The Battle of Midway

Hanging tropaeolum, my first-ever "Instagram"

As we arrive at the first half of yet another month, my status is mired in the ambiguity of an incomplete passage, like tide waters caught between ebb and flow.  I like to fancy myself a proponent of health and healing, this blog in itself evidence of such inclinations.  And yet I continue to fraternize in the milky shadows of half-committment, with disordered behaviors dictating my days --even now, after sixty-seven posts.  Both caustic and tiresome, these proclivities leave my life forever derailed, if not staid and unpromising.  I feel discarded by the universe, like free-floating space shrapnel in repeating orbit, never to connect with fresh subjects or touch ground.  I am of dueling mindsets, pro-recovery and against, stubbornly entrenched in what is familiar and recognizable --even if that entails extraordinarily bizarre, always daunting rules of preservation.  Enchanted, deceived, and ultimately betrayed-- such is the history of my lifelong flirtation and partnership with this voluntary privation, fueled by a myopic preoccupation with thinness.  Even now, a third of the way into my second year of this site, I remain an obstinate fence-sitter.  A cliche exhibited in far too many advertisements and magazines is to use a headline such as The Battle of the Bulge to coyly convey the hard struggle of reducing one's measurements.  But let's be honest, if I am to reference any headlining World War II combat campaign for superficial purposes it would have to be The Battle of Midway, for such is my ambiguous, halfhearted positioning.  I am "mid-way"-- not wretchedly incapacitated by my disease nor beyond disability, not abstaining from dieting ritual but also not without my minor indulgences and moments of reprieve.  I consult an intuitive, valued therapist, but don't see much progress from our sessions.  I research and contact hoped-for treatment options, but while walking the back roads for exercise, iPhone at hand or ear.  I read "inspiring" quotes and advice columns, but fail to absorb their lessons.  It has become rather clear that no one, not my network of local specialists nor contacts within a modest social circle, will enforce the help I need.  At nearly thirty-two, I have to help myself.  But in maintaining the deportment of a misinformed, delusional, fearful juvenile I prolong adolescence --and with it, subordination to my benefactors (mother; father;  state service providers) and my disease (anorexia).  It relates to an article seen yesterday from Carolyn Hax, Washington Post columnist and life coach of a prefab, finger-food style.  On the matter of personal development, she suggests:  "Knowing what's right is hard.  Doing what's right is harder.  It's not about being unruffled.  It's about retraining ourselves to use more productive behaviors than the broken, maddening, ineffective, self-destructive old ones.  It's about figuring out our limits, and enforcing them.  It's stuff we can take decades to get right, if then.  Doesn't mean it's not worth trying."  But what manner of episode, be it momentous or even traumatic, must pass for me to earnestly try -- full-throttle, gung-ho, all in?

Finding solace and support in the daily papers

Until I might find the answers necessary to correct my straying course, I have charged these restless hands with projects serving as both distraction and necessary courtesy.  To pay tribute to the patience and compassion demonstrated by a dear friend, I have returned to a collage I began on my final day at the Maine Media Workshops.  The project was assigned by our instructor as an illustration of the following conceit:  "It is raining, but the sun will come out."  Immediately, I spun this into an allegory for depression and the restrictive rules we obsessive-compulsives appropriate internally, using splintered vertical lines and boxes of muted tones, in partnership with dripping black paint, to reference shadows, water, blood, tears, prison bars, darkened windows.  These elements alternate and intersect inside a busy, frazzled plane, a play of hard-edged patterns thickly woven.  Horizontal stripes intend to capture the idea of movement, bringing the eye from left to right, with intervening orange and lavender furthering the sense of broken, breaking rays --be they of sun, hope, or opportunity.

