Girl's got issues.

A decade ago, or even as little as six years ago, I would notice people I knew online dropping out of the face of the internet and be baffled by it. The effect was even more acute (back before facebook) when I would meet someone, find out they had accounts on sites I was familiar with, make digital contact, and then stop seeing updates from them. I could not understand what could cause these acquaintances to slip away from the digital sphere. Sure, I knew that they were out there Doing Things, but in my mind Doing Things meant there was more to write about, more to share on Livejournal.

And then I got busy.

Oh. I see.

----

But that's not what pushed me back to my keyboard today. What brings me back is actually one of the ideas of the blogosphere, the kind of issue that gets tweeted and linked and forwarded and shared, the kind of issues that many bloggers with uteruses put on their Real Faces for.

Body image.

The reason I'm bothering to write about it instead of just heading over to one well-known body-related blog or another is that none of the posts I've read quite speak to my form of the Body Issue that I'm dealing with. Also, I'm dealing with it, and it's my blog, just like it's my body, so I want to say something. :P

I've gained weight.

I can still usually fit in the (generous) size 0 dresses I have, and often pick out the XS size to try on at a store, but there's no denying that some pants are fitting better, some pants are fitting worse, and with some pants I no longer need to wear a belt with. I see pockets of fat cells under my skin, I feel parts of my body touching each other and... it sucks.

Yes, I'm a healthy weight, yes, I'm (visually) an okay shape, but I can't deny the fact that I'm hitting an age where keeping the same diet and exercise patterns (patterns best described as 'benignly apathetic') aren't going to help me keep the physical condition they did 5 years or a decade ago.

But my id hasn't caught on yet. I know I should be eating more green things and fewer high fat content snacks. But despite my changing body, I'm having a hard time *caring*. It bothers me that I'm out of breath so quickly when I go hiking, but I haven't yet been motivated to put a plan into action. It should be easy. Once I start, it should all be breezy days between me and that idealized form of self that is comfortable looking in the mirror. I have all the muscle memory of a gymnast, a dancer, an athlete. I remember sprints, flexibility, and lifting heavy things with little strain. But maybe those memories are why it's so hard to start. The goal is *too* easy.

I'm pretending to try right now. I did a little bit of yoga, and I'm in the arduous process of syncing the C25k app to my iPod, but I'm still not energized about the amorphous "getting in shape".

C25k is a decent kind of goal, but since I have no interest in running a 5k, a bit hollow. Trail running is a little more my style, but not exactly "wake up and go" accessible, same with swimming. (Dear Kang, I want to swim. Even though my bathing suit is... get this... too loose to go too fast in. (It comes close to coming off when I dive.))

Maybe I just need to find interesting and achievable goals within the lousy parameters I have around me.

Like being able to walk 50 yards on my hands. Or do an unassisted handstand for a full minute. Or running a mile uphill without stopping. Those sound interesting enough. And let's throw in "touch my heels to the floor" for good measure. (It's a downward dog/yoga thing.)

Upper body strength. Balance (and strength). Cardio. Flexibility.

Great. Now if I get those (or close to them), I should be in good shape to dance when the opportunities come along. :o)

I'm less worried about food than exercise. For all my affinity for cheese crackers and sour cream (not together), I trend towards green things when they are available. Even if it means cutting open a "steam in bag!" bag of veggies to make myself an omelet.

I wake up and read a poem.

It's Tuesday, so I can afford such a luxury. I afforded the luxury of grappling my pillows and going back to sleep when my alarm went off at 7:30, then spending five minutes in bed daydreaming about someone when the dreamlands solidly rejected me an hour later, so I can afford the "luxury" of reading a poem now.

Though a better part of myself frowns when I call it a "luxury". That part of me sees reading a poem as a spiritual experience that should be sought by all. This part of me is also the one that wrote an elegant argument about how all people should try poetry at various stages in their lives, seeking it in different places and in different lights. I think the world would be a better place if every human enjoyed one piece of poetry a year.

