You know, there are two kinds of politics in the world: the politics of love and the politics of fear. Love is about cooperation, sharing and inclusion. It is about the elevation of each individual to a life neither supressed nor exploited, but instead nourished to rise to its full potential – a life for its own sake and so that we may all benefit by the gift of that life. Fear and the politics of fear is about narrow ideologies that separate us, militarize us, imprison us, exploit us, control us, overcharge us, demean us, bury us alive in debt and anxiety and then bury us dead in cancers and wars. The politics of love and the politics of fear are now pitted against each other in a naked struggle that will define not only the 21st century but centuries to come.    - Granny D (via Peevish)

September 1 2003 Rabbit. Rabbit. Because something has to work.

Yeah. It's different. And yet it's the same. I'm stuck in my limitations.

Life without comments. It's interesting. It makes me a little bit sad. It's sort of like waiting for mail that never comes. Or sitting by the phone. And it makes me think about how having comments has changed the way I write. Somewhat. It's just an interesting thing to feel through.

Did you know that beautiful people make more money?

What does that reveal?

Susan blogged about Aung San Suu Kyi's hunger strike. I get my news on the blogs. Since the media can't be bothered to report real news. If it weren't for the alternative media, I wouldn't know about anything other than who Arnold is supposed to have done twenty years ago. Like I care. Meanwhile women are starving  and waiting for judgement and we obsess about a pretend kiss.

And it's Labour Day. Let's think about Mother Jones marching to Long Island to speak out for children.

Oh. I'm feeling a bit wound up.

                                     9:23 AM

September 2 2003 Book TV was rebroadcasting the Harlem Book fair all day yesterday. The panel of women talking about writing memoir was one again. I found it deeply comforting and frustrating. There was another panel on publishing.

Every day I click on publish. It's so easy.

Sigh.

There was a man I knew a long time ago. He was a friend of a friend. He was really really smart. Almost too smart. But he couldn't quite get his life together. He was sleeping on my friends couch. He finally got a job running a fork lift.

Every evening I would here his car pull into my drive-way. I would have dinner ready. He would fix something. Stabilize the leg of a table. Rewire a light fixture. Make sure the wire running to the stereo didn't show. He also did my drugs, ate my food and took command of the remote control. And I didn't mind.

I woulda married him.

I wasn't in love with him. But I liked him. A lot. And I liked hearing his car in the drive-way.

People in town thought we were a couple. He was always there. Except for when he was sleeping on my friends couch.

A few years ago he got my e-mail address and wrote to apologize for taking advantage of me. Which I thought was sweet. we didn't really keep writing.

I keep thinking about him.

I'm such an old curmudgeon now. I'm too used to living alone. But sometimes I just want the simple things. The sound of a car in the driveway.

                                     8:57 AM

September 2 2003 In my earlier post I typed here when I meant hear. I was just rereading and I noticed it. I could edit but I'm leaving it so that I can write about how frustrating that kind of mistake is. I made them all through Avoirdupois. I caught them sometimes but not always. Spell check doesn't save you.

But why does it happen? People tell me not to worry. Everyone does that when they're typing. But I don't think everyone does. Is my brain going?

I misspell things on purpose sometimes and make up words. But I make this kind of mistake so often. It's like my brain just takes a break.

Sometimes I worry.

                                     12:22 AM

God puts these things in his pocket. He's got too many pockets really, if I went through all of God's pockets I might find my skin again. I need to get back into my skin. Reckless God perched on the wire. -Rickie Lee

September 3 2003 At about 5:00 PM I noticed that comments were back. Kell left one. I reloaded the page and they were gone again. They still seem to be down. Blogspot went down at some point.

It's enough to make ya paranoid.

I got into a reminiscence about books that I once owned and lost to my wandering life. In high school I spent every penny I earned babysitting, or making grilled cheese sandwiches at a drug store (the name of which I never remember, but George does) counter, on books by Kerouac and Hesse and DH Lawrence. And all the journals of Anais. All the pocket poet books. And books by Fritz and Barry. Lot's of books that I stored in the basement of a friend's house when I left home.

In my New Age daze I had books and books and books. I still have The Course but I lost my Autobiography. Also in a box. In a basement. Or I don't know, maybe they've all been distributed.

I spent time last night doing searches for books I once had and wishing I was one of those people who can still open the copy of The Prophet she read when she was sixteen.

But I'm not. I still have that pottery book though.

I used to love to crack a book. I loved that feeling, right in the middle of the book, when you crack the book wide open. But now I never crack books. I'm so careful with my books that once a teacher thought I hadn't done the reading because the book looked so pristine.

Sometimes I think I want a copy of all the books I've ever read. I want to reread books that were influential in my youth and see if they still feel the same. But, of course, they wont. Cornell West says he rereads Chekhov every year.

So.

Sharon posted something on SMTD. It's been hard to get these people going on the blog thing. Which is sad because they have such great conversations on the list serve.

This is cool.

                                     9:14 AM

September 3 2003 Shit! I did it again. I typed wont instead of won't. It kinda changes the feel, doesn't it? I used to want a partner for reasons of lust and longing. Now I just want a live-in editor.

Well. OK. I still do feel lust and longing.

I want to be more like Emily. I just want to write stuff and put it in an envelope. But I don't have a father who lets me live at home. So I worry the writing. Suddenly it needs to be good enough.

What the fuck does that mean?

The only way I can fight all the teeth gnashing and hand wringing is to take deep breaths and feel through it. And then when my fingers hit the keys I just try to ...

Well. I'm not sure what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to do something that has a rhythm. And a shape. But isn't over worked. I would like to type the word I actually intend. Focus. Focus. I keep saying to myself.

I'm feeling toward this thing. And I want it to be pure. But I need to connect.

The comment thing has been a drag. But it has been good too. I feel pushed in. Deeper. Because if it's going to connect I want it to connect in the deepest place.

After all this storm there ought to be a rainbow. It must be here somewhere.

                                     4:34 PM

September 4 2003 Alexandra came over for dinner. I made the gaff of all gaffs. Usually, when people are coming to my house for dinner, I ask them if they have any allergies, or things they hate. But I just didn't think to ask Alexandra. And then I made things that were not exactly right.

