Course Correction: Retreating From The Danger Zone

An obsessive-compulsive mind can be riddled with impulses, customarily towards actions unproductive and a little bit dangerous.  These requests, however obscure and illogical, are regarded, once performed, as a relief from our greatest anxieties ---a protection from our ultimate fears.  Laughably, my own situation reminds me of dialogue swiped from 1986's jingoistic fighter pilot crowd-pleaser Top Gun, in which James Tolkan's Captain "Stinger" Jordan reprimands Tom Cruise's Naval Lieutenant Pete Mitchell, famously nicknamed "Maverick", for his insubordinate and irresponsible command of the sky.  "Son," he says, tearing into him, "your ego is writing checks your body can't cash."  The dilemma with my own OCD is that its primary function is to assign physical errands and tics meant to combat the onset of obesity, a phobia I've carried from an impressionable early age.  From the beginning, my obedience to these impulses has been loyal -- so much so that now, after decades of restrictive and exhausting habits, I have overcompensated and am markedly wan.  I cannot physically keep up with the piling demands of my sub-psyche.  That is why I am pleased to report that last night I made a realistic appraisal of my energy reserves and finally drew a line.  By a late dinner hour I had already completed several walking chores, and, despite increased food intake based on the recommendation of a dietician, had left my stomach still craving more.  I have dramatically reduced my exercise since returning to my parents' home following a California sabbatical, during which I recognized (not for the first time) my incredibly compromised system and need to reverse anorexic tendencies.  But I have been gradually reinstating aerobic routines since then, most notably the use of my mother's stationary recumbent bicycle, which, when operated aggressively, can be an effective calorie burner.  Before my sojourn to the west coast I was rousing at dawn to use this machine, in shameful secret, and then again pedaling to primetime television or reading before any supper could be had.  In all, it was coming to be around seventy to eighty minutes of energy expended -- and this doesn't take into account my various "power walks" during the day.  By last night I was seeing the absurdity of repeating this patterned pitfall, especially given my expressed desire to finally build new reserves, not further reduce them.  While I had yet to restore much of this activity to my evening routine, it was clear that even one-third was too much for my weary system to oblige.  Therefore, I said, "no."  No -- I will not continue along that path.  No.  I am breaking the chain binding me to loathsome stagnancy, eventual decline, taut face and cadaverous features.  In that fleeting moment, I had corrected my course.  I can only hope to summon that willpower again, to fly responsibly without the wild abandon of an impulsive, capricious social maverick.

Going to Waist

"Time you enjoyed wasting is not wasted time." -- T.S. Eliot

Much of my daily activity is admittedly extraneous; I assign errands to be completed in routine order, by foot, despite alternative and more efficient approaches readily available.  I use these obligations as an excuse to expend energy and time, even when I have other, legitimate work to pursue.  I can recall being tardy to my final thesis review hearing in college because I necessitated walking from the East Village to the Public Library grounds and back before devoting myself to scholarly preparation.  I always do try to use the time I spend on these mobile missions to accomplish something, and I know I rehearsed and reviewed my presentation as much as I could while weaving in and out of the urban mileposts.  To be honest, even now I am hastily drafting this entry before my pre-meal stroll to the other end of town.  I realize any exercise is counterproductive to my weight gain goals, but I make excuses for it anyhow.  I'll say, "It stimulates my mind, my appetite, my blood; it affords time to read or to embrace emotions through song."  (I can be distracted and enthralled for hours with new material in hand, usually on my iPod but also in the form of printed media, such as a magazine or screenplay.)  My feet are so accustomed to specific routes that I will cover  ground while turning my attention elsewhere.  If the weather is particularly remarkable I will simply power down the streets with my eyes in awe of the sky's mercurial washes.

