12 (x2) Years a Slave

TAKING MEASURE:  1932's "Love Me Tonight"

In the majority of circumstances, numbers do not lie.  Whether read from a calendar, scale, bank ledger, or receipt of services,  they empirically reflect our activities.  Progress in life is reported tangibly --even literally-- by the passage of days, the movement of pounds, the balance in our financial accounts, the tally of minutes spent dallying on mobile technology.  It is easy to define success or failure based on simple math.  We see it every day with the box office totals streaming from the world's film capitals:  divide the earnings for any given release by the allotment of screens on which it is displayed, taking into consideration initial budget and marketing costs.  Something as unique as a motion picture composition, labored and debated over by a multifaceted confederation of trained technicians and performers, becomes a finite commercial entity.  Success or failure is interpreted by how many people pay for admission or streaming access; whether they sleep, eat, text, or make love in the darkness of the theater has little impact upon its "bottom line".  (Awards are ultimately linked to plaudits from deserving "insiders", but that, too, is mainly another strategy for raising a project's profile --and thus its profits.  This rule of thumb of course holds less weight over time, when revision-minded critics are more removed from the circumstances surrounding a production and more easily romanced by its content.)  Twitter.com operates on a similar model:  "trending" is when a hashtagged phrase or word emerges in popular conversation; whether those comments are positive or negative is irrelevant.  As astonishing and even callous as it might read to the uninitiated, humans themselves are ranked as recognizable brands  in the entertainment and marketing industries (as anyone who has ever dealt with Q ratings can attest).  Social media bestows power to anything as long as it is mentioned, and the internet makes it possible to count the "hits" to every page or comment thread.  Twitter operates blind to the color or quality of discussion, and in that respect is a bit like television --a medium in which sports, "reality" (loosely-scripted, tightly edited soaps or gameshows), late-breaking news, and any variant of extreme stunt can command equal or more heft than more thoughtful fare.  What counts to advertisers and their paid programmers are time slots --clocked periods-- as registered by Nielsen boxes and DVR playback.  The degree of craft or complexity invested in programming is second to viewers:  who, where, and how many.  (This would be an apt time to reference 1976's "Network," the caustic, achingly relevant satire in which a news anchor's on-air mental collapse and eventual assassination is a sensation amongst tuned-in households and thus a boon for its station.)  Of course, Art (with-a-capital-"A") cannot be judged by numbers, because quality is debatable, and worth subjective.  If the Mona Lisa is the most-visited painting at The Louvre, what is to say some kind of rendering does not exist on the reverse of its canvas that is equally, if not more, riveting?  And what if that sketch or painting was the work of a "nobody"?  For argument's sake, it could be a mere doodle with vast implication regarding the Reason for Existence.  Two nights ago, a Francis Bacon triptych fetched a record-shattering $142.4 million at Christie's New York, surpassing Edvard Munch's The Scream as the most expensive, and therefore (according to press reports) "valuable" work ever sold at auction.  Does this elevate a previously obscure composition into a higher echelon, now qualifying it as a legitimate masterpiece?

Three Studies of Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon (1969)

I have been reflecting upon the relative value of numbers because I have arrived at a quantifiable milestone of my own.  As of one week ago today, I can honestly report an increase of five pounds on my body since the launch of this blog.  I realize this is a bit of a departure from this last train of thought, and I blush for the blatant circumlocution.  Achieving an "even five" prompts me to reflect on the influence of numbers, significantly integers, on how we gauge progress.  Anniversaries are generally marked by the completion of larger spans; otherwise, we would be driven mad and immobile by observing every second and sub-second and sub-sub-second, etc.  This is a little of what goes into my own way of thinking, especially given the prevalence of counting in the Obsessive-Compulsive breed.  Fortunately, should you (for whatever perverse reason) seek a window into my mind, its somewhat-loopy cartwheeling is not particularly remarkable nor brilliantly calculated.  I am no John Nash-esq case of exceptional, choreographed madness, mapping subtle patterns and drawing threads.  Nope, my disability stems more from the plain ol' brain-body deficiencies that follow nutritional wantage.  Some friends and family continue to challenge my claims of progress, if not remain oblivious to them; however, I know how much I have tried to change.  It is admittedly not as much as I am capable of, and I move forward, dragging my heels, shuffling in onwardly-stretching curls.  It is funny, because sometimes with my wonky walking routines I literally take two steps forward, one back.  It is one of those disordered ticks, but a tendency that also speaks to my development on a larger scale (pun acknowledged).  I tend to retreat after making gains, in most matters.

