No Man's Land

For the last two years the spectrum of numbers displayed on my scale has covered a scant five pounds, and that is speaking generously.  In truth, its readings have primarily vacillated between a close handful of units separated by mere fractions.  I realize this sounds dubious, but I have been loyally recording these numbers, planning to incorporate the pages they claim in some sort of eventual art piece --much like a tourist might photograph the cell wall etchings of a decommissioned prison.  In previous entries, it has been emphasized that I find comfort in the familiar --be it the food I consume, the territories in which I walk or work, the sites I view online, the faces with whom I interact-- and my feeling toward weight fluctuation is certainly no different.  If anything, it is the impetus behind my staunch inflexibility-- the fear of a transformed self.  Not that I see my body or being as anything close to perfect.  On the contrary, I actively yearn to fill-out areas of my face, arms, and concave ass; to improve and expand my skills, comprehension, and professional/personal identity; to contribute more, taking less.  Paranoid and exacting weight maintenance would be more justified and understandable if I were at my intentioned goal, approximately ten pounds higher than my current level.  And I am not ignorant to the protestations of others, namely health practitioners, when it is said I should multiply that stated target by a minimum of 150%.  It is simply that in the last decade I have never reached beyond that figure, including at point of discharge from more than one inpatient facility.  It represents my appearance when included in a Seventeen magazine modeling shoot held on my college's Manhattan "campus" (or approximation of which, given NYU's intermittent territories within the city).  I remember discreetly disguising a bony chest with the wardrobe I self-sourced, although upon latest review I am surprised my neck wasn't more of a concern at the time.  The issue was released October 2003, with exactly ten years now past.

My myopic perspective of personal body size is defined and perpetuated by way of the digits relayed to me each morning, and these rarely fluctuate beyond tenths of a point.  For that reason I have been a bit dismayed and caught off guard by a sudden jump in heaviness that occurred roughly two weeks after committing to a decidedly revised routine.  Virtually eliminating exercise, remaining still for most of the day standing at an assigned art table, has finally made a difference after a tremendously long period of unmodified and resolute steadiness.  It is no doubt obvious to the reader that I have been resisting change by committing the same protracted workouts, along with upholding a fixed diet slow to expansion.  Because I am still rather protective of the latter, it is all the more imperative that I consider myself on a footing only slightly above "bed rest", the recommendation of most doctors for someone in my condition.  From here on I am exploring uncharted territory and must accept my new base level (which, when previously touched, would signal a day of elevated starvation).  Its repeated appearance has confirmed that hitting the number was not a fluke or mechanical error.  On the contrary, it is a sign of progress, of maturation and evolvement.  I enter these grounds trepidatiously, but, thanks to the small audience collected here, I can know that together we are complicit in pushing beyond steady, fatal infirmity.

The Malkovich Mandate: "To each his own"

In low spirits.  

Removing increasingly protracted and intensive "power walks" from my life has revealed how much of it was being squandered, as I now face interminable stretches requiring repurposing.  Unprofitable tasks designed to starve and strain have been keeping me from functioning like a "normal" adult, pushing meals later and later --laying waste to any chance of a productive work schedule-- as I resolved to burn-off calories before any more might be welcomed.  Internal energy stores are now being afforded the opportunity to build upon increased food volume and my scale is starting to respond in hesitant increments.  There is more of a challenge now to conduct myself responsibly, as the departure of my sister for England has left the recumbent bicycle accessible at virtually any hour, and it is exceedingly easy to catch-up on reading or television while occupying its seat.  Just as I have had to be steadfast with food intake as my weight inches upward, I must maintain a firm resolve to dislodge remaining exercise impulses.  Although a tad dismaying, it helps that my endurance levels and general tolerance threshold plummeted after cutting back on aerobic activity; this new weariness signals the futility and inappropriateness of straining a body comprised of minimal reserves.