This weekend I placed special emphasis on establishing a work station that might encourage creative output.  My parents' house is of a New England colonial build and enshrouded for the most part by a melange of shrubs and trees; the one area with a picture window large enough to summon substantial daylight is currently devoted to nurturing my mother's fish and potted garden.  I purchased a sturdy, medium-sized card table at Lowe's on Sunday for my bedroom.  There, I intend to have projects at my disposal, hidden from extrinsic scrutiny.  I can comfortably listen to iTunes or a radio feed while concentrating within the borders of the 3' x 4' platform; should I require more space less inhibition I can relocate to a patch of yard or basement corner, however wet or murky.  The intention is to channel as much of my waking hours to pursuits that benefit my creative portfolio, that are viable now or down the road as art for sale.  Indeed, anything that usurps my time while keeping me in one place (as does this blog) can only contribute to a healthier state of being.  

I have made progress in repossessing recently lost pounds, and I generally feel the restored weight in my stomach and torso (where reserves are most needed to pad vital organs).  It is a challenge to not feel self-conscious when you can sense the food settling inside yourself, when heat reaches your face and your heart's pace hustles to new speeds.  I yearn to be more attractive; I do not feel beautiful with a face so deprived of collagen and fat-fillers that lines and folds made premature manifestation.  It would be easy to say I have thrown away my "best years" by failing to take charge of everything available to a young woman of sufficient means.  I hope to not someday regard this present term with that same acrid ruefulness.

Art of the Everyday

Painting packages: Beauty in Walmart's food aisles
(CBS News Video)

Brendan O'Connell's "Giant Utz"

"If you do a painting of eight feet of Cheetos, some people are going to interpret that politically -- positively and negatively." - Brendan O'Connell, pop artist, to CBS reporters
Text from Susan Orlean's recent artist profile, "Walart:  A career epiphany in a supermarket" (The New Yorker's February 11 & 18, 2013 Anniversary Issue, pages 46-50):

• "A painting of an endless row of Oreos can be interpreted as an ironic statement about gluttony and commercialism or as a study of a pattern seen by millions of people every day that has its own ubiquitous beauty" (p. 48).
• O'Connell elegantly told The Boston Globe of his process: "'Trying to find beauty in the least-likely environment is kind of a spiritual practice'" (p. 49).
• "Maybe it's because he has no formal art training, or maybe it is just his particular turn of mind, but O'Connell lives by the credo that art is everywhere and, by extension, everyone is an artist, and he is dedicated to making art an everyday experience for the general public" (p. 50).

UPDATE:  O"Connell is again featured in a national magazine, a two-page spread in TIME by Lily Rothman.  Sample text: "If O'Connell's work is any indication, one consequence of  decades of immersion in a branded world is that labels are inseparable from life.  Memories are populated by people and places and packaging" (p. 52, January 27, 2014 issue).  Earlier, she notes O'Connell's nonjudgmental representation, that he strives to present products as "objects of beauty without commentary", with a respectful deference to the love felt by nostalgic consumers.  After all, "To consume is human," she observes.  O'Connell's response:  ''There's that aspect of the zest of being alive.  In order to be vibrant, you have to take things in.'