Making poetry a staple of my morning would make my life a better place, I believe, so it's not fair to call it a "luxury", but if I think too much about making it part of my routine, I'll put pressure on myself and feel guilty when I don't.

Anyway, today I did take the time. I flipped open the poem delivered daily to my inbox, thinking, "why not?" and hoping for a nice surprise. I almost liked it.

The poem in question is Daily Life by Susan Wood.

I appreciate the imagery at the beginning--

A parrot of irritation sits
on my shoulder, pecks
at my head, ruffling his feathers
in my ear.

--and the subtle way it ends--

... the sun
a blood orange in the sky, the sky
parrot blue and the day
unfolding like a bird slowly
spreading its wings, though I know,
saying it, that it won't.

--(I left out the line that makes the closing make sense), but the middle is a little... pedantic.

to wit:

Too much to do today: the dracena
that's outgrown its pot, a mountain
of bills to pay and nothing in the house
to eat. Too many clothes need washing
and the dog needs his shots.

My objections are one-third about this specific poem and two-thirds about the "image" creative writing* in general and poetry in particular have in my head, but I can't easily extract one from the other, so I'll try to explain it all at once.

In my mind there is a Type. An Archetype, really, the Middle Aged MFA. I've constructed this type in my head and it somewhat rubs me the wrong way. Probably because I've never confronted one of this Type and tried to understand it, tried to meet the poetry heart of such a person instead of focusing so much on the dracena/bills/pantry/laundry/dog part of such a person.

For some reason I put up walls when a settled in, nested down person gets "creative" and starts writing poetry about the birds in their yard or collaging with doll catalogs. For some reason I get privately angry when I flip through Poets and Writers magazine or find myself in a painting class surrounded by women old enough to be my mother. Until today I hadn't put my finger on it, but I think it can be boiled down to a lack of passion. They're on my turf, they're in my game, but they don't seem to have the passion for it that I do. They're not hot, opinionated, driven, and challenged to express their vibrant inner lives. Or at least I don't sense it. My creativity is based in imagination, exploration, awareness of the universe, rather than just beauty, and it seems I react poorly when aesthetics are the most important part of creation.


Hm. I'm very young.

:)


Perhaps it's unfair that I judge Susan on this level based on a poem titled "Daily Life". It feels so much like something cobbled together out of cliches and blue feathers while she was waiting for the dishwasher to finish its cycle. But maybe that's part of the point. There is undoubtedly a large number of people who will relate to this sort of daily life. I just don't want to. Not yet, and maybe not ever.

But cliches, oranges, and feathers aside, I do appreciate the well-crafted way "Daily Life" ended, the last line's antecedent hidden six lines before and obfuscated by three or four vivid images. It does something right.

Leftovers

He shuffles into the apartment in a too-large overcoat and rummages through the pockets. The rain has drawn a soggy gradient across his shoulders and down his back. With one eye peering around the edge of her book, she looks for patterns in the spatter as he empties his pockets of keys, mail, and crumpled receipts.

As he turns toward the rest of the apartment, toward the kitchen with his dinner warming slowly on the stove, toward her, she tucks her face behind the book again. She licks a finger, turns the page, and says, without looking at him, "Your fries are still in my car."

I have a theory about leftovers. About scraps of all kinds, really.

People like to think that by wrapping these unconsumed morsels up and taking them home, they will feed themselves later. Or maybe feed their dogs. Or in the case of fabric, yarn, and other crafting scraps, the pieces will be woven into a future project. I believe that the intent is good and pure, but completely misplaced.

We don't really want to hold on to the tastes that will go cold and soggy and stale (and frayed, unraveled) in a number of hours. What we're really looking for is a way to revisit the experience of the meal. The ritual of moving food from styrofoam to plate, nuking it, then testing it gently with a fork (then pressing a finger to it, because you can't really tell with a fork if it's hot or not) before tentative consumption isn't about feeding yourself, it's about reheating the memories.

The fries from Friday night were never going to be as good as they were at the restaurant, but we took them anyways, believing that one of us would take them home and suffer bites of cold potato for the chance to close our eyes and remember the toast to toasting, sitting on phonebooks, and leaning close over a sideways table... all that preamble.

