carefully mad wars

we are
born like this
into this

into these
carefully mad wars
from "dinosaurs, we" by henry "hank" charles bukowski


Watched a Bukowski documentary last night. I was both fascinated and repelled. Struck, at times, by what it means to have a calling. Absorbed by the walking disaster that was Charles Bukowski, envious of his prolificness, his tenacity, disgusted by his misogyny, sympathetic to his hardened heart and humbled by moments of rawness that uncovered pain writ ugly and violent. Sparks. Pock marks. The little things that make us mad, as in insane. Was he insane? Nah. More bitter, more enraged, more more more. That's what he was. More of everything than most people ever hope or fear to be.

But what I really want to say here is that I haven't weighed myself in two months. Solid. I took a walk today, about 45 minutes, leisurely, but it was the longest I've taken in 62 days. I've got a bad outbreak of hidradenitis suppurativa, the worst of it on my inner thigh, and it hurts like hell. Interestingly enough I read that cigarette smoking exacerbates this condition. So the little nasty habit -- four, maybe five cigarettes a day --that I developed whilst dealing with the VN created (besides lungs screaming for mercy) --or at least contributed to--the eruptions that now make it so painful to wear anything without an elastic waist or any fabric that doesn't breathe well. I've been living in linen. I love linen, but sometimes my affinity for letting the garment's personality come out in the wrinkles get a little old. I'm afraid to try on most of my clothes.

We cancelled our trip to the Pacific NW. I was stressing about flying, not the regular kind of stressing but more centered on what could happen, remembering how I ended up sick (The Sickness from which I am still recovering, still held hostage by) the last time I flew, and then worrying about what I was expected of me--or, more to the point, what I wanted to do-- at the other end, you know, actually travel. After all, I wasn't going to some beachside resort where I could plop myself down for a week straight. We were headed for Seattle, then Vancouver then P'land and many stops in between. My mother said "Yes, you'll be doing things that are far more rigorous," to which I responded, "I don't do rigorous. Not right now."


I thought, finally, that I would meet my blog partner, that we would hug and laugh, maybe nervously at first, then from the gut, how we'd hang out, cook, watch the sun set, walk to the salmon runs (do i remember you saying ladders?). Not meeting her, is, for my part, the saddest part of cancelling our trip. But to tell you the truth, the idea that I could put off that meeting a little longer was a bit of a relief.

Meeting a person online, and meeting her online in a forum such as Weight Watchers, is not without its perils. I've told this person I've never met some of my ugliest truths, admitted to her my persistent and relentless pursuit of a different body. I would have met her one week from today, I think (Or from tomorrow. I'm blanking at the moment.) And I'd come face to face with someone who knows that what I appear to be on the outside: somewhat confident, grounded, unconcerned with her size (these all gleaned from close friends' comments)--bears no resemblance to how I really see myself. The way I am seen. What I choose to let others see, but not her. Not yet. I've been sick and sedentary for two solid months. I know, this isn't a competition. It's not about who keeps playing and who waits out the season. I don't like this particular body, this momentary body, because it hasn't been feeling momentary. It's been dragging on for weeks and weeks, and I can't seem to catch a break in the sick clouds.

I haven't had a cigarette for five days. That's something.

In order to get a vacation, which both of us (esp. S.) need desperately, we're heading to Crested Butte for a few days, about four hours from Denver, three nights at guest house that sits up against a mountain. Daisy and his mouthy brother will stay here with a neighbor friend. Neither S. nor I have been to "Crusty Butt," so we're excited to explore that part of Colorado. I want to hike. (I don't know that I can hike.) I want three days straight free of VN symptoms. Perhaps a little peace, please.

I just took a break and went out to the garden. It's so beautiful this time of year. I stood and stared at a bed of black-eyed susans and lavendar and thought about this blog and how it seemed whiny somehow. Unavoidably so, actually. I told myself that I would come back inside and write about the garden, how it's become more than a sanctuary--it's a true companion. I go to it everyday and walk its edges and together we grow in this world. Is this grace? Is it humility? I'm not sure it matters, at all, in the end. It's a cosmic tap on the shoulder, a reminder that all is far, far from lost. I'm on the leading edge of a perfect storm. There's plenty of clear blue ahead of here.