Night Visitors

The stranger made his appearance amidst erupting streams of tawny, frothing urine.  Clearly, this was a dream-state message: my dozing body's urgent plea to wake and relieve a heavy bladder.  But before I could rouse myself for this escalating need, the figure requested I heed his directive.  I asked point blank, "Are you God?" and the reply was, "Yes."  I assumed it was a "he", although the statuesque creature was nearly gender-neutral.  It may have had a female companion to his right, but she differed little in form or build, and wordlessly attended to the periphery of the scene.  They were uncharacteristically filthy for divine characters, clearly sourced from the growing awareness that I needed to find a latrine.  These lizard-like visitors were influenced somewhat by the title creature of the Predator science fiction films, as they sported rows of tentacles from their crests (but not the hideous viper jawline).  Such dangling "cornrows" could have possibly been matted hair, similar to John Travolta's dreadlocks in the ridiculous Battlefield Earth; clearly in my imagination this species had been formulated as a mutation on the human order.  Their bodies were slimy --doused in snotty, fecal excrement-- yet they were strong and erect, with a horse's quiet nobility.  Again, the pair presented as reptilian, but also as reverse-centaur, with the face of a mare and quarters of man.  (Details are hazy and growing fainter with the day's progression.)  More important was their purpose:  they had come to carry an urgent missive.  Correct your path and refine your efforts.  Should you not, you will return to the "source" --i.e. the beginning of your days-- from where you will revisit events without the power to change how they are played.  (An easy comparison might be the ultimate fate of John Cusak's "Craig" in Being John Malkovich, wherein a soul is housed for decades by a host, only to watch that person's life, powerlessly jailed.)  In any event, I expressed my displeasure at the notion of retracing my rather unremarkable thirty years, especially to repeat the same profound blunders without improved or informed approach.  To avoid this destiny, he professed, it is essential that I again resume the process of relinquishing my disordered ways.  Drink your prescribed Orgain shakes.  (I have been filling-up on baked winter squash for most of the week's lunches, admittedly avoiding these carefully-balanced supplement drinks.)  Settle for nothing less than a different path.  It is not too late -- but for how much longer is unknown.

Scattered Scenes: Dreary Days in Maine

Photography by Lorena Stackpole

Not Quite Anhedonia

Instead of sliding out of shallow waters with a simple, determined stroke, allowing momentum and bouyancy to carry your body, imagine the sensation of running with your feet against the coarse floor of a pool or lake.  You are being held in place, even as you run, sloshing, seemingly stagnant despite the effort.  With maddening frustration your energy is drained, your breath usurped by plaintive yelps and lobbing sighs.  This to me is depression.  Some might rather refer to the condition as a more portable burden:  a wet wool blanket draped upon the shoulders, or one of those lead vests secured around you like a heavy bib by the radiologist before the screeching burp of an x-ray.  I have been scolded for not composing blog posts more frequently, for not knowing my priorities.  And such sermonizing is not unjustified, as I am admittedly one of the least ambitious or directed people I might summon to mind.  With my "weight gain project" I am uncomfortably full to the point of pain (physical and psychological); with what resembles an "E.T." figure of distended belly and wan, collapsible limbs like the metal support rods on the roof of an umbrella.  I am irritable, always in want of sleep or withdrawal from company and conversation.  Or, in a snap reversal, I am (albeit fleetingly) contented, calm, and sociable.  I have never really experienced "manic" episodes, as I am always at core an Eeyore, and I realize my glum state is likely another side effect of malnutrition.  I do not cry outright, as that would take a true recognition and embrace of myself and my situation.  Instead, I stew in a hazy disconnect from the world, with a perpetual tremble in my throat and stubborn furrow in the folded skin above my nose.  

You can likely sympathize.  Many of us encounter the blues --or, to borrow Holly Golightly's more nuanced description, "the mean reds."  But I resent when others push and prod, or interfere with this emotional state in a way that spells their supreme displeasure.  I am already aware of my chronic, debilitating failings.  I do not require input that contributes further to my bottoming account of self-worth.  The disappointment that I have come to embody is tragic, I realize; I know that only I have the power to rise above and reclaim a life truly worth recounting.  I value any readership that might pass through these scrolls and, in the meantime, apologize for the histrionics.  