I made a salad with green leaf lettuce, goat cheese, candied walnuts and yellow beets. But Alexandra wasn't sure she liked beets. That wasn't a big deal. I just didn't give her too many. And she did like them. Coz I cook em good.

Heh.

But I made lamb chops. And ... she doesn't eat lamb. And lamb is one of those things that you have to know about. Because people don't like it. But I had these fresh figs. And my whole thing was about the figs. So I had to think fast. I had some Aidells in the freezer. I cooked it with the shallots and the figs. All of which went on cous cous. And it was all good. But I felt like a dummy head. Why did I forget to ask?

Am I being too hard on myself lately? Is this all normal for a woman my age? Maybe. I guess. OK.

Dinner was nice. She brought some chocolate cake that she had made. We drank wine and talked and talked and talked. When she left I listened to Miles and read some blogs.

She brought me three white lilies. They are absolutely statuesque and grand.

                                     9:32 AM

September 5 2003 Did you feel that?

Cynthia very kindly took me to dinner. Right after we got there we felt the thunk. We chatted with Flora about earthquakes and ate our squash blossoms stuffed with ricotta. It is funny that you can feel a quake and keep on doing what you're doing. This wasn't a big one. I think if it was a big one we might have been more distracted by it. But we had lots of talking to do about writing and school and how good the food was tasting.

So. YACCS will be back in three days. Or so they say. And I seem to be caught in a weird game of how long can you stand it. I don't know why. When Type Pad came out I was going to jump on it. But I am unemployed. And, of course, I want Pro. And of course I want to pay for the year so I get the two months for free. So I muse and puzzle and drive myself crazy. And soon the three days will pass and YACCS will be back. And then I can stop pretending I don't miss my comments. This morning I noticed that there's a little line where the comments are supposed to be. If you click on it you get the whole story.

I can touch my nose and it doesn't hurt. Which is good. Because since I got the piercing it has hurt to touch my nose. For the last few days I've noticed that the pain is less and less and now, pretty much gone. It gets a little sore right after I clean it. But it seems to be healing very nicely. It's another one of those things. You never know how much you touch your nose until ...   

                                     8:39 AM

I'm not talking about an idyllic past. I'm talking about a brutal today in which ordinary hard-working people are being denied their survival. I am talking about a today in which a Ganges that belonged to all is starting to belong to one company. A today where in Kerala water rich abundant rain women have no water because Coca-Cola took it. It's not an idyllic past for me. It's a violent today for which I am seeking a non-violent response.  - Dr. Vandana Shiva

September 6 2003  Paul is moving and I get to do some posting on Big Fat Blog. It's funny how nervous I am about it. I feel like I'm writing on Paul's wall. Not because of anything he has said or done. He's just the coolest. I'm just kind of loopy about things.

This is kind of funny. I'm feeling self-recriminating about how self-recriminating I've been lately. Ai Yi Yi. I think it's because I'm looking for a job and a publisher. Two things bound to bring up the "not good enough" syndrome. In the moments when I am aware of it all I can calm myself down and know that things will work out. Sooner or later. One way or another. And then I'll notice that I'm doing a lot of negative self speak.

bell hooks writes about the way women do negative self-speak in an attempt to not seem too challenging. She thinks we do it most of all when we talk to each other. And I think she's right.

But I think I'm feeling the need for a lot of reassurance lately. Which is understandable. And I get a lot of reassurance. And support. For which I am deeply grateful. I think the negative self-speak is an unconscious reflex. It's like I really need to have someone telling me I'm OK. And it annoys me that I need this. So I become indirect.

I've always felt like it's good to tell the truth about your stuff. Some of the power of the stuff gets fucked with when you talk about it out loud. But, as with all things, there's a line that you cross. Lately I feel frustrated with myself a  lot. And I think some of that is just my stuff. And some of that is my stuff on steroids.

I'd like to feel like I had more control over it all. Like I can just tell myself to knock it off. But it is, by it's nature, not controllable.

Now was devastating last night. So much information about how women are paying the price for globalization. Global Woman had the same effect on me. My teeth begin to clench. My throat gets tight. If you didn't see it, this is worth a read.

                                     9:25 AM

September 7 2003  It's too quiet.

                                     11: 29 PM

September 8 2003 I don't feel good. I think it might be hormones. But I didn't sleep well. I have no appetite. And I'm achy. And I'm weepy. I really think it's hormones. So I'm late to the blog. I tried earlier but I was too fussy.

It sucks because I was feeling like I was trying to psyche myself up for a new start this morning. And I'm just not feeling new. I'm feeling old and worn out.

Warren is gone.

Theoretically, comments will be back by this evening. Which will be cool. I'm not sure if I'll move the tag board to the side. it's fun. But I'm worried that my page will load even slower. I'm hoping that the new YAACS server will speed up my page. We'll see.

This is very cool. (via wanna write?)

                                     11: 36 AM

September 9 2003 Kell hipped me to the Bravo documentary about reality TV. And despite the fact that the only reality TV I ever watched was my boyfriend's show I was intrigued. I mean Bravo used to be pretty cool. But the show was a rehash of the worst of the shows all to prove that reality TV isn't really real. Gee. Da ya think?

And I watched an episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I really thought I'd be more offended than I was. The whole idea makes me cringe. But it was kinda sweet. Sort of. I mean the idea that a haircut and some new furniture will bring out your "best" you is not one I want to support. But it is cool to see things get all cleaned up in a person's apartment and go from looking unthought about to looking very intentioned. And even when I watch make overs on Oprah I'm torn between hating the mentality that wants everyone to focus on appearance and feeling my eyes fill with tears when people who look kind of average come out with a bounce to their step because they know they look good. There's a balance point on which everything pivots. I see info-mercials for creams to make your flaws go away and I think ... flaws? Huh?

And the other thing about Queer eye is the way it reaffirms stereotypes about gay (and straight) men. Which is why I wasn't going to watch it. But I was still feeling so punky and I just zoned in front of the TV. The show about the reality TV asks an interesting question. Since most of us know the reality in these shows is not that real, why do so many of us watch? Maybe it's because it all seems unreal.

I want the real real.

I am feeling better. I slept well. I still don't feel like eating. I'm not quite as achy.

                                     9:16 AM

September 10 2003 I might have to move to Santa Cruz.

