22.6.11

yesterday

Not one thing about yesterday seemed to flow; every thing stood out as an island of its own volition, all sides waterlogged and inaccessible. Me without the heart to dig a wobbly SOS in the forearms of those lonely beaches, just content (content?) to lay naked on hot sand without anything in my hands. Maybe I dreamed of American psychos.

Whatever they were/it was I might have wished to be away and alone, and did. Many aspects of my current life, including (but not limited to) my job, debt, adult responsibilities, and lack of money, would seek to destroy the order I have so deliberately constructed and sometimes I worry I will be overwhelmed and fall to disorder again. As I admitted before, though, nothing compares to the current bliss that is my life with Nicholas and I am unwilling to concede to any force, whether internal or external, that would threaten this alignment. It just so happens that I am still prone to feeling bad for myself. My human aspect ensures that I fall prey to like personality flaws but I always work to overcome it. Success is slow to come, but definite.

In other words: at the end of the day Spex and Rex hid from a storm in a wine bar a few blocks from their apartment, and half-price drinks made for more than an hour of unwind-down-time. Their evening walk was also successful because they found a neighborhood naughtybits store they never knew existed and, when they went inside, they interrupted a dick symposium and were very satisfied, and the most in love, more than ever.

20.6.11

1928

A beautiful thing: the slow but definite smothering of disordered thinking. It isn't even that, probably. I would call it super-adaptability. Nick might say it's something's got to do with decay but not in the way you're thinking: in the way that rotted-out tree trunks give way to seedlings. I often think of how miserable I was a little more than a year ago and picture me with my skin falling off, hissing and popping as it slumps into piles on the floor. My hair's falling out and my eyes are glued shut.

Sometimes I do get sad about how poorly I treated my mind and body, and for such an extended period of time. Some people do it for years, decades even; I remember Carol from inpatient, the seventy-something woman who was small of stature, voice, and presence, but so charming, very childlike and needy, but hard-headed and unwilling to ask anyone for help. Don't even remember how many times she said she'd been in rehabilitation centers like Renfrew. But I would look at her and think of how nice she was and wonder why she'd chosen to do this to herself or, more importantly, what had fucked her life up like mine had been. Did I deserve to be ill moreso than she did? This was a completely superficial observation but I remain convinced that she and I were different on an elemental level, she being the victim and I being, well, the culprit-turned-casualty.

Leo DaVinci


Blaming myself won't ever fully cease, I don't suppose, and that's frustrating too, along with feeling gypped of almost three years of life and development and let's not forget the entirety of my undergraduate career, oh I could have been so-much-fucking-cooler by now, much more intelligent and beautiful and level-headed and intriguing. Maybe I'm off on that last bit because my psychosis makes for one rip-roarin' conversation piece. Unintentionally didactic. Horrifying.

Damn mirrors altogether because that is the one thing I could/can/will never hide away from. Averting one's eyes is not enough; fake or real images of anything remain caught between the frontal lobe and frontal bone, reflective although absorbent. Break your medicine cabinet into hundreds of pieces but a face will still be shown in each and every single one of them even if the physical eye cannot catch it. The mind imagines it to be there already, it expects what it will see before its owner's gaze meets the glass. Really mirrors don't tell us anything because our brain is too busy exercising a strict and biased interpretation of the information it is given by the eyes. One reality to another.

Short Cuts, or why a girl can't just cut it and work it

Long hair will not ever be a fad, but it does seem to be particularly in-fashion as of late. I myself have been letting mine grow since I bzz-bzz buzzed it last October and cannot wait for the day I can braid it once more, wear it atop my head like a miniature top-hat, slick and curl and tie it. But there must be something said for cropped hair-dos; nothing can beat em when they are done well - and that is why I write this post.

Also, please forgive for the lack of certain punctuation, as I may have accidentally frazzled the keyboard when I cleaned it yesterday. No more quotation marks, apostrophes, or deletions for the time being...

So: not everyone is meant to have short hair. This may be an unnecessary statement, since it can be said that everyone is not meant to have every hair style that ever was or is or will be. But I have seen several young women sporting barely-there-hair and, in general, I applaud them for exercising their right to androgyny. But shaving your head is simply not enough; short hair can go into disrepair and look just as horrible as perpetual long-haired bed head. It needs to be washed, brushed, combed, teased, and sometimes (only sometimes) will it do what it wants and appear ready-to-wear.

I have taken the liberty of compiling some photos of girls who pull of the look, all from The Sartorialist, Face Hunter, and Jak + Jil Blog, respectively:



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From models to Kate Lanphear to Miranda July to every-day gals, these are some of the best styled crops - varying length, attitude, type, color, and look. I am particularly fond of the first and last photo sets; my most favorite haircut for men AND women happens to be the high and tight and long on top. What do you think?

18.6.11

look, we're dead

Skeleton Dance, 1929

At dinner the other evening my mother reminded me of my skin's olive tone. We sat, all four of us facing one another, in an atrium-like room at the Ritz-Carlton. She so matter-of-factly made the comment and I found myself suddenly out of the conversation, feeling asleep and only aware of the floating dots behind my eyelids -

- I'm doing worse when days don't end quickly enough. Sleep means anything but relief from exhaustion and seems useful as an escape and I hate that. That time could be easily filled with reading or writing my book or just sitting with Nick at the dining room table (like we did last night) and talking about any-fing, which we both well enjoy, and just thinking of it now my lips purse into a smile. I sit here and spew about the manifold stresses in my life "not getting to me" but they so obviously do. Would you believe that I am realizing this as I type to the interverse?

Reversal: to be UN-dead, decidedly aware and motivated, taking things at a manageable pace without becoming a drooling hippie-sloth uninterested in complex fings, although I've always hated the Rubiks cube.