When I haven't been dallying within this claustrophobic landscape of magazine shards and crusty glue, I engage myself with family concerns.  First and foremost of these are the mounting financial obligations of my maternal grandmother.  I have intend to relieve some of her burdens by partnering as a representative for various products she produced in her heyday as a textile artist.   Although she continues to diligently operate as a purveyor of worsted wool yarns (dyed to her specifications in Portugal) she has not recently capitalized on the remains of previous business endeavors, in particular, woven luxury home goods produced in the early 1990's.  This same time last year I had measured, tallied, and photographed her substantial inventory of throws, shawls, and baby blankets, all thoughtfully designed by she in quality mohair, cotton, and acrylic chenille, respectably.  Using this data, in combination with good old-fashioned door-to-door salesmanship, I established tentative contracts with two Midcoast showrooms focused on locally-sourced housewares and finery.  Thus far, I am most excited by a collaboration effort with a well-connected interior decorator, one who owns and operates a waterfront showroom in a neighboring tourist enclave.  She is immediately recognizable as a woman of dignity and unfussy elegance, one with an experienced, perceptive eye and instinct for quality craft.  (What's more, it is an added bonus that she also just happens to be the third wife of screen legend Tony Curtis.)  In a separate campaign for cash, I have submitted half a dozen ads to Craigslist, and again to a regional traders' sourcebook, listing such like-new home appliances as a small gas generator, an oil-fueled water heater, and an electronic knitting machine.  These, along with a beat-up sedan and a few high-profile items, have been gathering dust in my grandmother's barn and are ripe for resale.  Unfortunately, her expectations lean towards higher amounts than one might realistically expect to collect, and has even insisted on placing these wares with "lucky" numbers, as influenced by her beliefs in a gathering spirit field and unified cosmos.  (Don't ask.)

Street detail, Los Angeles:  radial starbursts in tar

Closer to home, beyond serving in jury duty and dabbling for the first time with the photo sharing app Instagram (above), I am concerned by new behaviors exhibited by my father.  To his credit, at a weary 77 he is retrofitting aspects of his lifestyle -- taking more naps and insisting on meals of reduced complexity, richness, portioning.  Heavyset and pre-diabetic, he can doubtlessly benefit from a smaller waistline.  Yet even so, it raises my concern (and ire) that he would skip or refuse meal suggestions when upset, as if leveraging these lapses for a power born of sympathy.  He speaks of constipation and gastrointestinal distress, so his pains are not merely emotional, I'll admit that much.  I tell him he would do well to consult with an accredited dietician, providing the name of my own (who I have admittedly not seen for ages).  As of this summer, his general physician is unceremoniously retiring; therefore getting him to an internist must first involve registration with a new practitioner   Of course, the irony of the situation is not lost on me.  Even the aforementioned nutritionist wrote in an e-mail:  "It is very difficult to watch people you love being anxious about food and limiting food choices.  It must be particularly hard for you to experience how the people around you were probably feeling about your own issues."  Alright, Universe -- consider me humbled.  

When one's self is reflected in the life of another --
 is this what is meant by "the mirror has two faces?"

In Service of The Heart

A "Careful" Resuscitation

I have been a woefully negligent custodian of these pages.  I realize that.  My lax approach to writing affords me no license to brand myself a "blogger."  Even still, a nagging sense of responsibility impels that I deposit the occasional submission, and I hope there is at least one of you who derives benefit from the effort.  Irregardless, I can assure that when I do have something to share, that information is often precious ---and therefore assigned significance by way of mere inclusion.

---

The last several weeks have seen me assume an unexpected (though most welcome) role:  Maid of Honor.  Almost precisely one month to this day my father received a long-distance phone call --on his birthday, no less-- in which the well-spoken voice on the other end kindly requested that he give his attention to a delicate matter.  Fortunately, it was Charlie --my sister's long-term beau-- requesting permission for a proposal of marriage, to be  promptly issued that weekend when taking recess to the coastal destination spot of Bournemouth, England.  Everyone in reach of our family is of course thrilled for the couple, none more so than my father, who wept tears of joy at the news.  With the wedding targeted for the first Saturday of September we were essentially allotted three and a half months to move from planning to execution, and I am trying my very best to devote extra effort to this new position of bridal consigliere.  Jenny is extraordinary on many counts; the strength and surety with which she conducts herself demonstrates the fierce will of a vintage Taurus.  Rarely have I sensed in the past that she needed my help for anything, so to act as her wingman on this momentous project is a unique opportunity and privilege.  It has also provided a focus for the summer, with very specific assignments and goals, the least of which being to improve my appearance.  I am no Pippa Middleton, but I do hope to make for a nice addition to the team flanking her altar.  And unlike Pippa, I would hate to divert attention from my older sister on the day that she adopts her partner's name.  I mustn't stand-out; my bearing needs to blend seamlessly with the other attendants, a company of ever-swelling ranks now claiming five bridesmaids and two groomsmen.  My sickness must not sour the ceremony, a milestone captured by countless trained eyes (if not digital devices).  I owe it to the betrothed to present myself within a degree of normalcy.  I cannot distract from or sully this chapter of their romance.  Don't cast shadows Lorena.  If anything, cast rice.