As we get closer to the second anniversary of the September 11 tragedy, American news gets dumb and dumber. It's not that I don't think that we should remember and feel all the feelings of loss and rage and confusion. But I wish the media did a better job of helping people to understand why terrorism happens.

The news from Israel brought it all back for me yesterday. I remember that my awareness of that conflict was heightened in the days following 9/11. It wasn't that I had never paid attention or thought about it before. But I just felt a sense of urgency, an awareness of the things that are so wrong. It isn't that there aren't things going on all over the world. And the ways in which my country plays a part in it all pains me. Listening to the news yesterday I felt the tension again.

On Sunday, before I went swimming, I was listening to Larry Bensky talk about another September 11. And the other day I watched part of The House of the Spirits on IFC. I watched it to remember.

But the media doesn't remind us about our history. The media only wants us to lick our own wounds and feel central in the world narrative.

What I remember is the feeling that everything had changed. And yet nothing had changed. It's been going on forever.

So I probably won't move to Santa Cruz. But I hope it's a trend.

                                     10:11 AM

September 11 2003 Aretha Franklin was singing in my dream this morning. That's a good way to start the day. And it's going to be a day that needs a good start.

I remember waking up. Dean was here doing his internship. He had already left for work and I put together my breakfast and flipped on the radio, the way I always do. And then.

It was a blessing that Dean was here. I didn't feel like I could sink into the darkness that I felt. When he was at work I sat there with the TV on, sound off. Radio on. Searching the Internet for news. But when he was here I tried to turn it all off. We went to Green Gulch to see the farm. His presence forced me to stay open.

And two years have passed. It amazes me.

Two years of war.

But also, two years of life. Two years in which I got my MFA and made new friends and some times I woke up dreaming songs. So I am trying to find some balance.

Mark Fiore is good today.

People are raising their voices in Cancun. One man took his own life to make a point that the mainstream media doesn't seem to think is news.

Life in Iraq is far from liberated.

And the Queen of soul sometimes sings to you while you sleep.

                                     7:57 AM

September 12 2003 I spent the morning writing a not particularly interesting post. At a certain point I clicked a little bit too fast and froze my computer. I lost the post in the reboot. And it's just as well. I might try and put it back together later. But for now I'm going to do the laundry.

This week has felt like being in a coma. But I think I'm coming out of it. I think.

                                     10:30 AM

September 13 2003 My disappearing post was about taking the how old is your inner child test that I saw at Laurie's. My inner child is 45.

Uh huh.

Well ask me how much time I've spent playing with my dolls lately. I start the day looking for a job. I have a break down. I take a shower. And then I play for a while.

There are two things that always keep me playing. Designing the houses and telling myself the story of what's happening while I play. Just like when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time playing by myself. Telling myself stories.

There are so many fan sites. It kinda blows my mind. There's a lot of creativity. And if you play SIMS you understand how exciting it is to find little decorative things. Like these little desk sets. Or a cute bathroom set. If you don't play the SIMS you may not feel the thrill.

Heh.

I mean the truth is you download the desk set, put it on the desk, and that's it. It's not like the SIMS can pick up the pen and start writing. But I get a kick out of making these little worlds. So I make a little green house for my hippie girl to study in.

And it keeps me preoccupied.

I'd stopped playing for a while. It was just day after day of eating, sleeping getting clean, trying to work on self improvement and trying to keep your friends. It was too much like life. And then I found the love crystal. (scroll down) You can summon up as many friends as you need. It was amazing what a difference it made in how I felt about playing. There was all this time that I used to spend making and keeping friends that I could now use for gardening. No more four o'clock phone call telling you that your friends are dumping you.

Well. Lot's of four o'clock phone calls eventually. All your new friends will eventually dump you. But by then you have a new job and your garden looks great.

I've been downloading stuff for the kitchen, playing and telling myself the story of how it all works out. It flies in the face of my anti-materialism view of life And then there's the art. I had to have some Frida.

I got the game right after I got my BA and I spent hours playing. Hours. And then I got into grad school and didn't play as much. And now ... I've been playing again. It is true that I have CSPAN while I play. Imagine listening to the Senate debate while you click on your hippie guy and ask him to water his tomato plants. That's my world.

Yesterday I went down to do the laundry but I forgot the soap. So I hauled myself back up the three flights of stairs to get the soap but I decided to take some recycling down while I was at it and I forgot AGAIN! Back up the steps, get the soap, come back down and someone has put a load in. Isn't that rude? My bag of laundry was sitting right there. I came down later and they were doing another load. I guess they only did one at a time so that I could have the other machine. Which might not be rude. But ... I didn't want to do it one load at a time. So I came back up and played with my little friends. In a world where I can make things work out.

I dunno. Maybe my inner child is 45. A friend of mine who has a fifteen year old SIMS playing daughter tells me that her daughter lets her SIMS fight. I would NEVER! I understand that people like to watch the crazy interactions between the SIMS. I just want them to keep their garden watered.

And there's a new game coming out. Right before Christmas. I'm just sayin.

                                     9:24 AM

September 14 2003 Cynthia and I went to lunch coz yesterday was her birthday. A birthday which she shares with Ms. Mint Tea, (Happy Birthday!) who also went out for a lunch with a friend. Lunch with a friend is a great thing.

After lunch we sat in the back yard while I (finally) got the laundry started. It isn't really a yard. It's a city garden. Lots of pots. There is a cement area on one side filled with dirt from which grow bouganvilla and ferns and a jade plant. The land lady did some of it and I think various tenants have added to it over time. There's a picnic table and two benches. It is a nice place to hang out. And it was a cool place to hang out. It's been hot here. Really, really hot.

After Cynthia left I went back upstairs to the apartment and when I came out to get the laundry someone had watered everything. That smell of wet dirt and cement on a hot day was so good. When I went out later, to get the last load of clothes, the breeze that normally keeps SF cool was back.

I was thinking about something Tonio said about not seeing any September 11 stuff on TV. He is wise enough to keep his TV in the closet. I remember the television coverage being somewhat compelling at first. No one could completely understand what was happening. The news faces all looked uncertain. As the day wore on and they got film footage things went back to bad American news. The same image of the plane hitting the building over and over and over. The same image of the building collapse over and over and over. By the end of the day they had theme music. And now those images and that music are pulled back out every year. It's numbing. You stop feeling. It's just another icon. And now the news faces are back to their self-assurance.