Also, while I'm not really writing about anything in particular it might be appropriate to plug one of my most favorite bloggers: Rachel Rabbit White. She is unabashed and proudly discusses topics ranging from auto-eroticism to "fat shaming"; and, on an entirely more personal level, I am drawn to her because she suffers from similar neuroses (re: eating disorder, fear of imperfection) and approaches web-logging seriously, and makes a living out of it. Squee, an internet idol worthy of accolades! The point: I am alive and should act like it; Rachel does, and I hope you do.

16.6.11

so forgetful?

Setting numerous alarms for myself has become a necessity. Why I'm so forgetful, I don't know; I conjecture it has something to do with increased levels of stress regarding finances, moving, graduate school, wedding planning, or maybe nothing at all. Recently I've been late for doctor's and dress-fitting appointments. Just today, my forgetfulness almost got the better of me! I had a phone interview at 10:00 AM with the editor of NYU Today, as I had previously applied for an editorial assistantship via work study. The initial alarm I set for yesterday morning, a full day ahead of the interview itself. In retrospect it was wise of me to set a second reminder for ten minutes before the actual phone call, as I HAD forgotten, regardless of my previous efforts. It makes little sense.

My mother and her two sisters are in Chicago for a miniature shopping visit and, as a result, I've had the privilege of eating at the Ritz-Carlton, shopping Michigan Avenue, and enduring the neurosis that defines the three sisters' relationship amongst themselves and with me. So interesting that age begets clarification, revealing things I may not have wanted to know (but should) and solidifying my status as an individual, a black-sheep, a creep, an adult, a child. They gush about me, asking what they might do to help in the planning of my bridal shower and wedding; they even ask my opinion on dresses and seem interested in hearing about my adventures in veganism and monogamy. There are some things, however, that they can't overlook, and their eyes give them away.

I had even considered tucking my little septum as to avoid any unnecessary tension, but I didn't. That's something significant, coz I never EVER second-guess my own body modification (re: my Self) and hardly ever entertain thoughts of diluting my appearance to "please" someone else, much less a family member. A bit disconcerting. What can I say? I care what my mother and aunts think of me. Not enough to hide in shame because of my own difference, but enough to feel regretful for I-don't-know-what. It's surprising to admit that I still need to work hard at securing my identity for members of my immediate family, who seem to mistrust/revile my evolution to this point, nevermind its intelligibility or significance or level of interest or fuck-all. Are you listening? Here, I sound like a frustrated pre-teen without rhyme or reason for "rebelling", which is what my parents might call my lifestyle - a persistent rebellion against __________.

Nope. I'm smarter and better than that. No matter what anyone does or says, the necessity and utility of studied rebellion can't be retracted or defiled. MY BODY IS A TEMPLE, she says, and means it.

13.6.11

"it"

Because I love eye candy as much as the next girl. . .and just coz.

 Yolandi
 Alice
 Queen B
 Brigitte
 Chloe
 Dree
 Georgia May
 Kirsten
 Lara
 Natalie
 Raquel
 Rosario
 Rose
 Shannyn
Milla

I suppose you could say these are my "girls of the moment", although I might persist that they'll be my "forever girls" with eventual and continuing additions. It's a relatively short list when considering the abundance of beauty in this scene but I am glad to say it was not particularly easy compiling the entire list. Some girls (like Chloe and Milla) were no-brainers but the others required a more deliberate approach.

Several friends who read my last post let me know their reaction(s); tickles me to receive such reinforcement and support not only for the upkeep of this e-log but also for my honesty, health, intellect, and status as an evolving woman who might always seem too acutely aware of her own neuroses for her own good. So, onward.

10.6.11

again / enough

Obsessing over the width and shape of my ribcage. I can see them in the mirror, through my skin, in various types of light whether vibrant or dull, and according to the history of my disorder I would think that'd be enough, but again I trick myself. Thoughts come of their own volition. They say things like "the ribs are there but not visibly enough" or "you have to bend too far to even see them, and why only three or five?" and, well, I have to listen don't I? At the very least I can't ignore them. Accepting these floating suggestions as TRUTH would require an entirely different level of self-loathing and I overcame that shit ages ago but they still exist; perhaps they ruminate at the top of my spine perched like osprey in anticipation of a kill. Only the osprey does not know it hunts itself, it sees itself cowering in the wheatgrass and still lusts for that dive.

In my logical mind there is no question as to whether or not I'm healthy, because I am - this is the most fit I've ever been and also the happiest, mostly because of Nick, and also because of myself and our kittens and graduate school and veganism, and biking, all among several other things, typewriter included. I cherish my life and body as I should. It's just that, sometimes, like today and perhaps a few days running, shit feels heavy again. I look at photos of girls with enviable bodies and supplant my own, pinch the skin which covers my lower stomach and back and hate that it even exists, and remember the repulsion I've so often felt for food. Old photographs provide reasons for the extension of my shame (looking at the same pictures warrants positive reactions when I look at them in a different mood); suddenly I am not active enough. I should laugh at most of this because I know it to be ridiculous, and I often do, but somehow I still regress momentarily, like a child again - underdeveloped and helpless and soft-headed.

I can say everything and nothing about the violence I feel toward my Self and I've been writing about it (sometimes furiously) in the journal Nick gave me, wherein I am writing a framework for my fakie-memoir, only it won't be fake at all and that is why I named it so; it means something. Terrible terrible and important. Aside from everything else I suppose times like these afford more material for my narrative, which I often feel is too difficult to commit to paper, but it is necessary, real, and important, and it helps. Some times I sit cross-legged on the floor in adoration of my illness and simultaneously marvel at my ability to continually overcome it.