Fighting Irish

It used to be a simple formula:  starve all day, striving in earnest distraction to complete tasks assigned.  Come late-evening, revel in the comfort and reward of a feast generous enough to satiate and support for the next twenty-three hours.  This is a practice I adhered to, with minor variation or interruption, from freshman year of high school on to as recently as early 2011.  I can recall that, at seventeen, I had hobbled my metabolism enough that one binge was enough to sustain my activities for close to forty-eight hours, with one meal every other day.  You can only guess at the staggeringly low levels of concentration and mood experienced under such conditions, and it didn't help matters that I would strictly consume a combination of non-fat carbohydrates, drizzled in I Can't Believe It's Not Butter spray and coupled with diet sodas, chiefly for dunking purposes.  (To this day, "fake butter" --a purportedly low-fat/low-calorie concoction-- remains a crutch in my diet, providing a creamy and versatile topping upon provsions both savory and sweet.  Several bottles have been a familiar staple in my pantry from as early as age fourteen, and a shameful one given the product's dubious chemical ingredients and my purported devotion to more natural food sources.  As concerns the carbonated, aspartame-laced beverages, I replaced them for three years with less pricey dime-store seltzer waters, only to majorly relapse in April 2004 when home from Manhattan and a related stint at a Philadelphia clinic.  Diet Caffeine-Free Coke and Fresca-- Oh, sweet nectar, charmed ambrosias!  They would wet and distract my hungering insides until that remote dinner hour came to pass.  Needless to say, I continue their engagement --with increasing caution.)  At the end of eleventh grade my body was so in need of proper nutrition --protein, especially-- that I could barely bring myself to compete for college admission.  What's more, feminine pride was shaken by my increased size, as the calories I consumed after such agonizingly infrequent intervals were being desperately converted and stored as fat reserves.  I have never been as heavy as when I relied on this dysfunctional system.  With time, I came to correctly intuit that I had been exclusively craving breads, air-popped popcorn, fat free frozen yoghurt, and baked winter squash because of immediately digestible carbohydrate content.  Overcoming the addiction was a process, one that saw me embracing exercise and, eventually, vegetables (hello, leafy greens!), but not before relying exclusively on two bags of dollar-store puffed wheat cereal, per night, for a year-long run, or, as this essay ventures to explain, a full loaf of Irish Soda Bread.

Vintage ad, now almost comical, illustrates a a carb-loaded spread.
American Bakers Association: LIFE Magazine pg. 76, May 17, 1948

Most people with even a peripheral relationship to Ireland have seen, heard of, or tasted Irish Soda Bread.  My experience has been far from fleeting, as it was my singular go-to food while living on my own in a Puerto Rican neighborhood off Central Park West.  This was the early aughts --a decade back-- and New York was, as as it remains today, a pricey playground.  Baking a single round per night was was my solution to reducing extraneous ingredients, not to mention grocery fees.  I knew the recipe by heart, and it is a self-rising and easy victual.  I had come to know of it because my mother made the loaves on her cast iron skillets to accompany an annual Saint Patrick's Day spread of corned beef, potatoes, cabbage, and carrots; I adopted it as one of my dependable carb sources in high school, along with toasted French baguettes.  (I can recall packing portions with me to an upstate theater competition one year --the rare occasion when I ate away from the controllable confines of home).  Again, leaning on this as my primary --nay-- sole food intake was a remarkably foolhardy practice.  I cannot recall, but I may have supplemented it with my beloved baked squash as vitamin source, given that  the bread consists almost exclusively of bleached white flour, baking soda, sugar, skimmed buttermilk, salt to taste.  With my one meal conditional to its provision, you can imagine the remarkably sluggish metabolism I continued to foster.  Facing increasingly insurmountable mental fogs, I eventually turned to NYU's center for health services, where I shamefacedly confessed to a nutritional therapist of my longstanding butter spray reliance, among other foolish exploits of unbalanced edibles.  I am not quite sure how I got from that position, at which I was at a higher weight, to shedding scores of pounds through vigilant exercise and Chinese take-out of a steamed veggie-chicken-rice combo over brown rice for $3.75 a day.  I know that complications from wisdom teeth removal, paired with worsening depression and dismaying, acute mental deterioration (facing, also, the obligations of college) saw me bottoming-out at fifteen to twenty pounds less than my previous high, when I might have been seen as on the fuller side of slender.  Today, I can still recall the reaction of my appointed school advisor, a well-intentioned professor of abstract expressionist/freestyle artworks, upon a visit to his office:  "Whoa.  Look at you!  You used to be fat.  Now you can really be a model!"