Year of the Flood

There's a welling-up point, a tipping point, where a book becomes something I can't put down. (Though I did put it down to write this post.)

In reality, I put down Year of the Flood, companion book to Oryx and Crake because I wanted to share that emotional moment with someone. In this little clutch of people I talk to frequently, however, I believe I am alone in my experience of this Atwood novel.

It's funny, I was so worried about reading more by her and having my reverence for Oryx and Crake damaged, but my worries were pointless. Year of the Flood is actually making the first book a richer experience, and I'd like to go back to O&C when I'm finished here, become more deeply steeped in the world.

But, oh, that emotional moment where I saw things in a new way! It would've been so nice to have someone to share that understanding with. Books are so hard to share in the way we share movies. Instead of the set timelined experience, we read at our own paces, and can't share the rhythms of text the same way we share the rhythms of the screen.

Hm, gr.

In any case, more reasons to go back and finish the essays I have about O&C, and expand them in the new light of the Flood.

Downtime.... kindasortanotreally

So. I've wrapped up work, made my tragic cross country expedition, and had three hectic weeks of adventures in CA.

It's Friday, my third week-iversary of returning home. I just sent in a resume for a job I really really really want, did some vacuuming, and now I have a few minuets before I need to get ready and either flake on bonfire plans, or (more likely) get ready to attend.

I could be applying to more jobs or cleaning my room, but I happened to recline on the downstairs couch. Something smells good, I'm listening to a fantastic mix I put together, and the internet doesn't work too well on my laptop upstairs.

And it's been six weeks since I've updated my blog. !_!_!_!_!_!

The massive tide of dates has receded some, I'm down to three or four guys who return my calls (and I return theirs). And one of them is out of the country. So more downtime is looming. I can't wait!

The Picture of Dorian Gray

A couple days ago I finished The Picture of Dorian Gray and had a very particular thought related to writing. But I don't remember what it was anymore.

On a scale of one to ten, I rate Dorian Gray as having improved my life, and I hope to return to it. The title character, however, is not what will draw me back. Lord Henry Watton, with his wit, his hedonism, and his paradoxical philosophies, is much more intriguing than the rise and fall of Dorian.

I picked up this book (er, downloaded it to my kindle) based on the strength of the dialog in The Importance of Being Earnest. While the verbal sparring is my favorite part of this Wilde work, too, but it isn't the front and center focal point. I suppose Wilde was enjoying having so much prose space to work with, as a dozen or so pages are spent on everything Dorian collects and studies over a span of 20 years. Next time through the book I'll likely give that a half-over while spending double time on each scene in which Lord Henry waxes philosophical, tossing out one liners like flowers after a play.

In one memorable exchange late in the book, he goes six or seven volleys with the Duchess. Each round of their conversation evolves the metaphor farther, shifting the scope of their witty battle, and neither party misses a beat or a point.

"Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes thigns wonderful."
"One may lose one's way."
"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys."
"What is that?"
"Disillusion."
"It was my debut in life," she sighed.
"It came to you crowned."
"I am tired of strawberry leaves."
"They become you."
"Only in public."
"You would miss them," said Lord Henry.
"I will not part with a petal."
"Monmouth has ears."
"Old age is dull of hearing."
"Has he never been jealous?"
"I wish he had been."
He glanced around as if in search of something.
"What are you looking for?" she inquired.
"The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it."
She laughed. "I still have the mask."
"It makes your eyes lovelier."

And I'm speechless.

I know exchanges like these are pure fiction, illusions of their own, only possible when both voices come from one mind, a mind which has infinite time to jigsaw the pieces together. It still makes me swoon. Still makes me dream of having this sort o mincing dance in my own life, or at least in my own writing. Given the chance to re-write this book (a mental game I play with most things I read), I might be able to improve upon some of the plot or characterization of some of the players, but Lord Henry was perfect.