Mark linked this article on the falling man and Joerg wrote a challenging post about the image. My feelings while looking at the image were many. The man does have a kind of grace but it is impossible not to feel the clutch of horror when you look at it. Looking at the picture, for me, is a way of holding that individual. It may be a way I comfort myself, but I see him and I want think how beautiful he is. But it isn't a beautiful picture. It's a stark reminder of what really happened that day. So I let all the emotions wash over me. All the feelings that are numbed by the repetitive tape loop, accompanied with poignant music, on the nighty news.

A while ago I read Regarding the Pain of Others. I thought of it while looking at the picture. I'm not sure we need to sink into the swirl of difficult emotion that hits when we see images of war. But I know that sometimes we need to hold the feelings. I wasn't feeling all the flag waving on Thursday. I was feeling the loss. And, in a reaction to what I see on the television I tend to want to politicize the moment.

But looking at the falling man is too real. It moves me past the rhetoric. It brings me into a moment of transition with another human. I feel and feel and feel. My mind struggles to contain.

I live in a world where people worked to make a beautiful space in the back of a building in the city. A space where the smell of water and sun makes me smile. A world where women go to lunch together to celebrate life and changes. And after a week of being numb and checked out I am feeling the blood begin to flow back into my brain and my heart.

                                     9:38 AM

September 15 2003 I had an unexpected and difficult conversation with a friend yesterday. I ended up crying for a while. It's not at all like I'm worried that the relationship is over. But I think it has changed. Maybe.

Somewhere between unconditional love and telling the truth is the place where you need to process.

I used to have more faith in process.

Things happen between people. And I want to believe in talking it through. But after our conversation I just felt the enormous gap between my friend and I. I don't feel like they really get me. And, my sense is that they feel pretty frustrated with me.

Sometimes it's best to leave things alone. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes it feels like I want things from people that they aren't willing or able to give me. There's a quality of presence that I have with my friends. We're with each other. And sometimes the stuff that happens between people messes up that feeling. And sometimes it doesn't.

In this particular moment I'm not sure.

And then it's Monday and time to focus on the week. Time to stare at the want ads and try to figure it all out. Morning used to be my favorite time. I'd read blogs and eat my breakfast. And then I'd start working on writing. Now I start the morning with this dreary ritual. It sucks the will to breathe right outta me. I dunno. Maybe I should do the job search in the afternoon.

I am aware that I have all this need lately. And I am trying to manage it. But things seem to hit me harder. I collapse under very little pressure. And I am someone who used to  handle a lot of pressure.

Maybe it's good. It hardly matters if it's good, or bad. Because it is what it is.

                                     8:53 AM

The prospect of my own death is slippery, something my mind evades. The undeniable presence of fat as part of my corporeal self is literally easier to grasp. I see my body as delicate, vulnerable and expressive, but I needed the guidance of great artists and to participate over many years in movements for social change to even begin to recognize my own textures. I understand why a twentieth century woman would give so much of her time, money and energy to struggling against the fact of her fat. But the odds against success are steep, and the results in terms of length and quality of life are unclear.            - Susan Stinson

September 15 2003 I'm going to be glad when Paul is back. I think I suck at doing  Big Fat Blog. I blogged an article that talks about how stress can cause a hormonal reaction that causes the body to store fat. And it goes on to talk about how people who live in poverty are under stress.

Gee. Da ya think?

The article has the basic fat hating tone that everything you read in the mainstream media does. But it also adds insight to why some people are fat. Having heard way too much about poor kids who are fat because they eat bad food, I found the article interesting.

The problem with every thing they learn about why people are fat is that they want to cure the "problem." It's impossible to imagine that a fat person might not feel like they need a cure. It's so hard to imagine that I might prefer to be in the body I am in and ask for people to see that body with an open mind and heart.

And I'm going to resist the urge to go off about how the media hammers us with images of beauty that are all the same. Although I will note that I had MSNBC on for a while yesterday and I was struck by how all the women seemed to come from the same mold. At least CNN has Candy Crowley. You hardly ever see her but ...

Anyway. The conversation at BFB seems to be about choosing to be fat. I think it's my fault because I mentioned that I suspect that someone is working on a pill to control the hormone response to stress. In other words, we know your life is difficult, being poor and all, and we don't really care about that. But we don't want you to be fat.

I may have said this before. But let me say it again. If they had a pill that would make me thin I would not take it. I have learned too much from my life in this body. I value the experience. It is hard. Sometimes. But. So?

I did not chose to be fat. But I do chose to reject the idea that my body shape suggests something about my character. And I do know that there is diversity within the population of folks who are labeled as fat. We all have a genetic propensity for fat and then other things happen. There is more than one fat body. We all have stories.

About three years ago I took two sessions of Biology for the science requirements for my BA. The teacher talked about how the fight or flight thing causes digestion to stop. And my first thought was about how often I am shouted at from a passing car. I thought about how braced for assault I am as I walk through the world. It made this deep sense to me. The stress of living in a fat hating world may be part of why I'm fat.

Part of me doesn't care about why. But part of me wants the world to understand how complex the fat experience is. I long for real conversations about the issues. Whether or not I would take the magic pill that would make me thin is easy.

No.

Paul actually sent me a few links. I only found one on my own. And it took me an hour and a half of doing searches to find that one. If anyone has something for me to blog, let me know.

                                     8:41 PM

September 16 2003 Darn. I had my going to the polling place outfit picked out and everything. This is either really good news and the whole recall thing will just go away. Or, the Supreme Court will prove (once again) that it will to step in when things aren't going the way the right wants them to go.

I watched Oprah's interview with Arnold. I don't really think he came off that well. But it sure was a ain't-he-wonderful show. No other candidate has that kind of media access. It's such an abuse of power for al three of them. Sitting there acting like we're all just good friends and that's why we're doing this show. They may well be god friends. But that show was an affront to Democracy. It's completely disingenuous for Oprah to act like she isn't showing a political bias. Arnold isn't polling well with women. So lets get Oprah to tell everyone that he brings his wife coffee every morning. Yeah. Now I want to vote for him.

It's just all so gross and offensive.

On Sunday, after the swim, we were eating brunch in a cafe. There were three people at a table with Kucinich T-shirts on. I went over and chatted with them.

