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.