Is my accumulated knowledge of Poe, my familiarity with Doyle, and the passing of generations that make me immune to the twists and turns in Dorian Gray's plot? Why did I suffer no illusion about it being James Vane that was killed on the hunt? Why did I feel no suspense about the possible endings the novel could come to? Did the lack of salacious details regarding Dorian's sins and the scandals he dragged others into prevent me from investing more deeply? Perhaps, perhaps.

I wish I felt more strongly the pull of depravity on Dorian's soul. His betrayal of Sibyl, his part in her death had no intent behind it. I wish I'd seen him slip more gradually, more willfully into corruption. Or maybe it's there but I'm not seeing it. In the quote above, I don't know what the strawberry leaves are, or the full depth of the fencing references.

All in all, to my terribly untrained mind, I can't heap much praise on the bones of Dorian Gray, and can't see myself heaping it upon others in recommendation, but I'm glad I read this classic novel, and I will be eternally grateful for it introducing me to Lord Henry.

This issue. (Feminism)

I'm watching Californication, Season 1.

(I'm also knitting, so it isn't a complete waste of time, and I vaguely like the show, despite the commonalities it has to Terriers, with none of the intense, redeeming plots of the latter. Californication has shades of Entourage, too. But these things are moot right now.)

Four episodes in, I have big question marks above my head about the female characters.

I try to stay away from feminism issues in general, as it tends to paint 50% of the population with a large brush despite each individual in that segment deserving its own color, and so many people try to wield that large brush with so many varying opinions.

It seems whenever a male writer pens a female character or vice versa, critical readers/viewers will try to say that opposite-gender characters are (to varying degrees) stand-ins for every person sharing their genitalia, as though characters aren't allowed the same rights of individuality autonomous, non-fictional people are.

What brings this up is although I'm generally enjoying Californication (despite knowing Hank and his ex will never get back together), I can't get behind any of the adult female characters. In short, it flagrantly fails the the Bechdel Test.

Rundown of female characters in the first few episodes:
- Karen. Hank's ex. Seems interesting enough, but doesn't have much of a point other than being the ex, Becca's mother, and engaged to Bill. I had to look up her name and couldn't tell you if she has a job or not.

- Hank's girlfriend. She's an "attorney" to whom Hank was a total asshole the first time they met, but he made a couple good jokes when he apologized for being an asshole, so she forgave him and they started dating... because her other relationship was long term, with a married man. And maybe she's still sleeping with said married man, talking shit about Hank behind his back.

- Hank's agent's assistant. Twenty-two year old who gets fired for being a fuckup assistant, sends her boss a link to her Suicide Girl profile, and gets rehired so they can play Secretary.

- Mia. Bill's 16 year old daughter. Stalked and seduced Hank, and keeps toying with him, using his innate sexual attraction to hot young women against him, despite him saying "this is wrong, you're not an adult" each time she tries it.

- MULTIPLE other women... married random in the pilot, movie producer's wife, porn star, dinner guest, tabloid writer... FIVE in four episodes (not counting the dreams) have thrown themselves at him. He didn't sleep with the tabloid writer or the porn star, but fucked the other three. The porn star and the dinner guest especially irked me, however, because they both insecurely asked Hank to judge their bodies. "What do you think? what do you think of my tits?"

In this context a woman who wasn't all over Hank or another man in the show, a woman who was loyal or reserved or remotely not-crazy, a woman who was down to earth would stick out like a sore thumb and look like a prude in this company.

There is nothing remotely real about this show. Even with the "family" moments, the occasional sweet things Hank does, it's pure voyeurism and entertainment. Messed up relationships, some sex, some laughs, some tits. Asking myself, "If you have this issue with the show, what do you want?" it's not easy to answer. I guess I want a woman with some dignity to drop by, to be made a pass at, give Hank a funny look, tell him he's a jackhole, then walk off without bitchy histrionics. But that's pretty boring, huh? Maybe I want a sense that there will be some redemption, some happy ending.

The character on Terriers who was still in love with his ex (who was, in turn, engaged to someone else) didn't get a happy ending, but there were things going on in that show besides the relationships between the main characters. There were other avenues to show growth.