May Love Be Your Salve

Scout for ways to make a positive impact

Love is the most powerful tool that any sentient being can yield, stronger and more resounding than hate.  Whether carried by man or animal, it is his most valuable currency, capable of enormous impact when exchanged.  It doesn't depend on a certain level of experience or sophistication, having equal potency among all ages.  It is, quite simply, a major key to understanding Life's major whys and hows (or so I have come to conclude).  Accompanied by knowledge and craft, both creative and functional, love might be the illumination Carl Jung spoke of upon declaring,  "As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."  

Indeed, few make a better argument for love's application than columnist Andrew W. K.  Writing from his weekly platform in The Village Voice, this astute counselor recently responded to a reader seeking relief from a depression so deep and penetrating that suicide had become a very real option.  His answer, while not unprecedented, was equally affecting and effective; I cannot speak for the original correspondent, but it profoundly resonated.  My veins, previously withered from caustic dysphoria, were immediately infused with a rich, burning charge.  Why not redirect some of that attention and energy consumed by depression elsewhere?  Stray outside of your own being and its stagnant concerns:  "[T]urn away from yourself and towards your neighbor.  ...  Give your love to the world and you'll get more purpose and meaning back in your life than you ever imagined possible."  

Please don't laugh, but have long intended to "do good", so to have that confirmed as a valuable, rewarding use of one's faculties fuels me with an extra pinch of brio.  All too often I view myself as burdensome to my family and detrimental to the earth at large; I markedly experience less self-loathing when I have taken pains to improve both houses.  Below, I have excerpted the sections of Andrew's essay that most seized my attention.  His reasoning falls closely in line with the "Thought for today" from June 16th, as opportunely published in Maine's Portland Press Herald the very morning I was piecing together this entry.  By Ivy Baker Priest, former U.S. Treasurer, the quote states:  "We seldom stop to think how many people's lives are entwined with our own.  It is a form of selfishness to imagine that every individual can operate on his own or can pull out of the general stream and not be missed."  If, after considering Priest's words, you are still questioning your place and value on the planet, I implore that you read on...

"It's healthy to think about life and death, even when we're feeling hopeless.  Or perhaps especially then.  We shouldn't be afraid to try and imagine what it would be like to kill ourselves.  Often times, it can help us get a refreshed perspective and appreciation for the astounding adventure we're part of, and how truly frightening and challenging it would be to really end it all.

"...[B]eing dead is an impossibly unimaginable experience anyway.  It might not even be an experience at all, but rather the total void of non-experience.  When I've been in pain, sometimes non-experience sounded pretty good.  Whatever it is to be dead, almost all of us have tried to fathom it, and in times of great anguish, we've probably wondered if it might be preferable to the discomfort of daily living.

. . .

"As far as dealing with depression, I have a simple suggestion that I think could work like magic to heal your soul and lift your spirits.  It's a very simple thing called... Helping other people.  Sometimes setting aside your own troubles and focusing on someone else's in their time of need can have an incredibly powerful effect on relieving you of your own despair.  This is especially true when you help someone you don't know.  Of course it's good to help family and friends, but connecting with someone unknown to you, and being able to simply exercise your good will, can provide a unique and uplifting energy that almost nothing else compares to.

"Some might say that helping other people just to make yourself feel good is selfish and not true generosity.  But I think the fact that it benefits you is exactly the point.  We are all bound together.  No matter how much we like to think of ourselves as unrelated and apart from others and their plight, we are, in fact, all in the same boat.  God or evolution or both have specifically wired our brains to feel pleasure when we help other people.  Our health responds positively to acts of human kindness, whether we perform or receive them.  This reward is meant to be tangible.  It's supposed to feel good to do good for others -- we're then motivated to do ever more good.  To be able to relate to someone else whom you never met before is to be able to relate more deeply to yourself."  

---

And with that, reader, go forth and assist!