George sent me this article, which is a transcript of a Democracy Now conversation about how NOT progressive Dean is. Every time I listen to Dean talk I like him less. Every time I listen to Dennis I like him more.

It would be nice to vote FOR someone.

                                     9:19 AM

September 17 2003 Yesterday I felt a craving to read Jeff Ward. That was the word that came to me. A craving. And when I went to his blog there was this post.

Isn't that funny?

I was walking back from the store and it occurred to me that I feel like I don't have permission to write. When I was in school, writing was what I was supposed to be doing. Now, I need to make money. So I look for a job. But I don't really want a job. I want to write. But I NEED a job. And somehow in the tape looping of all that my brain shuts down. And I don't feel like I can write.

I do realize I'm writing this. But I have this time to write wired. And I'm grateful that I have the blog. But I have another book in my head. And when I sit down to do the work I just go blank.

So, after the epiphany, I came home and read. Because reading often makes me want to write. But I didn't write. I drank some red wine and cleaned the bathroom. Then at 1:00 in the morning I woke up flooded with ideas about how to start the book. I never know what to do. Get up, write it down and be tired the next day. Or hope I remember it. I kinda felt like I would remember this because it was pretty vivid. And I do.

I dunno. Some day I'll look back on this and ... uh ...what?

I found this on Whiskey River. Go play.

                                     8:35 AM

September 18 2003 I had lunch with a friend yesterday. We had a really nice waitress and I was in one of my chatty, effusive moods. We were eating heirloom tomatoes and oysters and shoe string potatoes and really nice Cowgirl creamery cheese. All little plates, so the waitress had to come back to our table a few times. It was a slow time in the restaurant. At one point my friend had to go and put money in the meter and the waitress and I talked about a bunch of stuff. I don't even remember what all we talked about.

Right before we left my friend had to go to the bathroom and the waitress came back and said, "Thanks for talking to me. It's not very often that I have real human contact."

Wow.

I realize there's an acknowledgement of me in that. And I realize that it isn't her job to have contact. It's her job to bring people their food. And I realize it was slow and the space was open for she and I to spend that time together. And, being who I am, we weren't talking about the weather. I've been a waitress. So I get how that could happen. But still. I just can't stop thinking about it.

This is a person who interacts with people all day, everyday and she feels that she rarely has real human contact. There was something so sad about that.

Meanwhile, I drank two double caps and, since I haven't been drinking coffee, I got super buzzed and was wide awake for hours and hours and hours. I felt slightly psychedelic.

                                     8:08 AM

September 18 2003 OHFERFUCKSAKE.

I got home and got all wound up (in a good way) about the conversation in my comments and that Kell carried over to her blog. I wrote a really long and very cool response. Oh. I'm tellin ya. It was good. And then I clicked on something and my computer froze and I had to reboot and ... gone. It was gone.

And so here's a writing moment.

Can I rebuild that post. Probably not.

And it was so good.

Deep breath.

So like I was saying. There are times when I get up outta the bed. Because there's no point in laying in the bed letting the words thump around my head.

Having just worked on a book I also know the value in writing as chop/wood carry/water. I had to have a writing schedule. And sometimes that sucked. I figured out that I write pretty well in the morning and not so well from noon to six. I can kick back in after 7:00 PM. Odd rhythm sometimes but it worked. And I had to find ways to enter the work when I was in no mood.

Last night I was trying to write in my off line journal. I've used the same kind of blank book for awhile. I was sitting at the table drawing an apple that was sitting on the plate that Renee gave me. And then I wrote a little. This particular blank book begins on 3/27/1990. And I'm only half way though it. I almost want to give up on it.

In part it's about my hand writing being so bad. My wrist being worn out from years of repetitive stress. And part of it is that I write on the computer. On line and off. So I have a row of hard bound journals and then scattered writing on my lap top and my desk top.

But then there's THE WRITING. THE WORK. And the new book, which is (somewhat) less personal and (somewhat) easier to work on. But I have been frozen. Thick headed. Vague. And it's a little better now.

I think there's more than one kind of writing. And I think there is writing that feels like a fever. The words pound and push and pull me to the task. And there are times when I'm just getting it done.

And so the first post had a little more of the fever feel. There's no way to tell if it was "better." It sure felt fun. And this feels a bit more like chopping wood. I can't recapture the thrill of responding. But I can do the work of responding.

I think all forms of expression come from a variety of places. I'm not the person who can decide what is good, better, or best for anyone else. I know I'm happy to wake up in the middle of the night with language forming into shapes. And I'm committed to the task of writing. I don't know what kind of writer I am yet. I almost hope I can say the same thing in ten years.

I can tell you that there is such a thing as cook's block. And dinner still has to happen. But sometimes a cook sees a pear and then thinks about walnuts and speck and buckwheat noodles. And with a little brown butter these random ingredients become a thing that is sweet and crunchy and hearty and salty and somewhat inspired. And if the cook thinks about all that in the middle of the night some cooks might get up outta the bed.

I'm not sure what I would do.

                                     10:03 PM

September 19 2003 I've been feeling abashed. Chagrined. Dismayed.

I know we don't always get each other. Even when we speak the same language. Even when we're talking face to face. And sometimes there are moments of connection. You pay your money and you take your chance.

I guess.

I watched Koyaanisquatsi and Powaqqatsi. I was gonna watch the whole trilogy in one day but the third one isn't out on DVD yet. It was great to let all that imagery move into my eyes and not think. Feel. The movies are evocative.

Then I listened to some tunes and played with the site. It's late. I'm listening to Now. The topic is the environment. Having just watched the quatsi movies I'm not enjoying listening to Christine Todd Whitman.

This will be the second day in a row that I post in the evening. Maybe I should make that change.

Walter's talkin. I'm gonna listen.

                                     10:54 PM

I don't consider myself a pessimist at all. I think of a pessimist a someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel completely drenched. - Leonard Cohen.

September 22 2003 I'm eating toast. I remember when I got back from NC and all I had in the house was toast and tea. But it was my toast and my tea in my apartment. Sometimes simple things bring peace.

I've been sad. And I'm still a little sad. But I know the territory. As long as I don't sink into complete narcissism I figure I'm OK. I spent the weekend doing the things that make me feel better. Dusting. Cleaning some silver earings with toothpaste. Do you know about that?  I made apple/pear sauce. I read a lot. And watched Book TV.