Maybe that's what Californication needs, a Steph character, a sister (or something) who has other things going on, interests besides men.

You know, even Becca, Hank's 12 year old daughter is already fucked up over this. Caught kissing a boy and told it was inappropriate behavior, she said, "How else am I supposed to get them to like me?" For the most part she's a punk kid, precocious and funny, but I'll be interested to see how she develops over the seasons... if I keep watching.

I have a lot of knitting to do... but there are many many other things on my Netflix queue.

Bite the bullet.

Five years ago I was traipsing around the hills of Northern San Diego, wondering when I'd see my new! favorite! person! next.

Today I'm sitting in my a tiny room in an outer borough of DC, wondering if I'll ever see him again.

Either the physical person who has persisted from then to now, or the intangible person I felt so strongly about. Our contact these days is reduced to text messages about taxes, paperwork, and the dozen boxes he's holding in storage for me.

Next free day I have could be devoted to picking up those last boxes, fortifying and labling them, and sending them ahead to California, where I will once again roost. I could do it under the cover of workday, slip in, haul out, leave his storage key under the mat. Other than the lump over foot and the sixteen words hidden deep in his cell phone, he wouldn't know the difference. No confrontation to take coveted items off his shelves. I'd give up and be gone, my will and influence departed from his life, no say over what he does with time, money, goods.

The waves created by this tectonic shift in my life have lessened over time. They're less frequent, no longer a daily occurrence, but when the swells do come, they are sometimes enough to capsize me. On those days I'm bleak and hungry, but I'm not sure for what.

Last time I saw him, the day I packed the last of my belongings, I could barely look him in the eye. Shamefully I hid the muddy chaos of my mental state. I wanted to ask "what are you feeling? how are you doing, really? what do you think of...." The trailing off would gesture to the frayed ends between us. There's a clear division, like that painting I once made with two trees nearly but not quite bridging the chasm between them. The wind might blow branches over the tug-of-war line in the middle, but they never really overlap, never connect. Did we used to? Could we again? Should we?

But I can't start that conversation. It'd be pointless, masochistic, and a repetition of every reason I cried on the floor of the guestroom in the first place.

* * *

3.14.06 was actually ripe with livejournal posts. It's interesting to look back on how much hasn't changed.

aw, crap.

I clicked on the game chef link on someone's LJ... and the design bug bit me.

The transmission of this post was interrupted by me having the sudden desire to draw a picture of myself getting gnawed on by nine giant bugs.

*fallsover*

I AM AN ANNIE OF IRONY, SELF DEFEATING AND SELF ENHANCING AT EVERY TURN!

... I want to write about that. I really do. I want to follow up and say how I'm always pulled in six creative directions, how my art is as crappy now as it was then, how Mike gets on my case about never knowing what I want to pursue, but this blast from the past (exactly 5 years ago!) subverts that impulse:

Most of my time since Friday night has been spent wrapped up in arm and/or brain with him. We partied (for three hours) in Escondido on Saturday, we did creative things (for two hours) in Oceanside on Sunday, we drove (for four hours) to Upland and back Monday.

The potential separation came up in conversation once. My brain is split, the left hemisphere not knowing what the right hemisphere is caring about, and vice versa. I throw myself towards college with the same gusto I throw myself into a vat of hearts juice, and my brain can't reconcile the incompatibility. This came up in conversation once, and he said, "I don't know what to say yet, but I don't think we could do long-distance." I pretty much agree. Neither of us are good on the phone, and he does many times better in person than he does via text.

At that point in time I'd applied to school in Savannah and planned a campus visit with my folks. On that trip I would find out I'd been accepted, and was so certain about the way life was going, purchase an engagement gift for him (for when the time came).

I suppose that era was so ripe with romantic brainsplatter that reading my diary for any day in 2006 would yield the same shuddering angst. Same or worse.

* * *

I'm getting divorced and moving back to CA. I'll live with my parents, find a meager job, and go to school, shooting for journalism.

These are the things going on in my life.