*  *  *

I will conclude this winding chapter with an explanation of its title, a salute to what has been universally lionized as the season's front-runner for Best Picture.  Not to minimize the wrenching, hellish hardships of Soloman Northup, but I too have been, by my own doing, indentured.  If we are again to speak of anniversaries, I have spent roughly two-dozen years, almost four-fifths of my life, chained to fears that I will stumble towards obesity --the consequence of ever "letting go" and dismissing stringent eating habits.  It is insulting to the memory of those forced into servitude, I realize, but I have acted in my self-imposed sickness as dual master and minion.  I arrive at the twenty-four year benchmark by referring to my memories of first seeing Disney's "The Little Mermaid" with my maternal  grandmother in the winter of 1989.  I sat in the sticky, floor-mounted, itchy seating of Rockland's Strand Cinema upon its initial run, and the searing wistfulness that accompanied the now-classic cartoon remains potent even now.  I strongly identified with young Ariel (as most children with a dramatic sense, and thus all children, might); I saw her as a representation of delicate beauty and casual elegance.  Needless to say, the beer-bellied Sea Witch, in all her tremendous heft and swagger, did not equally appeal.  While the protagonist's charm seemed unpremeditated, the circumference of her waist did not, and I was keenly aware that a slender mid-section was somehow connected with the ancient battle between Good and Evil.  Around this time were the first signs of my crippling preoccupation with remaining thin (as I was not of substantial proportions even then), and I cannot but help to  fathom that King Titan's winsome daughter played a role in that fixation.  Ironically, hers was a bittersweet, lonely crusade for autonomy beyond a trying situation.

12 (x2) SQUARES A BABE:  A selection of the princess' finer moments

Addendum (11/20/13):  The cartoon princess archetype and brand has become increasingly pervasive in the seventy-six years since Snow White's introduction at the hands of Uncle Walt.  It was in the early 2000s that the full catalog of characters in his studio were marketed as a "line" -- tricked-out with extra-feminine accents that left them objectified and homogenous in their sparkling company uniforms.  Last spring, Disney faced a PR disaster when it attempted to release a new version of "Brave"'s lead figure, Merida, to fit within that established and wildly successful pattern.  This move raised the ire of feminists, fans, and even the film's female co-director, who had envisioned the character as a feisty tomboy archer in late-adolescence.  Cut to two days ago, exactly eight months after the initial rumblings, when an Upworthy blog posted one very talented British artist's Disney-fied reinterpretations of major historical heavyweights, including 2013 Nobel Prize-nominee and Taliban target Malala Yousafzai.  This series of illustrations is a fantastic follow-up and companion piece to Canadian photographer Dina Goldstein's bitterly clever images of fairy tale heroines placed in bleak contemporary settings.  Each manages to carefully observe and skewer these sexual, reticent icons --so freely traded within the modern Mickey Mouse set-- along with the disturbing implications of their new direction.

Art Attack!

9 3/4" x 7 3/4" mixed media collage: eggs and shadow = b&w oil painting from study in fall 2000, cut off the canvas; background = various images from Restoration Hardware 2013 catalog w/ black house paint and glossy Mod Podge added as glaze.  Pieces were then assembled in September 2013.