I must admit, the frequent reprimands I receive from one friend in particular have helped me  "soldier on" when my weight woes overwhelm, for his scorn and expressed disappointment register deeply and inspire elevated perseverance.  He has made it clear that my seeming inability to shed disordered patterns frustrates him to no end.  The benefit of an outside motivator is what prompted me to disagree with a passing bit in this August's Vanity Fair.  For years now, the magazine has taken up the tradition of pressing a rotating celebrity guest with a fixed list of intimate questions perfected by and attributed to Marcel Proust.  Last month's interviewee was John Malkovich, pictured below in a print by Society6 artist La May.

When asked, What do you consider the most overrated virtue?, the dignified thespian responded with a dig at those who cajole the defeated:  "[I cannot abide t]he notion that someone can tell someone else how to be or what to do.  As Faulkner said, 'Once a man is in a rut, it's better just to let him stay there.  Let no man prescribe for another man's well-being.'"  I have mixed feelings about this view, as I can speak from experience that recovery is not wholly achievable without the consent and will of the afflicted individual.  And, yes, there are many who purport various cure-all measures --and loudly-- without supplying an equal measure of sugar to their vitriol.  But without a swift kick to the rear many rudderless victims of self-sabotage via addiction and denial would risk sinking further into the comfortable quicksand of a sustainable, yet increasingly toxic, lifestyle.  Perhaps Mr. Malkovich has been fortunate enough to internally reroute life's grievances, finding his answers waiting within.  This is, after all, the man  --ahem, "vessel"-- who housed numerous souls in the excellent, eponymous film by director Spike Jonze and screenwriter Charlie Kaufman.  If you are not familiar with it, I would prescribe it for your well-being.

"Noli Timere"

Sensitive to the subject of facing one's fears (and of death's eventuality), this recent dispatch seized my attention, as if a beacon, from the inner front page of Maine's Portland Press Herald:

Irish poet's last words:  'Don't be afraid'

DUBLIN -- Ireland mourned the loss of its Nobel laureate poet, Seamus Heaney, with equal measures of poetry and pain Monday in a funeral full of grace notes and a final message from the great man himself:  Don't be afraid.

Among those packing the pews of Dublin's Catholic Church of the Sacred Heart were government leaders from both parts of Ireland; poets, playwrights and novelists; all four members of the rock band U2; the actor Stephen Rea, and former Lebanese hostage Brian Keenan.

Ireland's foremost uilleann piper, Liam O'Flynn, played a wailing lament before family members and friends offered a string of readings from the Bible and their own often-lyrical remembrances of the country's most celebrated writer of the late 20th century.

Heaney won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1995 in recognition of his wide-ranging writings inspired by the rural wonders of Ireland, the strife of his native Northern Ireland, the ancient cultures of Europe, Catholic faith and Celtic mysticism, and the immutability of family ties.  He died Friday in a Dublin hospital at the age of 74.

In a tribute delivered from the pulpit, one of Heaney's three children revealed his final words: a text message from the poet's hospital bed to his wife, Marie.

Michael Heaney said the words, "written a few minutes before he passed away, were in his beloved Latin.  And they read:  'Noli timere.'  Don't be afraid."  That revelation opened a ripple of tears in the audience, including from Marie and only daughter Catherine.

- From news service reports

Thirty Days Hath "Sip"tember: Shifting Gears with Liquid Calories

Mentally and physically impaired by rapacious hunger, I am determined to see September as an open playground for taking-on new strategies in my battle with self-imposed food-denial and detaining exercise requirements.  As of today I have interrupted my precisely observed daily schedule to permit a trial breakfast of approximately one cup granola with unsweetened Almond Breeze.  Earlier, I attempted to create a frappé by stirring skim milk into a near-empty carton of lowfat mint chocolate chip ice cream, but the drink was abandoned when it became clear such a mere serving alone wouldn't yield much nutritional value (nor pleasure, what with its wan consistency and flavor).  I have for now suspended the parameters that made meals verboten should workout commitments not be met; simultaneously, calorie limits have been shelved.  What's more, I am reminding myself of the austere, awkward, and unforgiving policies exacted in recovery clinics, some of which I shall attempt to adopt --regular snack breaks, restricted movement-- with others eagerly abandoned, most notably the limited menu options and mandatory seminars on all-things-eating-disorders.  I intend to gain weight on my terms and even now feel a surge of self-empowerment (which, admittedly, I may be confusing with the energy provided by the discussed changes).  I shall continue to experiment with the NutriBullet blender received one week ago on my birthday, funneling vitamin-rich ingredients in the form of kale-fruit-yoghurt smoothies --but not in replacement of over-the-counter Orgain, Boost, or Ensure supplement beverages.  A potassium pill is also being considered to address electrolyte imbalances and prevent heart disease, not to mention cardiac arrest.  I still entertain the notion of visiting McDonalds or the local ice cream stand for a shake, but I cannot imagine swilling such a heavy dessert without great strain and discomfort to both mind and maw.  However, until I can trust my own hand to mix such drinks without excessive, purposeful dilution, this and other fast food staples are amongst the simplest, most immediate vehicles for the substantial calorie influx that healing requires.  Yes, I hesitate when considering their reputation for integrant fat and cryptic additives, but with weight gain such elements generally come part and parcel.

