Inching out of this corner I’ve created, one sentence at a time. One therapy session. One pill. One vacant stare slouched on the carpeted step. One song on the iPhone. Ooh it’s so crowded, hot, dank, give me respite! Or is it cold and my teeth chatter? Cobwebs at any rate.
Painting my portrait, spinning circles around the easel. First sitting regal, then running to stand-still with palette hooked to my thumb. Then back again till the sweat beads pop and are documented in dabs of white and gray. That crease between the brows. Those tangled brows. Botox, NO!
Positives: not beating the children. Good husband. Clear skin. Well-fed. Temperate (ish) weather. Money for groceries. Clean sheets. Health insurance. Wisdom scratching at the door, whimpering like the family dog. GOD spelled backward. Count the good bits like rosary beads. Inch by inch. Silver coins. Pearls. Never forget them. Never forget. Pat your pockets. Touch your heart. Kiss your thumb and forefinger. Bow humble monk of mind’s twisting temple.
I’m coming clean out there in cyberspace about my pre-agricultural, low-carb diet. Here is one clean-coming over at PaleoHacks. And here is another one, on the Deep Nutrition website.
Both posts deal with my latest dietary development—the sad and slightly mortifying fact that my diet may not actually be the magic bullet I’d yearned for, the magic bullet it felt like for a few months there, the very one I’ve been blogging about for almost a year, when I started in July, 2011.
Waiting for Bryan to return from Brooklyn where he played a block party gig in Park Slope, which is a universe and two hours away and also I might need a time machine to get there. A dream, my former Brooklyn life is beginning to feel like. Crumbly edges like a tall slice of wedding cake that sat too long untouched, unloved while its steel-forked guardian danced her ass off to that Usher song.
A lovely friend just wrote me that she’s worried about me after reading my last post. I always bristle when people are worried about me but, like, duh Elise. Look at what you’re writing. Meanwhile, I was worried too this morning, really feeling as if I’d torn away from some vital part of myself, lost to joy forever. But then I talked to an old dear friend. I laughed. I connected. I bitched and I moaned dear Lord. And felt instantly better. Not BETTER better but just, better.
Reading Leonard Cohen’s Book of Longing. It’s poetry. How did it take me this long to find him? Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah could have led me to Leonard’s door in 1995. That song rocked my world. Still does. That breath at the start. Jesus. Instead I owe it yet again to Emma Forrest, who more and more is taking on some dark side witch guide guise along my increasingly dark and harrowing path. She showed me this too. And this.