Watercolor still life mounted on 12" x 9" canvas with cobalt + white blended acrylic, October 2013

Watercolor still life mounted on 12" x 9" canvas painted with spray paint and white house enamel, November 2013  (Note:  the details are more subtle in person, especially in the darker shadows.)

Careful What You Witch

Belatedly rendered confessions of remorse --not for abandoning my recovery playbook, but, rather, for neglecting to maintain a regular journal feed in this, my second half-year in your company.  It has been precisely one month to the day from my last update --an unplanned coincidence-- and residue of self-reproach has been cumulatively settling in rear corridors of my mind.  I have been stubbornly, costively withholding new entries until I might provide substantive evidence of progress, but because my journey of self-improvement is deliberately gradual, definitive points of progress are difficult to reference.  I have, as you know, been incrementally adjusting to an additional pound or two and been encouraged to observe minor indications that my face might be on its way towards "rounding-out".  (Currently, one can still view the muscles in my jaw when they are pulled taught in consternation, flexing under the skin should I grind my molars.)  I would most like to reverse the rolling creases that stretch and rise in puckered seams across my brow, yet these might simply be an irreversible character trait earned from a young lifetime of pursed frowns.  Botulinum toxin might someday level these lines, but most experts point to healthy fats as the natural remedy.  At any rate, I could sooner afford a witch's brew than the needle of a cosmetic doctor, and my pride would certainly be wounded to entertain such artificial measures in the pursuit of beauty.  (Incidentally, my hair is too thin to support bangs as an effective disguise; its strands, while slippery, remain limp and wispy from prolonged deficiencies in protein, iron, and other essential minerals.)  For these reasons and others, I harbor a more cooperative posture towards weight gain.

Worrywart:  A pouting pagan summons the author's default expression.

In the past handful of weeks I have summoned a yen for more expressly creative ventures, namely collage and watercolor illustration; these stationary distractions keep me comfortably occupied in periods I might otherwise devote to exercise or other forms of physical strain.  Art also reduces ennui, not to mention the shame that circles through my system in regular chorus with blood and air.  It provides a faint sense of identity and accomplishment as I desperately search for reasons to rise from the engagement of my pillow.  This  is most sorely needed as the seasons turn a corner; the threat of winter accelerates rapidly in the Northeast, carrying on its broad back early-afternoon sunsets, crippling frosts, and, for many, depleted brio.  I hope to sell these paintings, primarily to fund a life less dependent on my parents' dime.  Should this plan fail, the better pieces will, at worst, contribute to a growing portfolio that might somehow help in solidifying a fruitful career in the service of myself or others.  Direct your attention here, dear readers, for I plan to share three new images of recent completion.  Until then, don't lose your glasses when bobbing for apples.  How else might you judge my work?

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!

Freedom (From Want, From Fear, From Myself)

"You don't like what's being said, change the conversation." - Don Draper (Jon Hamm), Mad Men Season 3, Episode 2

Generally speaking, mood is directly proportional to to the threat level and pervasiveness of our most pressing concerns.  It is also true that a person's disposition can be altered somewhat by peripheral encounters, not forgetting chemical changes that impact emotion, aroused by natural hormones --or even drugs such as alcoholic spirits.  The simple resupply of blood glucose from what we eat or drink can transform one's bearing dramatically, as demonstrated by the highly successful Snickers ads touting the slogan:  "You're not you when you're hungry." (In one thirty-second television spot, a football player, Mike, is seen performing poorly on the field.  He is compared to --and thus portrayed by-- nonagenarian actress Betty White ...until he takes a bite of said candy bar, restoring his image as a virile thirty-something.)  Superficial and/or fleeting activities can provide a similar burst of energy and distraction.  This, in essence, is the purpose of shopping, should it not be for any immediate need (a.k.a. "retail therapy").  But the most surefire way to adjust an unwavering and unshakable humor --good or bad-- is to tackle the grievances that plague us.  An altered perspective, like a disruption of wind to water, is the guaranteed repercussion of reaching outside of ourselves.  Whether this refreshed frame of mind is an improvement depends on how our actions are received.  Whatever the case, experience has taught me that doing something, when the intention is pure, is almost always better than making no move at all.