Assembling the components for my first NutriBullet smoothie

...which I paired with now-customary chocolate Orgain, Aug. 26th.

Sample Size Me

"The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak." - Matthew 26:41

Increasingly infrequent entries to this journal, including a glaring gap of three weeks, are the consequence of mounting home renovation ventures and a lack of significant change to my circumstances.  I aim to complete minor cosmetic improvements to various interior spaces before my sister's departure, which shadows the exit of summer from New England and with it the comfortable temperatures that give license to open-window ventilation.  As far as my "food issues" are concerned, incremental advancements continue to be seen in both  attitude and scale readings.  (As of this morning, I have gained two pounds above customary levels, bringing me to my highest point yet for the year.)  I again affirm a more flexible regard for and acceptance of carbohydrates, sugars, and dairy, all of which my system aches to receive.  I have intended to supply all of the above by embracing granola, fruit juice blends, ice cream, and yogurts in addition to the low-fat cottage cheese and soy/almond beverages to which I am now accustomed.  Unfortunately, ambition once again trumps action; I have sampled all of these, but in humble allowances not capable of dramatically offsetting my unflagging loyalty to exercise.  A friend persists in promoting milkshakes as a cure-all potion, and I have again and again contemplated a drive to McDonalds or a more wholesome, locally-sourced soda fountain for a frosty malt.  Shortly after writing my last update, in fact, I goaded myself into ordering a medium McCafé strawberry-banana smoothie when the imagined fat and additives of the shakes proved overwhelming.  (I researched nutrition content for the chain's offerings beforehand, and to my surprise, calorie levels are now posted not only online, but also on the menu above the teller's counter.)  Once home, I followed this not-unpleasant, astonishingly sweet iced purée with a succulent ripe peach and customary chocolate Orgain.  (My weight, incidentally, was unaffected by the experiment.)  In the coming days, my hope is that I might summon the courage to integrate actual frappes --whether restaurant-sourced or self-made-- into meal allowances, having long ago committed my will, yet not my ways, to a much richer food plan.  It is the partly-failed execution of these intentions that continues to keep me from realizing the benefits of a less restrictive diet with sturdier, more capable body and the normalized lifestyle it in turn might afford.  To borrow from a now-retired ad campaign of the 1990s, "McDonalds -- It can happen."  Just hold the fries.

Staking-out foreign territories with the intension of experiencing native cuisine.

Artificial Fruit Infusion no. 1:  McCafé Strawberry-Banana Smoothie, July 20th

Follow-up Trial:  McCafé Blueberry-Pomegranate Smoothie, August 13th

Scraping By, Lifting Off

The marked decline in the frequency of my posts can be attributed to various home restoration efforts being undertaken as unusually fair weather settles in our region.  In particular, my sister has enlisted me to patch and paint the surfaces of an upstairs guest bathroom, tending additionally to the removal of a small plot of drab linoleum now covering wooden floor beams original to our home's 1847 construction.  I have been preparing the walls by scouring and peeling layers of paper, removing hardware, then filling chinks and other cavities with calcium carbonate spackling medium.  Next, I intend to sand and prime before proceeding with the final finish, a blue-silver tint surprisingly similar to the base coat revealed at fiberboard level.  I have photographed my latest entry, scrolled upon the very surface I have been tasked to improve.