On Depression: A Letter From Henry James, 1883

(In which the nineteenth-century novelist valiantly attempts to rally the spirits of friend and essayist Grace Norton.)  

According to the recently released compendium Letters of Note:  An Eclectic Collection of Correspondence Deserving A Wider Audience (first published within the U.S. earlier this month and sensitively compiled by British blogger Shaun Usher), James was likely still reeling from the passing of both his parents upon his hearing from Norton.  She had contacted the author, searching for direction, having been deeply effected by a similar loss to her family.  Most famously known for 1881's The Portrait of a Lady, James is accredited with infusing stark realism into his many works of narrative fiction, and here he speaks with the clarity and pragmatism that comes from experience.  It is almost eerie how vividly his voice still carries.  I recommend turning your attention to this stirring note of counsel ---if not also to the above publication, a remarkable trove of dispatches to and from historic figures who, through the application of words, manage to enlighten, amuse, astound, enthrall.  - L.S.

Henry James (National Portrait Gallery)

131 Mount Vernon St.,

Boston

July 28th

My dear Grace,

Before the sufferings of others I am always utterly powerless, and the letter you gave me reveals such depths of suffering that I hardly know what to say to you.  This indeed is not my last word---but it must be my first.  You are not isolated, verily, in such states of feeling as this---that is, in the sense that you appear to make all the misery of mankind your own; only I have a terrible sense that you give all and receive nothing---that there is no reciprocity in your sympathy---that you have all the affection of it and none of the returns.  However---I am determined not to speak to you except with the voice of stoicism.

I don't know why we live---the gift of life comes to us from I don't know what source or what purpose; but I believe we can go on living for the reason that (always of course up to a certain point) life is the most valuable thing we know anything about and it is therefore presumptively a great mistake to surrender it while there is any yet left in the cup.  In other words consciousness is an illimitable power, and though at times it may seem to be all consciousness of misery, yet in the way it propagates itself from wave to wave, so that we never cease to feel, though at moments we appear to, try to, pray to, there is something that holds one in one's place, makes it a standpoint in the universe which is probably good not to forsake.  You are right in your consciousness that we are all echoes and reverberations of the same, and you are noble when your interest and pity as to everything that surrounds you, appears to have a sustaining and harmonizing power.  Only don't, I beseech you, generalize too much in these sympathies and tendernesses---remember that every life is a special problem which is not yours but another's, and content yourself with the terrible algebra of your own.  Don't melt too much into the universe, but be as solid and dense and fixed as you can.  We all live together, and those of us who love and know, live so most.  We help each other---even unconsciously, each in our own effort, we lighten the efforts of others, we contribute to the sum of success, make it possible for others to live.  Sorrow comes in great waves---no one can know that better than you---but it rolls over us, and though it may almost smother us it passes and we remain.  It wears us, uses us, but we wear it and use it in return; through a darkness in which I myself in my ignorance see nothing but that you have made wretchedly ill by it; but it is only a darkness, it is not an end, or the end.  Don't think, don't feel, any more than you can help, don't conclude or decide---don't do anything but wait.  Everything will pass, and serenity and accepted mysteries and disillusionments, and the tenderness of a few good people, and new opportunities and ever so much life, in a word, will remain.  You will do all sorts of things yet, and I will help you.  The only thing is not to melt in the meanwhile.  I insist upon the necessity of a sort of mechanical condensation---so that however fast the horse may run away there will, when he pulls up, be a somewhat agitated but perfectly identical G. N. left in the saddle.  Try not to be ill---that is all; for in that there is a future.  You are marked out for success, and you must not fail.  You have my tenderest affection and all my confidence.

Ever your faithful friend---

Henry James

PERSONAL ASIDE:  My father and I do not communicate much on matters of delicate nor profound concern, yet, just when I had become convinced that my lingering melancholia and obsessive-compulsive patterns were inappreciable to even my most immediate family, he altered me to this text, leaving his copy of Mr. Usher's book open to the letter above.  No stranger to dark moods himself, he reminded me with one modest gesture that he is a sympathetic and kindred spirit.  Lesson being, never underestimate others (or, as James himself admonished, "don't [...] generalize too much").

Whither Must I Wander?

"Home, no longer home to me, whither must I wander?

Hunger my driver, I go where I must."