By providing an example of a healthy, engaged, well-adjusted woman, my sister's continuing presence has made me hyper-aware of my many defects and foibles.  It is easily observable that she is unsettled by my odd relationship to food, although I provide a range of lesser idiosyncrasies that could act as compounding irritants.  I am notoriously secretive in our household about what and when I eat, and this concerns those who know my history of self-starvation.  To ease my family's worries, I have been making efforts to sip or nibble on things in front of them, even if not at my normal allotted meal times (which, to be fair, are at admittedly bizarre hours).  I have engaged in very late lunches and dinners over the past handful of years because I do not permit nourishment if my daily OCD rituals are not completed.  Given that these routines involve multiple errands and chores, many designed for maximum physical impact, it can be quite late in the day when I finally submit to my exhaustion and mounting hunger.  I am mainly admitting to this here because I have been working to disregard, where and when I can, my self-enforced restrictions, as they prevent me from participating in the fluctuating, unpredictable properties of a normal existence.  Indeed, "normalized eating" is a key focus of most treatment centers, and can involve the usual "who, what, when, how, and why" of our approaches to dining.  I took a big step and consumed a bowl of ice cream (albeit lowfat) in front of my sister when one of our activities took place during my feeding hour.  What she may not have known is that I went on to have additional foods immediately after our return home.  That I did not limit myself to a mere dessert when my body craved better satisfaction is actually the greater accomplishment. Breaking the rigidity of embedded rules is the only way I might remove the handicap this disorder has served me with.  I have not contributed much to this blog in the last few weeks because I have been, for the most part, emotionally "checked out" --not wanting to think about the clear mess I've made of my life, to engage or correct its manifold problems.  In addressing what is wrong with myself I risk upsetting the delicate disconnect that allows me to avoid paralyzing grief and mortification.  But that is a real and deep reaction that comes from honestly assessing a situation in need of serious correction, and is at least preferable to an otherwise anesthetized state of denial.  Fear and discomfort are signs that I am exiting familiar, well-trod grounds for more exotic, uncertain terrain.  

Patrolling unfamiliar lands was  something of a hobby, in fact, of Theodore Roosevelt; it was this robust politician and famed safari gamesman who fiercely noted, "Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty...  I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life.  I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and lived them well."  According to his friend, historian Henry Brooks Adams, Roosevelt was indeed "pure act".  He saw life for the taking --at times quite literally, as Teddy is still remembered for his hunting trophies.  Tomorrow is Independence Day; I can see no better means of tribute to our twenty-sixth president than to forgo my usual schedule and to "break bread" with my extended brood over our traditional pre-fireworks feast:  baked wild salmon, freshly shucked peas, royal blue and red rascal potatoes, assorted berries over vanilla ice cream --finished off with tall champagne flutes and sparklers, each one as golden and explosive as the other.  If I want to graduate from this extended melancholy and to perhaps hear others speak well of my condition it is necessary to adopt this Rough Rider's example, wrestling the "bull by the horns".  In his 1913 autobiography, Roosevelt described his approach to foreign policy as one built on "intelligent forethought and decisive action sufficiently far in advance of any likely crisis."  Given my low weight and long-abused system, the most "likely crisis" I should seek to avoid is one that would have me placed within a hospital for supervised "refeeding" and intensive therapy.  This, at least, is preferable to an even worse bed:  a crisp-cold drawer at the local morgue.

Self-portrait with Glow-Specs.  (They were found abandoned in front
of our house on July 4th, following the fireworks.)  Feeling depleted
after a relatively light meal with the family, I sat down to a kale-berry
smoothie and chocolate soy milk at 10:45 pm ...after this was taken.

