September 2004

September 1 2004  8:29 AM                                                                               

Rabbit Rabbit.

I don't generally salt food. There are things on which I like salt. Potatoes. Eggs. Although I prefer salsa on eggs. Margaritas. Margaritas should be salty. I love to press my tongue against the rim of the glass. The salt opens everything up for that warm Agave flavor.

I salt when I'm cooking. But not vegetables. I like to taste my vegetables. Not salt.

This is somewhat ironic since I collect salt and pepper shakers. I haven't counted but I think I might have close to fifty. Maybe more. Some of which are from my grandmother's collection. She salted watermelon.

Some friends were visiting once and were confused because, in all those salt and pepper shakers, they couldn't find any salt. I had run out.

This is all preamble. Yesterday I was eating some cold chicken and I salted it. There's something about salty cold chicken. It's just so good. If I salted everything all the time I might not know this.

I had a good day. I did yoga and ate good food and cleaned the apartment and took care of some business and ...played a little Sims.

Heh.

September 2 2004  8:26 PM                                                                               

I got a new weather thing after seeing it at Susan's. The old one didn't fit in the side bar and I never looked at it when it was at the bottom of the page. Susan is the cool stuff queen. I'd been thinking about her yesterday because I know she is fond of Aung San Suu Ki and I'd seen about fifteen minutes of Beyond Rangoon. I've seen the whole movie so I knew what was happening. I started to cry and couldn't stop. And I knew Susan would have been crying too.

A while ago I was invited to join an Yahoo group full of very nice people. But the timing was awkward. I backed out. I did meet a few new people as a result. Very cool people. For that I'm grateful. But it did kinda mess me up in some ways.

I've written before about a time when I stumbled upon a blog cluster and wrote my self senseless trying to join them. I met a few cool people during that time too. But I never really fit in with the "group". As it were.

Meet is an interesting word. I've only met one person in the flesh. These are all blog writers. The person who invited me is still one of my favorite people to read. My blog relationships are very real for me.

So, anyway. I found the whole experience a bit overwhelming. It changed my blog writing again. I became hyper conscious. More aware of the reader than ever. I was thinking about it as I played Sims the other day. There are ways in which I've been curled up in my simulation. I don't really think that's a big, bad deal. I've just been feeling off. And uncertain. In Simsville I can make things work out. In my life ... well ... not so much.

Siona is reading Hillman.

I love him. And I agree with him. But. I'm having a hard time with it all. I've never felt at home in community. Especially not in the fractured community known as my family. Community is a word I've come to find suspect. What does it mean? Hillman goes on.

Yes. I realize I am part of something large and energetic. Something not always visible. Not just the story lines of relationships. The experience of relationship. In fact, blogging makes very real the idea that relationships can be forged in a "psychic field." And I know I am part of a community. More than one.

Hillman again.

See. But. Gee. It's true. And that's where I become troubled. I'm part of systems that I find repellant. Right now the community known as Republicans is in lock down in Madison Square Garden. The city of New York is a bad dream of the way things will be if this guy gets four more years. I can rail against it and vote for the other guy, despite the fact that I'm not feelin the love there either. America is a system. I'm part of it. It doesn't make me happy. I'll only feel a little bit better if the other guy wins.

I back out of a lot communities. Because inclusion and exclusion bother me. Even when we affirm a semi permeable boundary in our communities we have to accept that we are part of things that we find repellant.

So. I pull in as tight as I can. So tight that I'm living in a world on a screen. A world in which complexity is navigable. And then I sit back. And remember.

I find my actual self in situations. I'm not sure I handle them well.

September 6 2004  12:12 PM                                                                               

There's a check list I run through when I'm trying to understand why I'm in a mood. Unemployment. Disappointment in one thing, or another. Middle age something. But. Really. All that is just life. And. So.

It's hot in my third floor apartment. All the heat rising to bake me.

Sometimes at night I can hear the sea lions. They get real barky. I'm used to it so it doesn't keep me awake. In fact I find it charming. Usually. The other night they were whopping it up and every time they started my heart raced. Like maybe there was something wrong. The next night they were quiet and it felt like something was wrong again.

I get this way. Nothing feels right.