Author's admission: The "'forbidden' tastes" referenced above included difficult foods, true, but  they were ones I have learned to incorporate as a necessity for staving-off weight loss.  Basically, they are the "light" carbohydrates/dairy products standard to my diet in times of reverse-restriction:  reduced-calorie chocolate soy milk, Lactaid® cottage cheese, and, over dry popcorn, nutritional yeast, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter spray, salt.  It is inaccurate and irresponsible, as your narrator, to say they are taboo.  A year ago I, when I was surviving primarily on steamed vegetables and multiple heads of lettuce, they were indeed seen as indulgent.  However, in more recent months I have come to depend on them almost exclusively.  While the ice cream is indeed new to my regimen, the only other outlier introduced that night, being radically out of the ordinary, was a minor cluster or two of my mother's granola.  I am becoming more liberal in my reluctant pursuit of weight gain with permitted rations, and that is why I felt need to exaggerate.  Even minor portion increases  are an achievement over past, inflexible protocol.

Despite last night's pronounced efforts to challenge intake in both kind and quantity, I have subsequently been burdened by a heavy blanket of fatigue, a weariness normally reserved for days following willful fasting.  I am not of the mood to question the cause of this energy drain; I will attribute it, for now, to an awakened metabolism and my usual movements around town, in which I travel on foot to expend calories while fulfilling (admittedly trivial) errands.  I feel as if my body is pleading for rest; I must grant it a release from the compulsive "power walks" required by the ingrained tenets of weight management I now seek to reverse.  Normally, discipline dictates I cover both a long and short route before permitting the first of two large daily meals, but today I opted to write this overdue update in lieu of detrimental activity.  This is an even greater feat for me when considering that I currently have our full property to myself for the weekend, a privacy that affords the use of my mother's recumbent bicycle.  Instead, I choose to reset exercise levels to as low as possible, perhaps two moderate periods in total.  For at least today I surrender to natural instinct and the call of reason.  For at least today I will not pursue numb exhaustion, in company with hunger, as a personal marker of achievement.

Just Desserts: An In-Progress Art Series of Edible Americana

Offered here is my continuing collection of still life art pieces intended to both mock and celebrate iconic mass-produced American "convenience" foods, juxtaposing what might be described as "lowbrow" lunchbox fare with elegantly-composed presentations. Such confections as Twinkies, Pop Tarts, ice cream sandwiched, and Zebra Cakes are served upon ornate silver platters; dramatic lighting and floral accents are employed ironically. The photographs shown in the second half playfully draw attention to recognizable children's snacks and attempt to provoke closer examination of symbols and figures disguised within (especially as seen in Lucky Charms cereal).  Note: These digital images were initially intended as guides for future work, but I feel they merit display without further rendering. I intend to finish additional canvases and am currently experimenting in collages based on advertising of the 1940s-60s.  I am eager to sell, and all are available for purchase (with the exception of the divided Hostess Cupcake, which went to a friendly local couple after my first public show one year ago this September).  Apologies for any cavities or canker sores that may be summoned (if not sweet dreams).  Be warned:  hyperglycemia and/or sticky fingers are also a risk of extended exposure.  Just call me the Sugar Plum Fairy.

"American Amuse-Bouches" or "A patient's muddled perspective of Renfrew shaded by bewilderment, resentment, and the passage of six years" - Acrylic on 16" x 12" canvas, late 2010

"Missed Opportunities" or "Too Late" - Acrylic on 16" x 12" canvas, 2011

"Cone, Alone" - Acrylic on 12" x 9" canvas, July 2012

"A Good Hostess" - Acrylic on 8" x 6" canvas, May 2012

"Centrifugal Forks" - Mixed media collage
(photographs, Restoration Hardware catalog images, mid-century LIFE Magazine pages, ballet pink spray paint, white acrylic house paint, Mod Podge) on 20" x 20" canvas, June 2013

 

For additional works in this series, see:  Art Attack!