Sometimes it's good to find someone to talk to and sometimes you just gotta feel through it.

So my toast is good. I also have yoghurt with strawberries and banana. And tea.

                                     8:37 AM

September 23 2003 There was a profile of Tom in the paper. I was struck by the way the writer represented the height and weight legislation that Tom wrote. The article says he instituted protections for short and fat people. Technically the legislation was about height and weight. I guess tall and thin people don't need protection.

I'm still suffering my vote. After I read the article it was Tom. Don't anyone mention the other guy. My choice: the left, or left of the left. Because the idea that Tom has moved toward the middle seems loopy. Only in SF is he any where near the middle. I can't even think about it right now.

CSPAN played some of the debate over the ninth circuit decision. I can imagine that many voters are confused. Are we voting? And, gee, who should I pick? I'll be voting for the guy I voted for the last time. But first I'll vote against the recall.

I was psyched to see this discussion which I jumped to from Sappho's Breathing, which I jumped to from  Trish's place.

1. what does it mean to be white? what does it mean to be White?

I'm not sure about the big W, little w. I'll think about that. But in general terms being white means that I can ignore my race. I can live within an unspoken notion of being the norm. It means that my relationships with people of color are complicated by my desire for race not to matter and the ways in which I don't see how much it does. It means that I have to pay attention to the ways in which I have privilege. It means that I can choose to stay asleep.
2. how has whiteness affected your world view?

Well I'm not sure. It goes back to the need to wake up. I put my world view through constant analysis to make sure that I see how I am complicit in the domination of people of color. It affects how I shop, what I read, where I get my information.  
3. how has whiteness affected your educational experience?

I went to fairly good schools which were well supplied. If I'd been a person of color that might not have been true. I wasn't told about a few things. I wasn't told about the true horror of slavery. I wasn't told that there was still discrimination. I wasn't asked to question why there were no kids of color in my school. Or my church. I was never asked to write and essay on how it felt to be white.    
4. how has whiteness affected your experience with authority?

Hmmm. I've felt so at odds with authority for so long that I can't quite acknowledge that my whiteness gives me some degree of safety when it comes to authority. Of course, no 5/0 is rollin up on me when I walk down the street. I don't drive but if I did I probably wouldn't ever worry about being pulled over.
5. how has whiteness affected your experiences with people of other races and ethnicity?

Well there are two things that are true. In the beginning of relationship with a person of color there is sometimes a tension. I don't imagine it shouldn't be there. But I am aware of it. I don't imagine that a person of color might trust me automatically. So I think I'm anxious to prove myself trust worthy. I guess that's true with all people but it feels more palpable with people of color.

Ethnicity is another matter. I don't have the same tension. But I know I have felt like a boring white girl in a world full of fabulous diversity. I always wanted to be in the thick of the cultural soup.

It's hard for me to answer these questions without a nod to class and gender and, in my case, weight. I grew up white collar working class, daughter of a single mother, female, Methodist in a Catholic neighborhood. And fat. I've always felt like I was on the margins. I didn't go to college until I was in my forties. I worked in restaurants, so I worked side by side with people of color and ethnicity.

And if you don't think there's discrimination against fat people, think again. The discussion about fat as an attribute for identity politics pivots on the idea that I can be thin if I have some self-control. I hear the words life-style choice used to describe the change I need to make. This assumes something about my life-style. And presumes to tell me how to live. When Gay people are told that their preference is a life style choice, most progressive thinkers bristle. There's those assumptions and presumptions that seem all too obvious. But when it comes to fat the left is worse than the right. The right would vigorously defend my right to eat fast food. Since I don't like fast food, I'm not really enjoying the support. But many on the left equate my fat ass with the decline of quality food. And they don't know me.

I make it my business to read about things from the perspective of as many people as I can. Even conservatives. (Cough.) Well I try.

But I have privilege. And I know that. I've chosen to think about myself in terms of the things that formed me. Race, class, gender, sexual preference, weight, spiritual identity. These days I'm aware of how age plays into the way I live in the world.

What I can say for sure is that there's no point in backing off from the idea that being white has a political meaning. I think white people get squirmy when we try to think about it. We want to qualify. I tried to do some writing on being white once. I found myself writing more about my relationships to people of color than my own experience of my race. It was like writing about absence. And that may be because I was raised by Northern white liberal conservatives. I had never been aware of my race. And in a racist culture, that's a problem.

                                     9:07 AM

September 24 2003 OK. So we vote.

Paul posted the question: what about that damn Dr. Phil?

I can't watch Dr. Phil. I find him too offensive. I don't think the job of a psychologist is to dazzle people with his, or her, authority. I think it might be good for us all to find our own sense of authority. But a commercial came on for his show yesterday. I knew his new focus on "the right way to lose weight" would piss me off. I was right.

In the commercial fat people cry while he nods. He has the smug look of someone who thinks he knows people better than they know themselves. He says to one woman, "When to you decide to give up and be the fat girl?" I shouldn't put quotes because, despite the fact that it was a commercial I heard more than once, I can't say that those were the exact words. But they're close enough.

Oh. Dr. Phil. Ask me. Please. Ask me. Ask me your stupid reductive questions.

I am so not feeling the love.

Here's a choice I made just yesterday. I made a choice to not imagine that being fat means that I am weak, stupid, emotionally underdeveloped, compulsive, unlovable, ugly, unhealthy, or doomed. It's a choice that I make every day. See I have to make it over and over because every day I am bombarded by people who want to look me in the eye and tell me that they know I'd be happy if I lost weight.

The thin and average sized people on Dr. Phil's show...I don't know what they're gonna do. I guess they just can't change their body and live happily ever after.

This stuff pisses me off.

Here's a question I'd like to answer: Given the fact that you have a body so hated and shunned and lampooned in every part of the culture do you find yourself feeling any rage?

Here's some questions I'd like to ask: Have you ever thought about how you came to all your ideas about fat people? Have you ever just looked at fat people and spent a minute not reacting? Is there any other attribute of physicality that would lead you to draw conclusions about a total stranger? If not, why not? And why is fat different?

There's an interesting piece of satire on The Onion. I keep thinking about it. It did not make me laugh. I found it chilling.