In The Company of Jenn

This one goes out to the one I love

- "The One I Love" (R.E.M.,1987's Document)

My sister's influence is palpable and electric; she rustles my deepest feelings, raising bittersweet memories of a shared past and loosely tangled present.  In her shadow I am reminded of my stunted emotional growth and frustrated plans.  Pettiness compels me to stack her talents and accomplishments against my own, but the panoramic magnificence she displays is essentially impossible to measure.  By the end of high school she was a distinguished academic, thespian, singer, writer, artist, and revered local beauty, elected "Miss 4th of July" after reaching salutatorian status in a class of equally remarkable peers.  In the ensuing years she has secured roles with countless independent filmmakers, studied drama at a top London academy, shown great skill and knowledge in working with fine cuisine, and, more recently,  mastered Pilates in both practice and instruction.  Needless to say, J. commands a powerful gravitational force.  A radiant celestial object, she swiftly lassos you into her orbit.  She is a star.

People of her ilk, residents of that astral plane beyond Earth's far mesosphere, are achievers.  They set the bar astronomically high, expecting others to do the same.  J. is in top physical form, with what one calls a "dancer's build".  But she arrived at this ideal only after listening to the needs of her body.  Half a decade ago it was revealed that she carries an acute form of celiac disease, which requires her to drastically limit her groceries to a handful of categories.  To my understanding, violent stomach pain and mental sluggishness develop should her intestines become exposed to even a single allergen.  Currently, the list of known offenders includes:  grains or flour, cornstarch or arrowroot, potatoes, sweet potatoes, or any starchy vegetables, corn, all soys and soy by-products, sugar, milk/cream, beans (excluding lentils), chocolate (unless she literally grinds the cocoa by hand), all preservatives, coagulants, and emulsifiers.  She cannot even use bottled herbal mixtures such as Mrs. Dash because of specific additives that help to keep the ingredients from clumping (and the fact that gluten is present at its processing centers).  Instead, J. relies on a sort of Adkins-Mediterranean plan, wherein fat is embraced for its essential vitamins and oils.  From what I can observe, richer foods are allowed, sensibly portioned in accordance to what one craves.  Vegetables are key; protein derived from meats, eggs, hard cheeses, and homemade goat's milk yogurt also figure-in prominently.  Coconut water, bananas, honey, almond butter, dates, frozen grapes, tea, coffee, and, in small doses, a small family of alcohols (wine, champagne, ciders, port, sherry, liquers/spirits, whiskey*) are the primary, if only, indulgences.  All are pure, fresh, and, in most cases, organic.

It has been beneficial to witness J.'s lifestyle first-hand in order to establish an informed understanding of her eating routines.  I was admittedly worried that this precisely calibrated diet of hers what in fact dieting, as I have seen gluten intolerance used as a means of dodging carbohydrate intake by women looking to "reduce".  (At eating disorder treatment centers, medically-based allergies can act as an anorexic's "get out of jail free card" when they interfere with menu requirements.  Of course, this can backfire when the claimant is prescribed something even less palatable, commonly Boost or Ensure.)  It can also be concerning when someone is an athlete by profession, as my sister's job seems to demand a high level of energy expenditure.  To her credit, J. explained to me that she consumes the calories necessary to support her workouts, and I have maturely tolerated indications of her various sessions when they happen here or elsewhere.  In fact, I have napped on my bed while she practiced heavy-breathing (yoga?) in an adjacent room.  I want her to feel comfortable doing what she needs to do.  At the end of the day, the ultimate evidence of her vitality is defined by science.  To put it bluntly, she is capable of child-bearing.  According to elementary biology, this is nature's reliable indicator that a specimen is superior and would benefit its order to breed.  In terms of evolution, J. is a taller giraffe.