So, it goes without saying that, for me, Irish Soda Bread carries with it no lack of emotional baggage.  True, it is delicious when soaked in a soup or drink of one's choosing; fluffy, with just the minor hint of sweetness and a cheerful yellow glow.  It is also quite dense; being built solidly of flour, it acts almost as a paste to gum-up one's insides.  (Constipation is one's compensation for customary consumption.)  It almost begs the question:  "Does I.S.B. cause I.B.S.?"  

We are just now rounding the bend of a weekend-long celebration for dear St. Pat, having seen the holiday fall on a Sunday.  I can proudly proclaim that, as much as I was at times compelled to nosh exclusively on the many helpings provided to me, I contented myself to "sensible" portions, as they say in Weight Watchers commercials.  (My mother, preferring to utilize the entire quart of buttermilk, baked two large loaves; I ate 1/4 the first night, 1/8 at two subsequent lunches, careful not to rely on the bread alone for sustenance.  The remainder has been happily plied onto others or placed into deep freeze.)  I have battled this ultimate temptation, and at one point considered myself again its slave, as the larger hunks I ripped off were admittedly substantial.  I even gave myself permission to have it at today's lunch --despite an air of gloom.  It might have been this accompanying psychological displeasure that left me satiated after a modest piece.  Irish Soda Bread might fill me, but it no longer fulfills me.  Now two days older and clumsily reheated (or zapped) via microwave, what I once deemed my "chocolate cake" and "ultimate indulgence" was spongey and bland, tasting of defeat.  I no longer wanted it as a part of me.  It is something I can appreciate, especially when famished and in need of immediate, hearty fare.  But I.S.B. is no longer some special allowance for my efforts of "being good" by denying intake and "working through" pain to a predetermined, difficult goal.  This traditional Irish dish is merely a thing I once loved and badly abused, so much so that it leaves me, now, a little doleful of the imperfect journey it helped to carve.

From Rhoda to Yoda

It was recently disclosed that Valerie Harper faces the terminal diagnosis of a rare and incurable form of brain cancer, leptomeningeal carcinomatosis.  Universally remembered for portraying Rhoda Morgenstern, the down-on-herself best friend to Mary Tyler Moore's plucky heroine (first on The Mary Tyler Moore Show and, later, its subsequent hit spin-off Rhoda), Valerie represented the "real woman", the sort of "victorious loser" (one reviewer's label) who struggled to keep-up with a more "together" working career gal like Mary.  Being the younger sister to a gorgeous, smoldering, brilliant female --someone frequently compared by friends and colleagues to Angelia Jolie and Kate Winslet-- I know quite well what it is to feel the role of "sidekick".  If she is alike to Alec Baldwin, I am mildly capable brother Billy --at best.  Rhoda was sardonic and creative --brandishing a rotating collection of signature headscarves-- but not "wacky" to the point of gracelessness.  Famous for her chronic onscreen dieting, Harper divulged to People magazine this week that she is giving herself "room to grieve... the space to be sad or angry" until it passes and she can "get back to eating ice cream" (which she's been doing by the pint).  Indeed, despite --or because of-- future uncertainties and a bleak, limited timetable, Harper is embracing her newfound liberties, including the rare advice from physicians to put on weight:  "Men have never said that to me!" she discloses.  "I don't think of dying.  I think of being here now."