So you keep talking in many languages
Telling us the way you feel
Don't stop confiding in the road you're on
Don't quit, you're walking Satellites

-Ricki Lee

September 7 2004  10:52 PM                                                                               

I been remembering the move I made from Boulder to New York. I took the Greyhound part way and Amtrak the rest. I wanted to visit Dad and Aunt June in Missouri and Mom and Ken in North Carolina. I took the Greyhound to St Louis, spent about a week with Aunt June and Dad. Dad took me back to the bus station. It's about an hour drive. Maybe more. I had about an hour to wait for my bus but I told him he didn't need to stay with me once we got there. He was insistent about not leaving me alone in a bus station. Once we got there he decided he did want to get back. Before traffic got bad. We said our good byes and when he was gone I wept. Sitting in the bus station. Weeping.

I wasn't scared. I was weeping for the want of a father who wanted to have every possible minute with me. But. That wasn't him.

I took the bus to NC but when I left to go North I switched to Amtrak. The station was in South Carolina. The train left at midnight. It was a long drive through mountain roads to get to the station. Mom must have told me a zillion times, they were NOT going to stay. They were going to leave me there and get back home before it got too dark.

But. They didn't.

They stayed until the train came. The train pulled in way down the track and I had to run to where they were letting us on. I got on and looked out the window to see that they had run along as well and Mom had fallen. But we waved at each other until the train pulled away. I cried so hard I couldn't see for an hour.

Tonight I called Mom to read her Maria's post. Mom and I used to talk on Saturday night but we switched to Friday. I thought Mom might find the post as moving as I did. I wasn't sure she knew who Persephone and Demeter were. She's not stupid. She's just not interested in most of the stuff I'm interested in and she doesn't really read. She reads the Wallstreet Journal. And the local paper. Once when she was visiting me she looked with contempt at my book shelves and asked why I needed to keep them if I'd already read them. We're just different in so many ways. Politically. Spiritually. Just as I got to the last paragraph of Maria's post Mom had to stop me and have a loud exasperated conversation with Ken about the location of a measuring cup. She listened to the rest of the post but the mood was broken. She said it was sad. And. I guess it is. But it's also universal and rich with meaning and beautifully written and ...

sigh.

My mom and I both speak English. More specifically, we both speak Pittsburghese. After an hour of talking with her my vowels get squeezed. I listen more than I talk. I don't feel like we speak the same internal language. I usually hang up feeling worn out. We are so far apart. And yet. I know. She'll hang onto every second she can have with me. And I'll weep with love when we part.

Complicated relationships. I love my Mom and Dad in a desperate way. I love them the way you love people who you know are part of you. Even when they don't get you. Even when you don't get them.

More just. Ya know. The stuff of life. And yet. I keep thinking about why I am who I am. Because I'm trying to ...

grow.

Up.

Or.

Something.

I used to think I was Persepone. Hauled into the underground against my will. Now I think I like it in the underground. I surface on Friday night for a phone call. I weep when I return. But I'm not crying because I'm going back down. I'm crying because I'm never really at home in either place.

September 8 2004  1:04 AM                                                                               

Here's something I'm not proud of. I haven't been reading my blog roll. First time since I started blogging. I mean, I've had a day or two when I was busy or cranky and I didn't read. But this has been different. I am having some kind of weird reaction to the joining the group/leaving the group drama. It was blogging drama number 857 and it just put me in this mood. And, as I've already written. There are things. Going on.

Because of all my Sims playing I'm thinking like a Sims. Sometimes when you tell a Sims to do too many things at once, or change their directions too quickly, or tell them to do something they don't really want to do, they kind of stand there. Rubbing their nose. They stall. That's how I feel. Stalled.

I've been working through the blogroll today. It feels good. It feels like seeing people that you haven't seen for awhile. People that you love to see.

Siona. Phew. Siona wrote a kick ass post. And now, despite the fact that it's late and I ought to go to sleep, after days of not having the will to write, I find myself full of language.

My friends who have suffered eating disorders have taught me much. But first I want to say that I don't like the word disorder. In fact, I resent the word. Our relationship with eating and food (As Siona so deftly described.) is loopy. And it doesn't get loopy because we as individuals get it wrong.

I've seen a commercial lately for a refrigerator with a television on the front of it. In the commercial kids eat cookies, men drink beer and women eat fruit. All while watching TV. A TV embedded in the front of the refrigerator. And none of them are fat. They are living the American life. Put food into your mouth while we entertain you. Don't pay attention to what you're eating. Just keep eating and watching.