I lost weight when first stressing about my sibling's impending arrival, but to be honest I had "fallen off the wagon" weeks before she even announced her plans.  I was neglecting my commitment to more nutritious foods, skipping my Orgain shake at lunch and filling-up again on lettuce doused in mustard and pickle juice in a late-night binge.  Fortunately, my diet soda consumption continues at at a reduced level.  For whatever reasons, I had forgotten my goals and again engaged in "power walks" and pedaling on the stationary bike.  Over this last weekend my scale confirmed the return of a pound or greater, as J. has been kind enough to nudge me in a positive direction.  My initial panic has been assuaged; I am greeted each morning with a cup of J.'s signature kale-berry juice and glad that I am awarded the respect and privacy to meet my nutrition goals with relative independence.  I have taken the responsibility to not sneak off for longer walks than those recommended by my dietician, and I plan to put a moratorium on weighing myself until significant progress might be seen.  I hope to come out the other side of this summer with a little more strength --physically and in my sororal relationship.  I've never believed I could live at J.'s level, but, to paraphrase Kanye West's lyrics from "Home", aiming at a star could (at worst) land you among the clouds.

My sister the super-hero:  J. as She-ra (with a now-verboten candy
apple), Halloween 1985.  That's me to the right as a "Star Fairy."

*According to a cursory internet search, whisky, despite being derived from barley, is approved for celiacs because the distillation process cancels its effects by removing its offending proteins.  However, no hard liquor made from grains should be consumed during the early stages of a gluten-free regimen, warns the Celiac Sprue Association.

Smooth Operator

Drawing aside her veil of melancholy, the author encounters a surprising set-up for the definitive play on words.

I often doubt my capability to improve upon the low-level weight I've now long maintained, but every so often a new fount of confidence reinvigorates my surety.  Working with the knowledge that I will never voluntarily submit to consuming traditionally-prepared milkshakes (claiming mild intolerance to lactose and outward resistance to fat), a new strategy for easy calorie consumption arrived in my mind, advertised as a definitive solution to my continuing dilemma.  It seemed to me that I could concoct my own nutrient-dense drinks, based on a simple template and incorporating tasty, natural ingredients I might learn to tolerate when taken via straw.  I was once told by a dietician that frozen fruit, especially bananas, lend substantial body to smoothies.  They are a refreshing, sweet coagulator and preferable to ice alone, which contributes volume without the benefit of vitamins and calories.  Plain yoghurt would add a sour note, carrying with it protein; soy or almond-derived “milks” would benefit calcium levels and general consistency.  What’s more, should I feel especially adventurous/confident, an infusion of raw kale, coconut “water”, dates, figs, nut butter, or even “lite”-style ice cream might give the concoction real legitimacy as a meal supplement.

I was prepared to follow-through with a primitive variation on this recipe, and even went so far as to select Maine blueberries from the local grocer’s supply, having already chilled a peeled, halved banana in our icebox and readied the Almond Breeze.  Yes, this would be a test run with fare from my usual list of pantry staples, but it was a big step nonetheless and I was eager to see it realized.  Unfortunately, I did not get further than adding the second ingredient to my family’s much-neglected high-wattage mixer when a toxic aroma met the air.  I had already noticed that the blades of this ancient appliance were not spinning at a particularly effective speed, so it did not require much consideration to deduce that said contraption had a faulty motor and was presently in the act of burning-out.  The punch line to all this is that I had only JUST revisited Jack White’s 2012 alt-blues album “Blunderbuss”, and the pun born from its memory was more delicious than anything I might have concocted with my arsenal of safety foods.  Clearly, this was a classic case of Blenderbust.