- Robert Louis Stevenson, Songs of Travel and Other Verses (XVI)

It is a peculiar state of mind when a ninety-calorie granola bar has the power to arbitrate your emotions, to hoist you from hopelessness to its reverse.  Only moments ago I was stewing in my usual depression ---confounded, bitter, made miserable by an inability to answer basic and persistent hunger cues.  Yearning for assistance, I was imagining how much "easier" meeting my body's needs might be if I could have the hand of someone to prod and support me when I ought to refuel, to bring me to the trough (so to speak).  Luckily, this morning a kindly spirit guide saw to me in the last of my dreams.  We were together in a mid-century California chalet, with the energy of other companions rising from a lower floor like the buzz of an active hive.  He was a sort of tidy older gentleman, a mentor presenting in the form of Tim Gunn  --both gentle and forbearing.  Without explanation I understood that he was a protector and gate-keeper.  In that place I was among a cabal of artists and creatives whose ranks I might infiltrate and observe, being accepted for everything that I am --in full, with faults.  From there, borrowing off the power and love of this figure, I found courage, however briefly, to be my own custodian.  And thus, that granola bar was unwrapped and consumed.  And I didn't pay it much mind.

It has become necessary for me to reference such abstractions because I do not find motivation to improve in my immediate surroundings.  Although occasionally inspired to puzzle together some sort of collage, I am not satisfying a deeper path or career trajectory here in the rural Maine of my parent's homestead.  When not completing chores or obsessive-compulsive assignments, some days I do little more than down bottle after bottle of iced tea and stare out a window.  I fall back on the notion that I "can't" manage significant improvement outside a specialized clinic, that I require meals and/or snacks prescribed and, on some occasions, firmly administered.  It's at these moments that I try to summon my logical self, addressing my case as a rational adult.  I am an uninsured, underfunded melancholic of weak body and constitution.  On the surface, I am in functioning health.  Labs would easily hint at my compromised organs, bones, and mineral count, but too often general practitioners don't know or understand what to look for.  While I know well enough that my full anatomy is being taxed, the gradual decline of a system subjected to starvation is not seen to merit emergency care.  With once-weekly therapy I have taken moderate steps towards blunting my illness:  weight-wise, the 1 1/2 pounds sacrificed to Manhattan have been recovered and improved upon; behaviorally, exercise demands remain persistent, but not outrageous.  What's more, I recently observed minor bleeding in my (ahem) "lady parts" --menstruation being something I have experienced no more than the fingers on two hands.  Given that such discharge is considered a sign of health, those I have informed of it have assumed I am doing better.  And yet, I lack for T&A and my heart feels tight and burdened.  Simply put, my body is exhausted, with sleep a reliable recess from the stress it shoulders.  The days feel barely surmountable; within them I flounder, moored to the same sets of holy parameters.  I am in a vaguely promising state of mind, willing to be cooperative if I can just get more of a nudge when I stall.  On rare occasions I have read other people's recovery blogs and, in comparison, I don't find myself "as compromised" or severely enveloped in disordered thinking.  (I do not answer in the affirmative to the litany of questions primarily used when evaluating anorexics.  For instance, I understand food to be a powerful and important medicine and do not often judge others on their proportions, unless grossly exaggerated, as any person might.  Furthermore, I am aware that I look and feel remarkably improved with some padding for my sharp edges, which are close to surface-level.  True, there exists a ceiling for the number of pounds I am willing to acquire, but at least I am aiming for something.)  And while I will cop to visions of suicide, such thinking has been a part of my life for nearly twenty years.  In daydreams, I draft morbid visions:  like Little Jack Horner pulling plums, my eyeballs, plucked, come uncupped from their skull.  Without these glossy corks, a wailing, nettled soul rides the air, dispersing like a flour cloud, caking the dingy surfaces that surround.  With these sorts of musings, my mind snaps back, and I chide myself for being so self-indulgent.  I know that I "owe" it to my father not to embarrass or taint the family with the notoriety and general creepiness of a body abandoned.  

