
I wanted egg salad. That only happens about once a year.
Or less. But I made some with lots of celery and red
onion and a bit of curry powder. It was good.
I
was buried in my
book most of the day. And I picked up the
next book as soon I finished. I used to this when
I was in high school. I'd find a writer and read everything
by them I could find. It's instructive in terms of voice.
And
I'm still having the experience of remembering my own
life when I read the books the first time. Although
I hadn't read Song of Solomon. I think I might have
read the first few pages once but never the whole book.
And it is such a great book. Tar Baby is the first book
I haven't been overwhelmed by. And that's because of
the amount of dialogue. I just don't love reading dialogue.
Ironically I was sure I hadn't read it before and as
soon as I began to rea I realized I had. Beloved
is next. And I have read that book twice. But I might
go for it again. Just coz I'm doin a thang, doncha know.
Egg
salad and reading. Yep. It's swinging around here.
March
15 2004
Blogging is really wonderful.
Because I listen to a lot of alternative radio
I get a fair among of the news I can't get on television.
It's always bugged me that you have to work so hard
to find things out. I was frustrated trying to find
news about Spain the other day. Marie linked to this
blog which links to this
blog. Suddenly I feel like I can breathe. We really
can be in touch with one another and hear the story
from beating hearts and open minds.
I
don't feel good. Not sure why. I'm just feeling yucky.
So thoughts aren't forming. I'm drifting.
March
18 2004
lt was noisy this morning.
Some big boat was coming in to dock at about 5:00 AM,
blowing a deep pitched tone that rattled the windows.
And some smaller boat was blowing a higher less rattling
tone. They did this call and response at intervals that
pulled me out of the deep sleep zone, let me fall back
in and then pulled me back out again.
Then
some hammering. From I just don't know where. Then the
dove that often wakes me with its persistent morning
coo. And the trash guys.
As
a result I slept about a half an hour longer than I
usually do. Rolling from one side to the other diving
back for that thread of dream stuff, always looking
for clues.
Sally
had me demonstrate a yoga
pose yesterday. I resisted the idea at first. It
is true that after only a month of going to class and
doing my much speedier version at home I feel stronger.
But I didn't do much yoga last week. I was wrestling
with a bad mood. (The bad mood won. ) (Mostly.) And
I felt terrible on the way to class. My back hurt. My
knees hurt. I did not feel like someone who ought to
be demonstrating nuthin to no one. Mind you, there were
only three of us in class. One new woman and one woman
who has been taking class longer than I have. I made
a furtive attempt to pass the demonstration to her.
She declined. At a certain point you just feel like
a duff if you don't do it. And, really, this is one
of Sally's coolest things. She could demonstrate the
pose herself but she wants the pose to look the way
it looks on a fat body. And so I and my fifty year old
fat body did the warrior pose. And she said I did a
wonderful job.
Heh.
I
noticed that I never do the side stretches when I'm
at home. I don't know why I forget them.
Before
I left for class I heard an interview on
KPFA with a guy who wrote a
book on hope and illness. He talked about people
with knee issues. After class I felt like my knees were
stronger. I really need to win the battle with the bad
mood.
After
class I stood that the bus stop for forty minutes waiting
for the bus. The battle rages on.
March
19 2004
l was watching an IFC
documentary on
women film makers. Pretty
cool. The women talked about
things like the importance of
seeing representations of themselves.
I thought about not seeing fat
women in film. Not in any serious
way. Not often enough. There
was a comment that one film
maker made and many of the women
reiterated about how women think
they are fat, or ugly but they
aren't.
And
it certainly is true. The images
of beauty and size in most movies
and media are so distorted that
we are living in a toxic environment. It becomes
really hard for women to think
of themselves as beautiful when
they don't measure up. Or down.
I
was reminded of a recent article
by Susie Orbach. In which
she talks about the way thin
girls come to believe they are
fat. It's an interesting article.
It's sort of typically Orbach.
I remember reading Fat
is a Feminist Issue, back in the day. The political
analysis of women and their bodies was right on. Thrilling
really. But there was the idea that if you were liberated
you would be thin. It would just happen as a result
of your process. I spent so many years chasing a belief
in a clarity that would cause my weight to disappear.