I'm not pointing fingers. I eat in front of a computer with radio, or television on. I eat beautiful organic food. Even my junk food is not terribly junky. And the last few days, with the heat, I haven't wanted to eat at all. I don't even want the toaster oven on. But I zone. Sometimes I just make myself sit at the table and eat my meal. None of this is a big problem for me.

Sometimes it's hard to talk about all this and not feel like I'm off politic in terms of the revolution. It isn't my experience that all fat people eat crap and don't exercise. I've written about all this before and I'm sure I will again. I feel I owe an apology to Paul and the BFB community. My general malaise seems to have sucked the fight out of me. I'll get it back. Sometimes people in the fat political community don't want to talk food politics because we are under such scrutiny in terms of what we eat. it shouldn't be anyone else's business what I eat.

Except .  

As Siona so deftly described.

It is someone's business. There is almost as much profit being made on food as there is in making people afraid to eat.

(Women in the commercial are eating fruit.) (The dad and his son are eating ice cream.) (Growl.)

So there are a lot of intersections and a lot of diverging paths. And it's late. And too hot. And I'm full of thought.

Paul blogged this MSNBC bit. Parents should demonstrate healthy patterns of eating. Some day someone is going to have to help me understand what healthy patterns of eating are. Are they always the same? I don't think so. A pattern of eating is a diet. Being in touch with your body might be a better goal. Eating while you're awake might be a good idea.

My recurrent phrase these days seems to be ... it's just life. Life in a body. We don't always do everything right. We can't possibly imagine that we can or even should. We are not disordered. It's all disordered.

And it's not.  

I was struck by some of the comments in Siona's post. Most people were thoughtful and engaged. Some were just off point and reductive. I was a bit reductive in my comment to her addendum. But I was irritated by what felt to me like the need to calm her down.

Growl.

Here's another lesson from the Sims. They  have six little need bars that go from green to red. They need to eat, sleep, have fun, be social, take care of body functions and clean up. I've clicked my hand into cramps trying to keep their bars in the green. It doesn't work. If they eat they need to go to the bathroom. If they If they have fun alone they sometimes get lonely. If they do nothing but talk to their friends they don't always have enough fun. (Although this confuses me a little bit. I like talking to my friends.) But for the Sims it's all about taking care of everything, going to sleep, waking up and taking care of everything again. Life. In a body.

Health is not a pattern. It's a process.

OK.

So.

My energy bar is in the red and I've lost coherence. I should wait till tomorrow and rewrite this before I post. But. I like it when I'm all over the place.

September 8 2004  9:59 AM                                                                               

Neither here nor there.

Neither this nor that.

Here and there.

This and that.

Reject.

Accept.

Start over.

Double Gemini.

Libra moon.

Duality.

Duality.

Balance.

Amy Goodman was interviewing a guy at the Republican convention. He said he got all his news from Fox and he would never watch a Michael movie. I like to say I get my news from a variety of sources but the truth is I listen to and read mostly lefty news. I can barely tolerate CNN. I'm not that different from the guy. Just on the opposite end of a spectrum.

It's been interesting to read The Spiral Staircase right after reading about Lucy's spiral into drug addiction and death. Particularly interesting last night when I was still thinking about the idea of health. Lucy was in pain for most of her life. The pain began when she had a third of her jaw removed because she had Cancer. She went through a number of surgical attempts to reconstruct her jaw. None worked. She could barely chew, or swallow. Eating was life threatening. She choked on food. She said the emotional pain of being ugly was worse. But I have to think that some of what troubled her was dealing with constant physical pain. The thing that saved her from Cancer gifted her a life of bad physical and mental health.

It was her longing for love and her fear that she would never be loved because she was ugly that made my own bones ache with commiserate pain. I don't think I'm ugly. But I know there are people who do. Lucy's big life question drove her into a kind of madness. Is it possible for anyone to love me? She had a gazzillion friends. People who were there for her at every turn. But she wanted that one heart. She wanted to look into someone's eyes and see herself loved. It's a narcissistic formation. Love me to prove to me that I am loveable. No one can do that.  

It is easier when someone is holding your hand while you do the work.

Karen Armstrong wanted to live for God's love. When she left the convent she felt lost. She felt like she had failed. She had to rebuild herself internally. She had to reclaim her self from that marriage to the invisible.