                                     9:15 AM

September 25 2003 Something happened to my cable. They moved things around and I may have new channels. I don't actually watch TV very often. It's often on, but it's off to the side. I'm looking at my computer, or moving around the apartment. I listen to the radio in the morning and at 10:00 AM I flip on channel 26.But if there's no meetings I go to MSNBC, or CNN. I have those channel numbers memorized and yesterday I realized that they were different.

So I spent some time actually looking at the TV. I clicked through and saw the new stuff. There was nothing that seemed too exciting. I think the resolution may be better as well. I was watching MSNBC and I was struck by the amount of flashing, strobeing lights between each segment of (cough) news.

I do watch The West Wing. And last night I was pleased to see John Goodman. Granted he is playing the part of the evil Republican guy who is taking over the presidency. And he did make a fat joke, sort of. He said something about being one plate of ribs away from a heart attack. Other than that he is a fine actor and it's good to see a fat man in a serious role. I meant to watch The Brotherhood of Poland because Paul blogged about the fat men in serious roles on that show. But I forgot until the last few minutes of the show. Now. If we can have more than one fat woman in a serious role. Actually I think that Judging Amy is pretty good. There is Tyne. But the Jillian Armenante role is a bit slapstick.

Willa has been playing with her (naked)SIMS. So funny! It's a really buggy game. I get ghosts on the staircase. There is no one on the staircase but the SIMS stand there waiting as if there is. There's nothing to do but evict them and bulldoze the house. I've had SIMS lose their bodies. Usually after I put in a new expansion pack. The last time I wrote about playing, Shelby told me about the magic mirror. I did go get it. It does change the way you play when you can refresh their needs. It is tell tale that once I used it I stopped playing for a while. It confused me. If there were no needs to struggle with I wasn't sure how to play. I don't think I'm very good at playing. I take it all too seriously. I also downloaded a kitchen by Shelby. Very sweet. I played a little bit last night while I listened to the debate.

I thought Arianna was cool. She has fire and she fronted off when the guys weren't quite telling the truth. And Peter was a bit stiff. But then again he knew he wasn't going to get much airtime. He was the only one who didn't slam another candidate. It was all a bit too fractious for me. Lots of flash and dazzle. Not enough on issues.

It was good to have little virtual characters to watch instead of the candidates. I'm still hung up on my SIMS gardens and training the kitties and the puppies so they can win awards at the pet show. And the magic mirror comes in handy because it keeps everyone in a good mood while they do that stuff.

I need a magic mirror. I spent a half an hour writing a cover letter for a job that I didn't feel totally qualified for and then deleted it because it felt too dumb. Which explains the television watching and game playing. After that misery, I needed to check out.

Sigh.

And with all that TV watching, much of which was news channels, I didn't see anything about the good news. I had to read Kerri for that news. I did hear endless chatter about the debate and the United Nations and the no call list. The same three stories over and over.

                                     9:11 AM

September 26 2003 I did Armageddon shopping yesterday.

Since I don't drive, I'm always needing someone to take me to the store. Maybe not always. There are stores that deliver and I get Planet Organics every week. So I always have fruit and vegetables. And Planet Organics has some groceries. But there are things I like to get at Rainbow and I Like to buy meat and fish at Whole Foods. So Deb took me to both stores and I stocked up. I buy way too much of everything. Hence the name: Armageddon shopping. If Armageddon happens this weekend come by my house. We'll have a little party.

I'm a fan of the Newman's stuff. I like the pretzels and the Newman O's. I like junk food with some substance and I like that they made a version of a popular cookie. I don't love the filling. And Newman's sells tops and bottoms. It's just a good chocolate hit. I bought some yesterday and I was looking at the package, on which it says "fat free."

Uh. Yeah.

It seems like food labels are designed to convince us that we aren't eating "bad" food. And I have a lot of thoughts about good food/bad food. But my thoughts are all around the quality, not the relative health notions. And the Newman's stuff has better ingredients. The other sandwich cookie tries to convince you that there's nothing wrong with their ingredients, especially since they've been sued. But, come on. It's junk.

And then there's the companies. Kraft's parent company is Phillip Morris. Newman's is ... well ... Newman's. They have their own dubious alliances but they're the better choice. I'm always looking for better quality in terms of ingredients and least offensive business practices in my junk food consumption.

A nutritionist in the SMTD group says this great thing. She talks about whether pizza or broccoli is the better food. Most people will say broccoli. But you can't actually live on broccoli. You could live on pizza. Which isn't to say that anyone should live on pizza. But the good food/bad food conversation is subtle.

I also got some popcorn. On that package I read that it was good roughage.

Uh huh.

Sounds like I bought a lot of snack food doesn't it? Well yes. I did. I also got some other things. I got a salmon burger, which I think I'll have for dinner tonight with some of the squash I got from Planet Organics. I got chicken salad and some heirloom tomatoes. I got cereal and milk. I've been eating fruit and yoghurt for breakfast all summer. The fruit was so good. Now I have a lot of apples and pears. Which I don't like as much in yoghurt. I like them on their own.

The good food/bad food divide is drawn in my world. I don't like junk. But I do like snacks. Deb and I had sushi for lunch and I wasn't hungry for snacks after that. Which is good. Because now I still have them. You know. For when Armageddon happens.

                                     9:41 AM

September 27 2003 It's almost like there's a dotted line drawn down the middle of me. Half of me is pulsing need. I need a job. I need my book to get published. I need support. I need people to tell me that my writing doesn't suck and my book will get published. I need people to tell me that everything will be OK. Better than OK. I need to not be alone in bed at night. I need. I need I need.

And the other half of me, in an effort to not be swallowed by my own need, is apathetic. I don't care. I've given up. It is what it is. Fuck it.

I'm on the narrow line in the middle, trying to take deep breaths and hold things together. Or not hold them together but just have some kind of Zen approach. Be in the moment. Don't let the fear of what may, or may not, be run you into the wall. Feel through it all. Watch each thought and watch them pass.

A problem with how many thoughts I have and how fast they bombard me makes that Zen thing kinda like the scene in the Lucy show when the lady speeds up the candy machine and Lucy is shoving them in her mouth and down her shirt and, well, you get the picture.