I spent years trying to disappear. Encouraged to do
so by a feminist analysis of being fat.
When I read the article
and when I saw the documentary
I found myself thinking about
those of us who are fat. Or
ugly. What about us?
Clearly
size and beauty are in the eye
of the beholder. In some ways.
But I don't know. It's hard
for me to talk about ugly because
my sense of beauty is ... oh
I don't know. I often find people
beautiful. People who aren't
thought of as beautiful. And when
it comes to size my ideas might
be a bit odd as well. Sometimes
I'm told someone is fat and
I'm dumb struck.
But
I am fat. And what about me?
There's a way
in which these women are talking
about the narrow band of what
is beautiful and they're speaking
against it. But their ideas
are articulated in a way that
further marginalizes some women.
There
was one movie, Dog
Fight. I haven't seen it.
Lili Taylor and the film maker
were talking about her character.
The character is supposed to
be fat and ugly. They both talked
about how they felt fat and
ugly so it seemed valid for
Lili to play the part, despite
the fact that Lili is neither
fat, nor ugly. I'm crazy about
Lili Taylor but come on. Are
there no fat and ugly actors?
White
Place and Frankie
and Johnny were both films
in which the woman was supposed
to be fat and ugly. We get Susan
and Michelle. I love them. They're
great. And they are not fat.
Or ugly.
I
have a love of beauty. I bought
four dollars worth of daffodils
and yellow tulips because I
need to look at them. They are
a riot of yellow and form. When it comes to people beauty
is a shape shifter. And I want to see movies with faces
and bodies like mine.
March
20 2004
Today is full of import.
It's spring. There are people gathering
to call for an end to war. And it's my blog birthday.
I've been doing this for three
years. Which, I must say, seems odd. I didn't know
what I was doing when I began. I still don't. I didn't
even call it blogging.
My
blog
parents didn't call it blogging. Willa
has a journal
page and a web
log. Justin
didn't call it blogging when I saw him talking about
it on MSNBC. That was back when MSNBC was almost cool.
I
cling stubbornly to my web
editing software. Well. It's more about fear than
stubbornness. I have hosting issues I would need to
resolve before I could use MT.
My cash flow problems keep my paralyzed. About once
a year I try to advance my skills. I really like doing
the design. I'm just not proficient.
A
little while ago I added a few things to the page. From
Bloghop I have
learned that 9 people love me. 6 people hate me and
three people each think I'm good, OK or I suck. That
seems balanced. In a way. I'm a slithering reptile in
the ecosystem.
Kinda yucky. I'm a three on Eatonweb.
I'm sort of average I guess. I let myself get worked
up about all this from time to time. And then I tell
myself to back away from the screen.
When
I first began I felt like I was putting a letter in
a bottle and hurling it out to sea. The metaphor still
holds for me. But I have found many other bottles washed
up on my shore, opened every note with trembling hands
and delighted in the message.
I
think a lot of things about blogging. I can go on and
on and not say much. At the end of it all I mostly feel
gratitude. I'm grateful that anyone takes the time to
read me. I'm grateful for the time people spend writing
their own blog. I'm grateful for the friends I've made.
I'm grateful for the things I've learned.
And
I end this post feeling the same thing I felt when I
began my first post. It's a feeling of bemused wonder.
Lot's of hand wringing. Some teeth gnashing. And then
I click on publish.
March
21 2004
Uh Oh. It's the morning
of the first day of my forth year of blogging and I'm
sitting here staring at the screen.
Last
night I'd turned off the computer and gone to bed with
my
book. And then I got out of bed to turn the computer
back on and see if Karen
Armstrong was going to be on Book TV again. Someone
called me when she was on today and I wanted to see
her. She's on again tonight. I'm not answering the phone
this time.
I
turned on the TV while the computer was powering up
and got some news about the
demos all over the world. I sat there with the light
from the two screens burning my already tired eyes and
thought about what, if anything, I had to say about
it all.
I
dunno.
I
blame Toni Morrison for my lack of language today. I'm
in a deep muse about complexity. I can't parse it enough
to write.
March
22 2004
Mehak
feels she has gotten
nasty comments in response to the comments
she left on my blog. And I think she's right. I don't
think anyone was trying to be nasty. And I don't think
Mehak was trying to be nasty when sh
