Bulimia is Sick of You

They will have me believe that I binge and purge because I loathe myself, lack will power. And not this. Industrial nation. Foods I binge then purge are laden with chemicals, laced with acids that make dogs lick their noses dry.

There is far more than fear and self-loathing creeping in eating a dozen donuts, gallons of ice cream, milk chocolate and powdery peanut butter, tarts, cake, muffins, waffles soaked with butter and syrup and burgers and cheese and cookies, pudding, toast and pretty much anything that is decadent and might rush then soften when washed in the tummy with water. Toaster strudels. Icing.

My old blood does not tolerate these worldly concoctions. I am allergic to myself here.

To always say, no thank you, is so lame, has never been my forte. I shame myself to not say no. All the world's a martini, a song and dance, a thriving poem. Please say, yes! With cheese and pie and nuts and cocoa... No no. No more ritualistic celebratory sweets. No more nothing. I do restrict too much. All right, alright, but I have failed to find the in-between. Just enough. It's too heavy.

Then here today. Hooray. These days I find myself walking so fast I'm nearly leaping. Swaying jovially at corners. I have things to celebrate. After thirteen years of hardcore, hours a day, ravenous, seedy and deeply secretive bulimia, I don't binge and purge, don't anything with any of it anymore.

Figured it far differently than they implied I would. Completely dig myself. Can't believe I'm still alive. So feel I could fly.

The Pine Trees Pine to Be Heard

Evolutionaries enlightened me this week with their engaging conversations about the energy in partnerships, perfect example: school spirit. One does not have to believe in evolution. Evolution exists. Darwin's wife was a devout Christian. His child died. We humans deceive ourselves, juggle individuality and commonality like golden tons, poorly. Tongues.

Perhaps, however, we believe in transcendence, in the intertwining of everything past and everything present, spiraling like genes. In becoming even more than human. The spirit of evolution is a belief system, dignified--learning to navigate massive groups of humans beautifully. The science of evolution is the summary, the movable middle, the thing that gets some people awfully awry.

There was a movable middle at Saint-Ex last night but it did not move. In the basement on the square corner of one of the city's hipster joints, lame groups of pretty people and purses like shiny tanks talked until their voices drowned. Uptight in various tight circles and one dreadfully patriarchal, trash-magazine seeming threesome/ the one sort of smelly dude who kept touching my hips like he didn't have bones of his own.

Meanwhile, a trail of dancers celebrating St. Valentine did take it to the floor to fancy beats--no doubt, against the walls. I said my prayers to a giant low-hanging, waning moon that I may be an orchid and not a dandelion. That it hurts because I'm evolving.

4 billion years of evolution unable to prevent area man from drooling on self from the Onion

Eventually to Join the Trees

"In the long history of humankind those who learned to collaborate and improvise most effectively have prevailed." -(Happy birthday,) Charles Darwin

A Rose a Rose a Rose a Rose

My mom called me foggy when I was a child. For a long while I thought she was describing my strange bouts of sadness even then like the morning fog that captured the trees over the river. She was adoringly comparing me to a foghorn. The neighbors would pass our house on foot and I would be peeking through the front screen. Hi. I'd say with an obvious darling baby drawl. "Hi. Hi Kathy. Hi."

When I am gestating/on existential hold, I take fabulously long walks. My hips disappear, my shoulders rise up like sails. I venture the entire city, scale dozens of hills. This time, I am trying to make eye contact, let alone say, "Hi!," with neighbors. Of the hundreds, I have locked a rare stare. I suppose it is most important to focus ahead when traveling in the city. 

We've rationed out our souls differently this century. The light is a tunnel. I long for something like a rose, a plump ruby red rose cliche. I suppose when our eyes do meet, I'll know.