I fly back to picturing the benefits of hospital care, a reoccurring reverie since my early teens, when I lost ten or fifteen pounds just after graduating grammar school.  That July I was put on bed rest and given a private room at a local medical center for a dozen days, having become devoted to a forty-five minute workout on my parent's NordicTrak® Classic Pro Skiier and terrified of any food with "fat".  In a rather secluded pediatric wing I was delicately and tenderly treated by medical personnel.  To my detriment, I have harbored a warped fondness for the notion of being "taken-in" --of being nursed towards better health.  My memory of what occurred has been pulled back and distorted, a mere refraction of light spied at the end of a backwards-facing periscope.  I have forgotten the many seriously unpleasant requisites that accompanied this, if not all, institutional treatment approaches for an eating disorder.  The harsh, unfortunate truth:  convalescent sets-ups are awkward, expensive, and often psychologically injurious.  Should a person be given some sort of recovery bed in a ward of the state, non-private quarters are assigned, with bathroom monitoring and supervised meals selected mainly without patient input.  Exercise, it goes without saying, would be verboten.  Educational sessions incorporating preventative strategies and group therapy constitute your daytime schedule, and you are asked again and again to map-out the history of how your problems arose.  Basic freedoms are traded for the privilege of simply, surely surrendering to one prominent biological demand-- refeeding with true earnestness.  In psychiatric institutions you are committed to recovery because, well, you are committed.  It is painful and humbling, and difficult for everyone:  the staff escorts you like a skittish horse, his blinker hood buckled tight.  Made blind at morning weigh-ins, those signed-in are expected to cooperate without interfering with THE PROGRAM.  Of course, you can't just surrender your mental fixations at check-in, and there is chafing, no matter how genuine your desire for repair.  Embracing all tenets around which a staff may rally is especially difficult should you feel moderately protective of your established ways, however "incorrect" or supposedly evil.  It is not unusual for those afflicted to think of their mental disorder as a sort of compadre --equally revered and resented-- assigning it a name, cleverly derived and/or abbreviated.  (On the internet, scores of discussion groups, even Pinterest boards, have been devoted to Ana and her ilk.  Seen as BFFs to some, "frenemies" to others, Ed, Mia, Cat, & Olive have come to constitute a notorious crew.)  Yes, the disease roosts inside of us:  a stillborn twin; we become riled and defensive at the thought of her removal.  There's no escaping ingrained neuroses, and acquired knowledge of calorie exchanges can haunt you long after mealtime.   Stress is provoked not only by the food, but just as often by the histrionics of those also needing "special handling".  You are both the guinea pig and the researcher, testing the limits of what your body can absorb and mind endure under new and foreign forms of duress.  Despite all this, I would have months, if not years ago volunteered myself to the Portland program --the sole option covered by Maine Medicaid-- if it weren't for the firm disapproval of my parents, who want to see me prove that I can incorporate corrected dietary guidelines into everyday practice, and reject the strict OCD routines/dieting hang-ups so vigorously espoused for most of my lifetime.  There is also the issue of having been in this program previously (on more than one occasion) when it was a full-on inpatient affair.  Ten years later, one is expected to afford housing in the vicinity of the hospital, returning Monday through Friday for part-time treatment.  In 2004, shell-shocked and riled by the seeming backwardness modeled at one clinic near Philadelphia, I reluctantly submitted to the New England Eating Disorders center out of Mercy Hospital.  Cordial as an individual, I wasn't a model participant.  I spitefully remonstrated against their rules by stealthily sneaking pieces of food off my tray or artificially loading myself down at weigh-ins.  It left me anxious and ashamed, but at the time I literally couldn't help myself.  This leaves me to fear the residual reprimand of its serious (albeit good-humored) task force, a largely unmodified company of specialists.  Aside from a few key nurses, the staff had trouble seeing me beyond the unflattering shell of my affliction.  Even though I went back in 2006 with a much improved and more cooperative demeanor, I feel as if they would still reference our initial falling out.  Suffice it to say, I would much prefer to enter a facility in which I don't carry a history upon arrival.  