I looked to God for the love I craved. Always looking for my reflection in something external. And I've worked to reclaim my self from all the people and places went to for love. Because it wasn't really love I was looking for. I was looking for the thing I needed. The thing I longed for. The thing I believed I should have had by birth right. The obscure object. Never quite defined.

My project is about holding the two things that seem to be oppositional. Holding them in some kind of balance.

Neither accepting.

Nor rejecting.

But today. I'm feeling. Hmmm.

It's a solopsitic dance this reclamation. I've had times when I kept myself busy with everyone else and everything else. That's an extreme as well. But.

It is easier when someone is holding your hand. Isn't it? Not easy. But easier. Isn't it?

Neither here nor there.

Neither this nor that.

Here and there.

This and that.

Reject.

Accept.

Start over.

September 8 2004  10:31 PM                                                                               

I'm stunned. And sad.

September 10 2004  8:05 AM                                                                               

It occurred to me yesterday that many people who read me are friends who don't read other blogs,  or bloggers who read in a blog cluster in which they may not have come across Aaron. I didn't read him as often as I read other people. I read him often enough to know that I admired his politics, his passion, his humor and style and cultural savvy. I was shy around Aaron. I opened the comment box a number of times and never typed anything. He was so grand to me. I felt tongue tied. So I would read. And smile. And click away.

His death really did leave me stunned. Why?  So young. So smart and beautiful. So loved and admired. Why? Can't we rewind this tape? Can't we rewrite this? My strongest feelings were for the people I read who I know had relationships with him. As I read across the blog world I see much grief and confusion. He was loved and admired.

When I was reading the Hillman I was struck by a long paragraph recounting deaths in last ten years because of war, genocide and governmental suppression of dissent. The numbers are large. Overwhelming. Too much to completely take in. I had opposite reactions to them. Deep revulsion and an urgent need to make it stop and a kind of calm. It seemed to me that we, as an evolving life form, have just barely figured out how to walk upright. We've figured out a lot of things but we are still brutal and greedy and afraid that we'll lose our little gathering of resource to a bigger, stronger force. So we hate and we battle and we suppress. And many of us want it to be other wise. We want peace. We want money to spent on making sure everyone has what they need and not on the weapons to keep the walls around wealth. But the numbers are still adding up. Deaths. Every day. More. I felt calm because it seemed to me that I needed to accept the fact of all this death. I still feel the urgent need to make it stop.

Can't we rewrite this?  Can't we make it stop?

All emotion and abstraction. I understand the feeling. I understand the urge to fill my pockets up with rocks and head for the nearest body of water. I don't know why Aaron did what he did. I know he was too young, too beautiful and smart, too loved and admired for this to be true. And yet. It is true. We need to accept the fact of it. But I can't imagine we will ever not wish we could have kept it from happening.

George said the most important thing. I didn't feel like I could say it. I always did feel shy around Aaron.

I love you Aaron.

September 10 2004  9:07 AM                                                                               

I miss things. I swear. I get into these funks. I pull into myself. Things happen. I miss them.

I submitted a piece of writing to Emerging Women Writers for their August theme: Passion. They published it. I didn't know that they had published it. If they sent e-mail to tell me I may have deleted it. I delete a ton of junk mail and sometimes I go too fast. I'm just ... I mean ... jeez. I was published. And I missed it.

I am beyond grateful. And feeling a little shy now that it's out there. It was my intention to be ... uh ... passionate. Blush. Head in hands now. Giggle. Blush.

Wow.

Wow.

I found out about them via Trish Wilson, who also has a piece up.

September 12 2004  10:35 AM                                                                               

Moyers did an amazing job of recounting 911 events. I wasn't intending to watch any of the rehash but I trust Moyers. I don't like the way the events of September 11th have been used to build a fear driven jingoism. It should be a solemn day of awareness that all over the world people are enduring acts of terrorism.

Fortunately, I spent the day away from the screens. I went to yoga in the East Bay because we had our picture taken for my Yoga For EveryBody article, which will be out in January. The Yoga International article will be out in November. And then I spent the afternoon with K3, kissing on Jan and eating oysters and sashimi.

I watched Chungking Express last night. Wong Kar-wai made that movie in the middle of making Ashes of Time, which I'm going to try and watch today. Ashes of Time is a big epic and he took a break from making it to make a movie that was lighter.

There's a big bike race in my neighborhood, which pretty much puts me in lockdown for the day. I don't know what they were doing to get ready last night but it was noisy. So I'm a bit zoned.