I have asked myself on numerous occasions, "What will it take for you to act on your plan for fuller health?"  I have never been one to leap into a pool, however warm, and am similarly inching my way forward in recovery.  I am not yet "eating ice cream by the pint", but I have maintained and slowly increased a caloric load once prescribed when I submitted myself two winters ago to a local psychiatric center for monitoring and treatment.  Admittedly, that was an alcohol and drug recovery center, where the resident dietician kept the requirements fairly lean --but it was there that I learned to eat lunch, and not just, say, half a banana, for the first time in my adult life (away from strict supervised feedings, naturally).  Every day I drink with my late-afternoon meal an Orgain nutrition shake (think organic Ensure) and have reduced physical activity to a moderate number of local errands and brief evening session on my mother's pedal bike (twenty minutes as compared to an hour or more in previous months).  Of course, there is still not a set of stairs I encounter without craving to scale them (an OCD habit), and I continue with sets of lunges at intermittent periods.  I also have gone from weighing myself every morning (something I came to dread as my weight has shifted) to maybe once a week (for accountability and general reference).  I would like to think that, according to the stages of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, a psychiatric approach I am only somewhat familiar with, I am past the "contemplative" period of preparation and immersed in the "action" phase --in which change is experienced and pursued.  Yes, I am taking my time relinquishing negative habits.  But it is confusing and frightening, especially when one receives competing, contrasting recommendations.  (For example, some present in my life encourage physical activity for its therapeutic benefits, while others discourage any and all exercise until at a higher BMI.)  It is enough to leave me with the conflicted impression that I am simultaneously succeeding and failing in nearly all endeavors.  If only it were as simple as Yoda's advice to Luke in the misty swamps of Dagobah (so firm and transparent were his words):  "Do.  Or do not.  There is no try."

Nothing To Lose: A Rationale for Weight Gain

Author's Note:  The morning after composing this entry, I learned, via X-ray, that the pain endured for some seven weeks in my left heel has been evidence of a minor fracture.  Such is the consequence of maintaining the bone density of a bird --and a yet another argument for the restoration of a sturdier frame.

When a person makes a concentrated effort to alter his or her body, a milestone role or activity is often the motivating factor.  It is a familiar refrain:  an event that is new in some way prompts the individual to make a life change.  Most frequently encountered in western popular culture is the story of an actor altering his or her physical appearance for a project.  Men generally increase muscle mass, whereas ladies slenderize and tone.  There are exceptions on occasion, but generally in the male sphere (and most actors who agree to become larger choose prosthetics before purposefully relinquishing their scrupulously-maintained --and bankable-- figures).  In non-celebrity circles, the reasons trend towards more personal goals, and I have heard of acquaintances getting "in shape" for a marathon, a New Year, a wedding, a prom, a vacation.  The last three examples, of course, involve looking one's physical best in order to "successfully" present to the public in a special garment.  To be clear, in our age of unwavering image sharing --of "casually" trading photographs and videos from our most intimate experiences-- we have all come to feel the pressure of public exposure.  At the very least, there is usually a standard set for how we look at our place of work, but this obligation decreases as we inch lower in pay scale and away from high-powered boardroom positions (unless you are in the unique position of Mark Zuckerberg).  To turn again to women, specifically, I have heard second and first-hand stories of malnourished ones who rid themselves of anorexia and/or bulimia during stages of pregnancy; by focusing primarily on the health of the carried child, they inadvertently improved its vessel.  In general, expectant mothers ease their regard towards society's rash of weight loss cues (if not to then become hyper-sensitive post-delivery).

There is a reason I raise this discussion of tangible prompts for weight manipulation, as it is in regards to my own attempts to correct the state of my feeble frame.  I purposefully avoid researching other blogs or sites concerning the subject, as they are as potentially disturbing to me as pornography.  (Many tribute pages to eating disorders reportedly exist, with sources of "thinspiration" provided in the form of  dieting advice, poetry, pictures, and general chat hubs.  Whatever you do, do not make the mistake of perusing user comments following stories published online, as these threads routinely turn towards cruel criticism of the subject's appearance.)  Nothing in the above paragraph is a direct motivator for me, although I will not pretend that wearing a bathing suit --or even a sleeveless top-- has not made it onto my list of desires, especially should I make a return to life in southern California.  (To be honest, strangers there have been bold in their shouted taunts, such as "Eat something!" or simply, "Anorexic!"  This was a couple of years ago, so perhaps attitudes have lightened.  I doubt it.) To aid anyone else who might hear their own inward messages of reproach (for example:  guilt over purposefully not exercising in favor of rest; consuming "too much"in one sitting and witnessing the stomach expand), I present below my own crib sheet of helpful reminders.