Day in and day out I mull over wanting to be away, to have an existence somewhere else --largely New York or L.A.  As I've said, my health creeps and creeps in a positive direction, but at a glacial pace.  If I truly want to gain independence I need to make myself sturdier, but with most steps forward I take one back.  Shuffling along, I extend this process needlessly.  I can maintain a weight when I get to it, but building-up pounds takes a very special effort.  When I consider the cons of hospital treatment I become more assured of myself and my mission.  But my future is an inscrutable dangling secret; beyond a college diploma and growing cache of commercially-sound artworks, as a singleton, I've made few provisions.  Like Blanche DuBois, I have "always depended on the kindness of strangers."  I am not ashamed of charitable assistance, at least if it is opportunity-based and not of great financial strain.  Might I find some sort of real-life benefactor --a counterpart to that visiting Tim Gunn apparition of my waking hours?  I seek to make way in an urban environment and in a creative field where I might leave permanent impact.  I am sustained by a grand yearning to change a corner of our culture (hopefully, for the better).  I have tried to capitalize on this period of recovery by developing this blog, along with bolstering activities I enjoy like painting, photography, and maintaining correspondence with online connections.  (I attempt to take a cue from Winston Churchill, who famously said, "Never let a good crisis go to waste.")  If I want to move the world more than a flaccid falling leaf, I need to charge ahead.  But where should I do the charging?  Whither Must I Wander?

Twenty Image Portfolio Sample

Maine Media Workshops Scholarship Application

For Consideration:  Photography, Paintings, and Collages by Lorena Stackpole

For further representation of my sensibilities, please see the December entry of this blog.

Spring Rises, Birds Fall

"I never saw a wild thing

sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough

without ever having felt sorry for itself."

- D. H. Lawrence, Self Pity

No Foolin'

When The Apple takes a bite out of you:
This month I lost weight to New York's mean streets.*
(*but I'm rebounding)

Forgive my absence from these pages these last two weeks, but my dance card has been circulating in a larger arena than is the norm, with many names scribbled within its limited slots.  I am collecting myself after an all-too-fleeting sojourn in New York City that had me questioning my commitment to the rural existence I begrudgingly adopted in 2010 to reduce stress on my body and wallet.  For sixteen days beginning in mid-March I traversed the city, catering to a long list of appointments with friends and coworkers alike.  Some of these were associates from my days at NYU, while others were more recently-acquired connections --including two Facebook pen-pals I had never spoken with in person.  When not exploring the less commercial shops and streets I acted as paid custodian-caretaker to an 8th Street residence off Washington Square Park and its two feline charges, Chucho and Puya.  I had come to know Jack, their owner and area vocal coach/choral director, through private lessons in my Junior year of schooling.  In those days these spritely cats were mere juveniles, and I have to marvel at their well-preserved spirit and good health.  I was fortunate to not loose as much weight as when I spent a similar period one year ago in L.A., as I was able to eat my customary large dinner in the safe sanctuary of a warm, conveniently located and comfortable abode.  While I did not permit myself much, if anything, to eat during my full and active daytime program, Jack's stipend was enough that I could purchase reasonable portions of the foods I enjoy (winter squash, cottage cheese, romaine lettuce, vegetarian burger patties, air-popped popcorn with nutritional yeast and "lite" butter topping) as well as drinks such as Lipton's Pure Leaf™ Iced Tea, Evian water, and the odd can or two of Diet Coke.  I admittedly wasted a ripe opportunity to experiment with all manner of cuisine, given that anything and everything is available within the five boroughs proudly serving the NYC scene, but I at least managed to sustain myself in a wholly different territory to what know in Maine.  Lacking a scale, I was unable to perform my morning weight-check, a ritual gladly waived.  It is a painful measure, one I resent and fear, as it dictates how much I consume in consequence.  A high reading (or what I consider so) will influence the degree of guilt with which I take in calories, even if my body's level of hunger points to contrary desires.  I would like to forgo the regular use of one, even now that I again have access to such a gauge (a digital model tucked discreetly bedside).  It is a machine that possesses unnecessary influence over my mood and can adversely stymie positive change or development, as my internal judge does not respond well to day-to-day fluctuations, whether down or up.  If I am to pursue new pounds before making California a reality, the anguish accompanying their arrival will almost surely be magnified when seen, straightforward and unambiguous, on its unfeeling screen.  Conversely, my own eyes know now to recognize the benefits of added flesh upon an emaciated frame, and are therefore more likely to receive changes with joyful relief, rather than critical derision.  My obsessive-compulsive patterns mustn't be the cat's-paw to a lifetime of arrested dreams and good intentions.  I will not be their tool, nor remain another year fortune's fool and victim.

No, I didn't try a slice of Ray's pizza or a bagel from Katz's Deli, but I did allow myself $3 hot pretzel.