September 13 2004  8:33 AM                                                                               

Paul blogged about a woman who was told by Southwest airline that she needed to buy a second seat because of her weight. She was already in the seat, with her seat belt buckled and there was no one next to her. She is suing Southwest claiming that the policy is not uniformly enforced and that women and people of color are more often targeted. Similarly sized white men are not asked to pay for their second seat. I have no doubt that she's right.

It's one of those things you can't quite explain to people who don't experience discrimination of any kind. There's just something you notice in the way you are treated in public situations. And you look around and notice who isn't being treated in any particular way. It may be subjective. But you know the old saying. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm not being treated badly.

She's an interesting woman. She has her own company, which was written about in Essence. She was on her way to a conference that her company was sponsoring about empowering women. She decided to get off the plane rather than pay for the second seat and she was met by two county sheriffs.

Imagine that.

This issue always pits people of size against thin and average sized people in terms of comfort and safety. Most of the people (of all sizes) I know who fly regularly talk about how uncomfortable flying can be. So it must be clear that the seats aren't really comfortable for anyone. And I think people have a right to be comfortable in their seat. I just don't know why the airline companies aren't the ones who are asked to fix the problem. I know airline companies are failing financially. But here's an idea, be the airline that makes an effort to provide comfortable seating for everyone. There's a commercial for one airline in which they move the seat to provide more leg room. So...? Is more ass room really that much harder to provide?

Here's another thing that's subjective. How do you determine who is fat enough to charge for the second seat? I'm glad Ms. Thompson is calling out the possibility that women and people of color might be targeted more often but the discrimination is about size. She was already in her seat. There wasn't anyone next to her. She flew Southwest often and she fit into the seat.

I don't. I don't fit into the seat. On the rare occasion that I fly, I go to great lengths to make sure I'm not pushing over on anyone. And if an airline company advertised that they wanted my business and were making sure that they had some seats with movable armrests, on an aisle, or even seats that are wider, I'd be booking with them.

I'm just aghast that this policy still stands. Southwest is doing well financially. There's something about that. Something deeply offensive. They are a mean spirited company known for discrimination. And they are doing well.

Van Gogh and Chekhov and all great people have know inwardly that they were something. They have had a passionate conviction of their importance, of the life, the fire, the god in them. But they were never sure that others would necessarily see it in them, or that recognition would ever come." - Brenda Ueland (via Whiskey River)

September 13 2004  10:24 PM                                                                               

For some inexplicable reason I left for yoga an hour early. I always leave a bit early because traveling by bus can be so unreliable. But an hour? I didn't realize it until I was on the bus and the digital display read 10:05. It wasn't the biggest problem. I went to a coffee shop and read for awhile. I even had some minutes on a card I had purchased for Internet access so I used their computer.

I read Michael's piece about 9/11 and his poem. I've seen so many images from that day. I'm almost inured. But knowing that Michael had taken those made them more real. And I felt the torpor lift and the sadness returned.

The card ran out just as I was beginning to read Jeff's personal cultural inventory. Arg. I knew I could finish it when I got home. So I moved to another table and got back into my book.

Coffee before yoga. Not the best thing. But I was holding poses longer than I have been. So. Ya know. That was good.

When I had my coffee cart at NCOC I walked on Valencia every day. I knew all the street people. Some by name. There was one woman. I always made sure I had change in my pocket for her. I saw her today. She looks thinner. I gave her some money. Not enough.

It took a long time to get home. That happens sometimes. When I got home I was sweaty and stinky and dazed. But I powered up and went straight to finish the Jeff writing. Check e-mail. Comments.

September 13 2004  11:13 PM                                                                               

Adrienne sent this link. Very important.

September 14 2004  9:41 AM                                                                               

When I went to college I had some vague ideas about becoming a therapist. I do so love talking personal process. I also get tired of it. I have friends who tell the same story over and over and I wonder if they aren't sick of hearing it. I kinda am. I wouldn't do well taking money to listen to the same story over and over. With my friends I can say things. I'm pretty good at being able to say stop telling the same fucking story. Figure out a way to make a change. And not say it too harshly. After all, I have my own tape loops.

My advisor, at school, steered me away from the therapist thing. But she never quite steered me anywhere else. I ended up in an MFA program. Really. That's how it felt. It felt like ending up. I don't regret it. I got to read and write for two years. I wrote a book. I met some cool people. It's all good.