Benefits of Gaining Weight

(For Myself and Others in a Compromised State)

• MIND
• Improved mental acuity -- memory, processing speed, decision-making, reading comprehension, and writing ability
• Greater resistance to OCD impulses and dementia
• Boosted confidence and mood (diminished depression, self-loathing)
• More active and inspired creative drive
• (Possible) return of sexual desires and social interests
• BODY
• Cosmetic enhancements -- diminished facial folds and wrinkles; fuller cheeks, breasts, ass, arms, neck; thicker, stronger hair and nails
• Elevated energy and endurance for chores (both household and occupational), running (a necessary form of movement my calves are not strong enough to presently allow), exercise in general (long walks to music or hikes with a companion being a therapeutic tool)
• More robust immune system and greater resistance to "the chills"
• Reduction of bone fractures due to osteoporosis or osteopenia
• Improved fertility with regular menstruation
• Decreased risk of heart and kidney failure
• Elimination of lanugo (hypertrichosis, or fine downy hairs on the face and arms) and halitosis (rank breath) caused by ketosis (metabolization of the body's fat reserves)

Let me know in the comments section if you have anything to add!  

May you find this useful when struggling to combat harmful impulses.

Tears in Rain

"Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it?  That's what it is to be a slave." -- Roy Batty

My days are supported by the rigid framework of repeated actions.  I must complete a set number of chores and, depending on the state of my nerves, "rituals" are included in these assignments that may or may not serve any real function aside from "shielding" or protecting against chronic anxieties pertaining to unavoidable chaos.  More specifically, I attempt to control the world's wild discord through a system of familiar places, foods, people, activities.  I was surprised by how much pleasure I took in the first days of my recent trip to Los Angeles, where I was required to establish new patterns, to try any number of unfamiliar enterprises, based in part on someone else's agenda.  It was a surprising relief and release to order food from the wide array of health-conscious vendors and to share most meals socially.  I generally only feel comfortable and happy eating if I am alone with my food and a piece of literature or canned entertainment (i.e. television or film) as accompaniment.  I see it as my reward to have this "me" time after I completing the tasks demanded by an established, expected schedule.  Even then, I am never truly free from worry and always strict with myself about what and how much is consumed.  That is why I generally return to the same selections, as I have vetted them on past accounts and seen what harm they may produce.  Given my lifelong fear of weight gain, the major ramification to avoid --of becoming "fat"-- has led me to avoid choices that might retain energy instead of ensuring the reduction of calories through exercise and restricted consumption.

The replicants, or biologically-based androids, of Ridley Scott's seminal science fiction masterwork Blade Runner (1982) are also living under constant, unassailable distress.  Theirs is twofold:  should they choose to fight for a longer lifespan, they must break free from the planet when they are assigned work, and in doing so, gain status as illegal fugitives.  On Earth, the chance of their artificially-constructed bodies lasting longer is seen as something to hope and even kill for.  In Scott's film, the leader of the small company of replicants desperately seeking extended longevity is played by a shark of a man -- Rutger Hauer, sleek and sharp as a combat model machine. His character, Roy Batty, is of the highest order produced, with an intelligence matching that of his corporate designers.  With one final plea, Batty makes a cold, calm argument for why his remarkable mind should be respected and observed.  Only then, at this instant, does he resign himself to his inevitable finish:

"I've ...seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.  I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.  All those moments will be lost in time, like [coughs] tears in rain.  Time to die."

The solemnizing of Roy Batty is without question one of the most striking scenes in a film rife with incomparable, other-worldly moments.  It is what my mind often returns to when I encounter something truly arresting, especially if I feel alone and in secret with said experience.  I hear Hauer's taught British intonation of those words and the haunting synthesizer score that follows.  I flew across the nation via 747 two nights ago after making the decision to improve my weight from my parents' home in Maine.  Somewhere over America I awoke to the pastel portents of dawn, a white toenail moon the single ornament over a basin of curling, foamy frothing cloud-cover.  But I  knew nothing would ever capture this astonishing vista aside from mounting an IMAX lens to the wing of the plane.  Ultimately, I made a mental note of this singular, fearsome vista, thinking back to Roy and his collected memories as an off-world contract worker; how every mind must contain an equal share of marvels, whether joyous or terrible -- some, perhaps, a little of both.

