Update: five minutes after initial posting. Ugh. My memory — Please watch the video at the end of the post.
I’m busy exploring my deciduous essence; who and what I am has always been about desquamation, and never has the tearing away of the scales and the shedding of skins been more the primary characteristics of my being than in the last five years or so. One does worry, sometimes, that the affirmative reduction process has or is in danger of eliding into a pathological diminishment of self, until I’ve subtracted myself into non-being — but if spiritual cleansing works like dieting, not much chance of that, as the weight loss is going slower with the passing of time. Damn. I used to be able to drop twenty pounds with little effort. No more. Funny, keeping records on a phone app, watching my dieting/exercise progress, and wishing there was a like-spiritual app. Instead, I take selfies. Okay then, that, and updates on where I am (and am not) going.
It’s now been more than a week since I have opened Twitter. I wish I could parse for you the emotional or psychological or spiritual impetus for the retreat, but, I can’t, not really, except to say the Latin root of the word impetus means to attack/attack, and while the people I follow on Twitter are everything lovely, there was a process going on inside me the result of which was I felt discontent, covetousness, an isolate in another world where I didn’t really belong. These are my issues, they were caused by no one but myself, but, I could feel myself wanting to shift the burden of and responsibility for my insecurities to others, the old “you wouldn’t really love me if you really knew me — oh, I see you don’t” song, that duet I do with my selves of “I’m so amazing/why don’t they see me,” and “I’m so unworthy, oh shit they see me.” I follow beautiful people on Twitter who are nothing but loving, affirming, marvelous folk and wonderfully kind, so I got that it was me, again, being nuts. It’s tedious, even to (especially to) me, and it seemed time to get a hold of it and it felt as if I needed to get out of the milieus in which it was activated. So, I pulled further into myself (again) and I’ve no idea what’s going on in Twitter world; if I’ve notifications, messages, anything, no idea, because it’s disconnected everywhere — my phone, my laptop, my head — well, I guess, not my head, since I’m thinking about it enough to write this. Believe me, wish I could bring myself to go back on Twitter, not being there depresses my blog hits (and, me, a bit.) Now, though, the longer I am away, the more I am afraid to go back. Weird. I need to examine this more.
FOOD BLOGGING & SUNDAY DINNER
Twitter isn’t the only disconnect. I cooked another Sunday dinner for the Mom-unit this weekend. We had country sausage, which we’d picked up in Thurmont on hair-day Thursday, and with that, at her request, variations on boiled cabbage plus new potatoes with peas and pearl onions in cream sauce. I hard-parboiled the cabbage, then removed from water, cut in chunks, and in the pan in which I’d boiled it fried a pound of bacon to near crispness, drained most of the grease, chopped the bacon, threw the cabbage back in, sautéed a bit. Yum — but so unhealthy. On Saturday in anticipation of Sunday, I also made my first pie in years. The crust was too rubbery and not flaky-crumbly as good crust ought to be. I didn’t keep the fat cold nor chunked enough, overworked it. Drat. But the filling of apples, rhubarb, and strawberries was delicious. And, my crust failure resulted in HUGE success with Sunday’s buttermilk biscuits for which I near froze the shortening, kept it large chunked, and baked the brilliant biscuits in my cast iron skillet in a ridiculously high-temped oven. They were fantastic.
READING & MAN BOOKER-ing
By day’s end I will have not only changed the sheets and finished the laundry, but, too, will have read four of the six finalists for the Man Booker 2016 fiction prize. I am already on record in an earlier blog with my disappointment about this year’s overlooked novels, but, I like to try to be fair to everyone — as much as one can be in a world where so many books are published every year. I am halfway through David Szalay’s All That Man Is, and I am cautiously optimistic, liking it far more than the other three I have so far read. This leaves Do Not Say We Have Nothing by Madeleine Thien, and His Bloody Project by Graeme Macrae Burnet, for which I am respectively number one and number three on library hold list. I continue to think Greenwell, Strout, and Novey ought to have been included as I said HERE, but differences make the world go round. I guess. Maybe. Not so sure. Everyone should just damn listen to me, okay?
And so, that’s where I am. Going and not. I’ve lost eleven pounds since October 3, I have at least 18 more to go and I can’t bear to look at my body, it’s is just so sagging and large and unpleasant to me. I am at the gym every day trying to do something about this but it doesn’t seem to be helping. On the bright side, my intestinal disorder of three years duration has (fingers crossed) disappeared in the same way it appeared — without seeming cause or explanation. Whatever, I am thrilled. It’s been almost a month. Too, luckily, I have now gotten bookings for Thanksgiving and Christmas pet/house sitting gigs. Money is very tight, my tower fan broke, my shoes are falling apart, my teeth need attention, and we have blown our food budget for October (we have had a lot of family dinners we didn’t necessarily know we would be having and food is EXPENSIVE) and I don’t blame ANY OF THAT on Hillary Clinton. I find it INCREDIBLE that anyone who is poor, as I am, would think that horrifying GOP and DTr*mp in ANY WAY to ANY DEGREE has ANY IDEA what it is to be in poverty, nor, the LEAST INTEREST in getting anyone out of poverty. Such bullshit. Still, I assiduously avoid as much political news as I can but this video is beautiful. Please watch.
Gorgeous, right? Though I have always been alone and guess I always will be, right now, watching this — great joy for them and their union. Oh dear, I am terribly lonely and cranky. Yet, I crave even more solitude. Yet, I want to be smothered in love. Oh dear. I am fine. I am worried about some people. I am having frequent dreams in which dead relatives are coming to me, one the other night in which one of them grabbed me, held me so tightly and at such length, I could not breathe.
And, before I start typing more things I don’t want to reveal, or use any more BOLD or ITALICS or BOTH, here I am, going.
Love and light, dears.