So I place my palms, face up on my knees, straighten my back, draw a long, full draft of breath into my nose, and all the while I feel like a fraud. Because the need is nagging. The fear is poking. What if? What if? What if?

Eh.

God must be a boogi man.

                                     9:32 AM

September 28 2003 I watched Bloody Sunday yesterday. I have a book about it that I pulled out after I watched the film.  In the beginning of the book there is a Susan Sontag quote.

"Photographs state the innocence, the vulnerability of lives headed toward their own destruction, and this link between photography and death haunts all photographs of people."

It was synchronistic because I'd been in an e-mail exchange with Mike about his post on the falling man. And I'd been thinking about photographs in a broad, general, musing kinda way. And then as I watching the film I remembered images from photos I'd seen.

This morning I woke up thinking about Northern Ireland, Palestine, Iraq. A world of young men dressed in uniforms with guns and tanks facing off young men with rocks. It's not that simple. But in the early morning it was the image that drifted up through my dreams.

The innocence. The vulnerability of lives.

Maybe I'll go for a walk.

                                     8:42 AM

September 29 2003 I woke  up this morning feeling fuzzy and wordless. I wasn't even going to post. I think it's about Monday. And unemployment. And feeling like I'm drifting.

But I got some e-mail about a new message board that was set up in a reaction to NAAFA's message boards. Apparently the people feel that they need to be able to talk about weight loss. And they feel attacked on the NAAFA boards.

I don't read the NAAFA boards. I read and wrote in the Gab Cafe for a while. But I find it too frustrating. If I want to confront someone I want to be able to look them in the eyes. On the Gab Cafe I would post something in response to something someone said and they wouldn't respond. And then there is the problem with text. People don't always express themselves well in text. I don't always express myself well in text. And meaning begins to shift. Things are taken out of context, move through filters of personal experience, hit sore spots; it just gets loopy. And I was putting in a huge amount of time checking back in on the boards. Sometimes I'd get back and there would be thirty or forty messages between what I said and where I would re-enter the conversation. It just didn't work for me.

Paul deals with this stuff on BFB. He wrote a great column about his sense of the "health" issue.

I read a bit of the new board. I have the same feelings about the problems with text. Lot's of cut and paste of people's words. And then a response to that out of context bit. I would hafta spend the day reading the NAAFA boards to get the full context before I would feel like I could jump in.

But I do want to say something.

There are plenty of places where people can talk about dieting and weight loss. There are very few places where we can do critical thinking about why fatness is so hated and dismantle the idea that being fat is inherently unhealthy. So this need to describe one version of size acceptance as truer than another seems like a way to say ... well I'm not that fat. Or, I'm fat but I am trying to lose weight. That kind of line drawing feels like a shot to someone like me.

So. Is there a line? Are places like NAAFA unfriendly to the REALLY fat people who are only trying to lose weight for their health? I can't say. I can say that every time I've been at a NAAFA event someone has whispered to me that this sized acceptance stuff is all well and good but didn't I think that we'd all be healthier if we lost weight?

Any conversation about how much healthier I'd be if I lost weight has to include what I would do to lose weight. I know very fat people who are struggling with compulsive over eating. They need to have conversations about that. They need to sort out why they eat what they eat. But I think they can do that without talking about whether or not they'd lose weight. I think people who have mobility issues can talk about how to improve their mobility without talking about weight loss. How would a thin or average sized person who has problems with mobility or eating too much crap have the conversation? They exist.

I am VERY fat. And there are issues with being this fat. My way of dealing with those issues is to  take them individually and try to problem solve with out the fat hating. My relationship to my body is fifty years old. I know the details of what it's been through. One of the reasons I say I wouldn't take the magic weight loss pill is because I value what I've learned from being in this body. I value the process. I even value the aches and pains. I know it might be easier for other people if I lost weight. But I would still have health issues.

The fat revolution is a paradigm shift. And those are hard to make.

I was thinking about something Meg said in my comments a while back. She said that she was feeling fat and depressed. And she noted a time when she lost weight and someone said, "the sicker you get the better you look."

Think about that.

The sicker you get. The better you look.

We live in a world where thinness is so good and fat is so bad that a friend would say something that lends merit to illness.

I don't have a true definition for size acceptance. I know that people are individuals. Life stories vary. Each body is an expression of all the things that happen in a life. Much too complex to be reduced.

Pun intended.

                                     12:08 PM

September 30 2003 My cable has been fucked up. It goes out at odd times. It's been going on for three months. I call. I write letters. They came and brought me a new box once. They tell me that they are working on the system and sometimes the cable will go out because of that. But it goes out on Sunday morning and I know there's no one working on the system on Sunday morning. So the cable guys came yesterday. They brought another new box. They think it might be my TV. Which is old. We'll see.

When they left I was looking through all the new channels I got the other day. I don't have HBO, or anything like that. But I do have a bunch of channels that show movies. And just junk TV. I watched a bit of a Lifetime bio on Constance Marie, who is currently on the George Lopez show but who I remember from American Family. She said, "I know what it's like to not be represented on TV. It makes you feel separate."

Yep.

And that took me back to something I was thinking about the other day. I was feeling pretty sad after a day of reading on those message boards trying to see if there was a way I could contribute to the conversation. I can't post to the new board because I would be a troll there and that seems wrong headed. I won't read there any more. I think I've learned all I need to know about what they're about and it's too sad. There's some really loopy reasoning going on.

I think it may be true that fat revolution kids might be a bit defensive when it comes to conversations about why people are fat. Most of us have accepted that we are fat because we have a genetic predisposition. From that base of genetics there are things like the impact of stress, hormones, yo-yo dieting and so on.

There was an article about how carbs switch off stress that made me think about how some people have issues with compulsive eating. And it just struck me as such an obvious thing. We are all, fat and thin, under more stress. And fat people are under a particular kind of stress. So there are people who reach for the chips. And then we blame them for their weakness. And they feel attacked. And stressed. And they reach for the chips. Is it too much to ask that we just stop talking about how bad fat is?

Constance Marie thinks a day will come when we are represented on TV. I wonder.

I appreciate the comments yesterday. I do hope more fat people start telling the truth about their individual experience. And I hope the rhetoric war slows down on the boards.

Don't forget. It's Rabbit Rabbit day tomorrow.

                                     10:46 AM