Water Logged

I am driftwood, caught between the partially-submerged rock ledge of a knarled coastline.  I rise and sink with the tide, gradually dulled as the moon's rolling station presides upon the ocean's stages of repletion.  Resigned, I watch myself lose definition and shape, weather-beaten, until an unusually fervid force should call to carry:  the ledge of a wave cupping what remains of my stiff shaft in its froth; together lifted to the shoreline of an unfamiliar, higher ground.

I hate to be indulgent;  yes, I realize I have more power to change my path than a piece of stale lumber lost to the sea.  I was raised in the belly of the Maine lobstering districts, and it is easy for me to rely on imagery recalling nautical scenes.  Certainly not original, I know.  Yet, I do so often feel trapped, in the cage of my own making.  The primary dilemma:  I have too often, too easily contented myself to an unremarkable existence in my hometown community.  I can live comfortably with the support of my parents and a low-cost (but trusted) therapist.  I can paint when the mood strikes me and work here and there at odd jobs in town and the larger city adjacent.  But then, might I not strive to explore more of the country or world?  I currently have seventy-five to eighty percent of my belongings packed in boxes, with half in a storage locker in L.A.  Yep-- I have been attempting to make a transition to southern California, an arena that has long held my imagination.  I moved west in late 2008, but was back in Maine (depleted and exhausted) by March 2010.  I did not find the connections at the time, the proper path, to lead towards a particular direction or future in any specific trade.  From a young age I have harbored an insatiable interest in media, art, pop culture, fashion, design, antiques -- but just how I parlay those passions is still uncertain.  To get back to Los Angeles, with its ever-azure dome and deep well of possibilities, has been the primary motivation in a stalled attempt to gain weight and independence.  I desire to be healthier and a bit more robust, at the very least to present myself as more than a haggard shell of a woman, with improved mental acuity a welcome bonus.  I will be working on a normalized easting regime, with significantly reduced exercise, to reclaim this dream.  I am terrified, as ever, that should I come back I will not secure the funds or partnerships to support myself.  This worry at times stifles my motivation, as I have seen homelessness and felt what it is to be desperate.  But for now, I think it it best to focus my energy on restoring a nutritionist-endorsed food plan while finding pleasant distractions/work as I settle again into life in Maine -- if only (one hopes) for a limited duration.

Introduction: A Familiar Verse

Darling I don't know why I go to extremes

Too high or too low there ain't no in-betweens
You can be sure when I'm gone
I won't be out there too long
Darling I don't know why I go to extremes

From roughly the age of eight, my mantra was to be "smart and thin," and I imagined myself an artist, always, in spirit.  Defining my world in such simple terms, I became preoccupied with rituals that emphasized my fears and desires in patterns of activity.  It became apparent that I was suffering from OCD, as manifested in a strident obsession with exercise and "eating lean."  As a child, teenager, and adult, a paralyzing paranoia has resided in my mind that I will be "overweight like my parents" (and, let's face it, the majority of Americans).  Yet, the world is replete with caustic ironies, and I have had to battle for some time with being dangerously underweight and malnourished.  As Billy Joel once declared, "I don't know why I go to extremes" -- and is not a disorder based on deprivation and strident exercise equal to obesity in its disturbing extravagances? This blog is to chronicle my burgeoning desire to find health by acting as a source of accountability during inevitable struggles and setbacks.  It is also a distraction, a release for my thoughts on popular culture and the arts (with film, television, painting, design, photography, antiques, and vintage clothing all essential concerns).  Here you witness my journey.  I hope not to betray my first and foremost interests, but to grant allowance of a compromise with those initial fixations.  Please do not judge. - L.S.