But. What now?

What I didn't expect was that I would like college. Of course I went to a hippie school. But still. I loved going to class. I loved the rhythm of the day. I loved the reading. And the writing.

I read academic bloggers talking about how life in the academy is fraught. I can imagine that it is. And now I've finished reading Karen Armstrong's account of her own failed dissertation. Failed in a controversial episode in which her reader was known to not like the manner of her writing. It seems that the college knew she was wronged in this political, institutional ego kind of way. And still.  After years of work. She didn't get her Ph.D. What is that about?

It's not about the letters. It's about the way all institutions become clogged with bad human silliness. I always become too involved. I always go crazy and have to leave. What makes me think I'd be able to avoid this in a college?

Still. I have this idea that I'd like to teach. And I might like to work on another degree. Maybe in philosophy. Oh. I don't know.

September 14 2004  1:10 PM                                                                               

Awhile ago I wrote about having fallen in love. I knew then that falling might not be the best way to arrive at love. And maybe love isn't what we arrive at when we fall. What ever. I felt strong feelings for a person based solely on their writing and their politics and their artistry and their aesthetic and just feeling. Just an overwhelming feeling of attraction and recognition and relatedness and ...oh. So much.

Things didn't go well. And lots of that is about me. I'm not sure why they went as badly as they did. I don't think I understood everything that was happening. I know I didn't. But I still could read them. And I took comfort in that. I just realized that I've lost access. I'm blocked. Or it's all gone. Or I dunno what. And it hit me in the heart. So hard.

I've been doing a lot of work to compartmentalize my feelings. I didn't want to lose the love and admiration I had for the person just because the relationship wasn't going to be what I wanted it to be. I've experienced the anger, the loss, the grief, the frustration and I've worked on it all. I was feeling like I'd put it all into a place. I still found them in my thoughts from time to time. I still felt my heart expand when that happened. But I wasn't suffering quite so much.

And now. My throat is swollen with emotion. The tears are falling. I feel like I've been punched in the chest.

I've read a few people lately, writing about finding it hard to want to blog. They all have their reasons. It's been harder for me this year. I'm in the middle of my forth year of on line writing. And it's been quite a ride. But the people draw me back. The people I read. The people who read me. So many beautiful hearts.

And it's about writing. That's where I always return. I remind myself that it's about writing. I shake off my awareness of stats and referrers and who is zoomin who and I focus on writing.

But. I just. Feel. So.

Sigh.

In some ways this is a good time for this to happen. I didn't intentionally set out to read all these books about women's lives but reading about Lucy Grealy and Karen Armstrong I've felt some sense of peace about my single life. So the tightness and the tears are just what they are. I have to accept this. And I will. I don't know what else to do.

Why bother to post about it?

Oh.

Because.

When I first began this on line writing I had the feeling of putting a message in a bottle. And that may be what this is. Because I don't accept loss easily.

Access denied. Wow. OK then. Deep breath.

September 15 2004  9:40 AM                                                                               

I went through cycles of  stages of grief all day. One minute I was checking system requirements for Sims Two. The next I was sobbing on the bed. Then some reading. Then some dusting and book moving. Then some lists of why I'm mad. Feeling. Not feeling. Feeling.

By the end of the day I was exhausted. Spent. Flattened.

This morning. Well. I'm OK.

It's always hard for me to accept that there is nothing I can do. I ought to be able to say something. Just the right thing. I'm so good with words, doncha know?

Sigh.

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

I really am OK. Just sad. Which seems an obvious response.

September 15 2004  8:43 PM                                                                               

Last week I started this new piece of writing in hopes of sending it to a magazine. I was in the groove. Then I got busy and then there was yesterday and today I seem to be in a trance. I hate when I'm like this. I keep talking out loud to myself. Saying, "Do something. Do something"

So.

I made some tuna salad. Marilyn has this great saying about life being too short for self hatred and celery sticks. It makes me laugh. Somewhere there is someone eating celery instead of cake because they want to be good. But I hafta tell ya, I like cake but I also like celery. Very much! I was chopping it up for the tuna and eating stalk after stalk. Celery is under valued. It's refreshing.

And I was reading through the blog roll. Amp posted his male privilege list, which I can't seem to link directly but just scroll down. Makes me wanna hug him. While I was there I followed a link to a new blog. New enough that I could go through the archives.