Bill of Change

Even while portraying his beloved alter-ego, Dr. Heathcliff "Cliff" Huxtable, comedy legend Bill Cosby was a champion of personal responsibility.  The Cosby Show rarely missed an opportunity to impart lessons relating to self-empowerment and community improvement.  As popular primetime viewing it carried a surprisingly heavy-handed endorsement of social reform from below, of change born from the efforts of industrious and humble Joe and Jane Everyman.  It almost should have carried the title of that other television staple of the late-eighties, Nickelodeon's Don't Just Sit There.  In promotion of his new book release and current concert tour, Cosby spoke to Sunday's New York Post about the dominant social issue of our time -- the spread and acceptance of listlessness, of assumed "victimhood".  Under the headline "A Plague Called Apathy", he relates that most of us, especially poor urban youths, operate without ambition, accepting a "less-than" lot with a defeatist mentality --often one inherited from resentful, resigned elders.  "You got to have fight", he pronounces.  "We don't have that fight, so life is problematic."  Cosby believes Americans abuse their afforded freedoms (such as how we spend our incomes) while not taking rightful, full advantage of others (access to superior education, nutrition, and drug awareness).  We open our wallets for processed meals and cigarettes, allowing diabetes, emphysema, and cancer to infiltrate and define not only multiple generations of family, but entire communities.  "Toni Morrison spoke at Vanderbilt University graduation last month and she was saying that money was the reason for so many deaths, so many wars and people eating the wrong foods.  And it's true, man.  But when you listen to the people who are selling 'feel good,' it's greed.  They couldn't care less about us -- and because we have a feeling of apathy, we don't care either."  Cosby believes that as long as profit can be made from selling packaged, "friendly" poisons throngs will continue to buy that easy "fix", propelling and preserving America's dark industries.  "People are greedy," he bluntly explains.  "It wasn't about somebody dying, it is all about money, so they use something called choice, which makes no sense at all.  I have the right to smoke myself to death, they say.  I don't know if you ever had relatives who are sitting there and mentally they are in a state of addiction and they say, 'No, I want to have my cigarette.'  They have a metal bottle and two things going up their nose and they have a pack of cigarettes in their pocket or pocketbooks and they keep saying, 'I know, I know,' and people push them around in the wheelchair to have a smoke."  Collectively, Western populations turn a blind eye to these publicly sanctioned epidemics.  Disease, be it mental or otherwise, infiltrates almost every social network, with minor degrees separating its victims.  And to this Bill asks, Where are the families?  What came of intervention?  Even with superstar burn-outs Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston, there is little evidence to suggest that anyone took steps to discontinue his pills or to deny her that final dose of crack cocaine.  Houston infamously drowned in her own bathtub -- a fitting metaphor for the idle impotence of those beset by substance abuse.  I consider myself one of them.

Cosby's harangue rallied my attention with his reference to the familiar sight of a set-in-his-ways convalescent.  I, too, am entrenched in a debilitating --yet repairable-- condition.  That I refuse to shake this absurd, sad sickness is a testament to my stubbornness and inability to manage anxiety.  Aside from lightly-prescribed OCD medication --along with occasional art, writing, and psychological sessions-- I predominantly reduce stress with firmly-observed patterns of exercise and restriction.  (My most relaxing periods of repose are meal sessions, actually.  But they come with a price.)  These preternatural, curious rituals help prevent my small world from being upended, promising to maintain the status quo.  I understand that change, once committed to, would improve my present situation; I both crave and deny it's intrusion.  

As it so happens, in less than one week I will have no choice but to adapt, as alterations in my environment will subsequently effect living and eating arrangements.  For the first time in three years I am to be reunited with my sister as a housemate.  She is to be in Maine through September and, being fond of her company, I look forward to what new colors she might infuse into my black-and-white routine.  I know for certain that many habits will be drastically amended and/or repealed in her presence.  Manifold walks intended to expend calories are a well-known indicator of my disorder, and she will likely frown upon their length and frequency.  I know she will also goad me into exploring new and richer foods, such as nuts, avocados, whole eggs, and pureed vegetable/fruit concoctions.  If past experience can be seen as an indicator, my older sibling will prove to be a positive force and possible sponsor for recovery.  If for whatever reason I do not feel that I am capable of improving my weight through her intervention alone, I may finally entertain the option of subletting a room in Portland, where I would participate in the intensive treatment available to those within commutable range.  Operated from the sixth floor of Mercy Hospital, this program is conducted on weekdays from early morning tomid-afternoon.  There, stringent rules and supervision are met with full cooperation from all enrolled, and rapid progress is expected.  Because of my limited payment options, this is the only rehabilitation unit anywhere that, to my knowledge, will have me in its roster --until I amass a lottery windfall or enroll with a non-Medicaid insurance provider.  (Given my bleak financial standing, mere Powerball tickets are a laughable indulgence, and health coverage through known agencies would require  reliable revenue from more than mere part-time employment.)  Playing on dining room imagery, I face a major "fork in the road", each path revealing an amply loaded plate of strikingly different arrangement, aroma, outlay.  But the intended outcome?  Despite different recipes, with contrasting methods of preparation, these dueling treatment options ultimately serve the same end:  fulfillment of the body and soul.

Tossed Salad or "Lettuce" Not Laugh (At Ice Cream)

Puttin' On The Ritz: As seen in LIFE Magazine, June 12, 1949

It is with minor regret that I acknowledge my diminished presence here at Careful What You Wish-- I am not bowing-out of my obligations to the site, but have chosen, rather, to dedicate increased attention to working with collage and other visual art forms.  I would like to see myself sketching, if not also creating the abstract paintings that come more naturally to me.  Whatever the medium or task, I simply prefer to spend spare moments --those in which I am not out walking in the newly-balmy breezes-- to projects not involving the hollow glow of a computer.

A major focus of meals is still the reduction of shredded romaine lettuce with dinner, which I have cut back by about half, if not more.  If I do have salad, I am always sure to top it with protein --preferably baked salmon or chicken-- and to be mindful when it is being binged on, as that is a surefire path to prolonged stomach pain and nausea.  I have more or less replaced a steamed broccoli mixture (which I also was consuming in large measure) with my old stand-by, winter squash, as this is a heavier, more starchy vegetable.  I push myself to pour chocolate soy milk and unsweetened Almond Breeze with meals for the benefit of  calcium and calories in liquid form, and also garnish air-popped popcorn with a fair allowance of powdered "nutritional yeast", as previously divulged.  The sudden introduction of summer weather in the Northeastern U.S. has once again prompted one friend to needle me in regards to the "cure-all" remedy of ice cream; he has firmly prescribed Ben & Jerry's to be portioned-out in three allotments (totaling one pint per day).  To this suggestion I defer to my therapist, who, knowing my history, has commented candidly (whilst stifling a chuckle):  "Um, not gonna happen."

Might low-sugar versions be considered as a compromise?
(Advertisement from LIFE Magazine, July 23, 1945)

Additional note:  In the spring of 2004 I was released from six weeks of treatment at the Renfrew Center of Philadelphia, an experience I entered begrudgingly at the request of university health services.  Shell-shocked, resentful, morose, l immediately sought the company of classic cinema for solace and reprieve.  One of the first films encountered, ironically, was 1942's "Now, Voyager", in which Bette Davis is herself seen as a patron of modern psychiatry by way of sanitarium residency.  At Cascade, treatment is gentle and creatively approached, consisting almost "entirely of casual conversations and loom-weaving", as observed in a fantastic essay by Matt Bailey of the film site Not Coming To A Theater Near You.  As the narrative advances, Davis' Charlotte is shown compassion and, ultimately, love; she blossoms under said benevolence and later pays it forward.  Encountering the daughter of her love interest who, conveniently, has been admitted to Cascade, Charlotte's remedy for the girl's depression is to sponsor her with rounds of ice cream, tennis, and other activities available to progressive, privileged ladies of the period.   Essentially, an attentive, stylish role model/surrogate mother as fashioned in the indelible, spitfire mold of Bette Davis is enough to restore the damaged psyche of any troubled teenager.  Funny that the instrument of her powers is a good soda fountain sundae.