My stomach is covered in silvery stretch marks.
I'm pretty confident in my ability to take care of my body. It's definitely a skill I acquired in late 2002. But in 2003 I was in Wales, where I discovered alcohol and ate whatever I wanted. It wasn't an enormous problem in Wales, because I was walking enough to keep the weight gain minimal. But since I've gotten to the states, I haven't picked up where I left off in 2002. So I've gained more weight.
But what's reassuring is that I know what to do, and I feel a lot less lost than I used to. I know a whole lot of exercises and know how to arrange them. I'm not afraid of going to see the school nutritionist. I have a lot of options, and I have a lot of tricks for getting myself to work out. I'll do anything to be religious about this.
It's... I don't know. I don't think I realized how big a change I was making. But it changed so much, and people reacted to it constantly.
I feel so hugely better when I'm not gorging myself. Part of me is unnerved by how that always feels - there's something very trembly about it. I need to not drink so much, by any stretch of the imagination.
I just want a well tuned body, strong and flexible.
2004-01-07, mens sana in corpore sano
I made an elephant!
Nose is a bit lumpy but I was too tired of working on it to fix it. It's part of its charm, right? Dunno what I'll do with it yet.
2004-01-05, elephant
I just finished Spirited Away. What a lovely movie.
I went out to the forest and caught one hundred thousand fireflies and as they ricochet around my room they remind me of your starry eyes. Someone else's might not make me so sad. But this is the worst night I ever had. Cause I'm afraid of the dark without you close to me.
And sitting here, in my soft white robe, feeling clean and whole, feeling a little bit wistful, listening to this song on repeat, I think "I don't want to be anywhere else, I just want to weep a little, this is nice, but I still cry a bit sometimes."
It's funny, I don't even know what makes me cry some nights.
2004-01-04, one hundred thousand
I don't like the feeling I get with people sometimes that instead of writing a letter to me, they're sending me a page of their unpublished manuscript. I'm sure they're all fabulous writers - I seem to have collected fine writers. But I think it just strikes a false note. I always appreciate it when people take the time to compose coherent sentences when they write to me, but I just feel like I don't get any them in what they send me.
Maybe I'm not one to talk. I don't think so, though. I look back at emails that a guy wrote me, and remember how much I just wanted to say "Who ARE you, what do you DO with your time, what MATTERS to you, what do you THINK about - don't write to me, even poetically, about the woman you passed on the street."
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I have the house to myself, and have no obligations. Heavens, but it's nice. It's nice to have the whole day stretch out in front of you, it's nice to have this whole house at my disposal, it's nice to cook for myself and work out and watch movies by myself, it's nice to have Becca over until 2 am talking on the couch.
This is my dream life, in some respects. I don't want maids or servants to take care of the house - I like taking care of the house when I'm here alone - I just want the money that I could bum around all day without having to work. So that the house maintenance wouldn't cut into my actual, pure leisure.
Oh well. I guess I'll make a point of enjoying this until Monday, when my parents return. It's weird, I don't enjoy not working when my parents are around in the evening.
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Philadelphia was wonderful, but there was a strained moment that made everything feel anxious. I'm not sure if I was a cad, but Steph and I had a long, haltingly agonizing talk about The Nature of Love. We should probably avoid these, but we never manage to. I said that I felt that all love is essentially selfish - that even unselfish acts make me feel good. So how selfless can it really be to give, and care for other people? She was just upset, and felt like I was spitting on everything she'd worked for in her life, and all of her idealism. I probably said some nasty things about idealism (I can be nasty) but it, ugh, oh well.
I guess I think it's important to be cagey about one's own motives when it comes to other people. And I don't think it's a bad thing at all to be selfish, or have a strong desire to maintain your integrity, your nature as an integer. At the end, all we know is what we ourselves feel, you know?
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Bean came over, and I tried to remember what I was like four years ago. I can't remember. She said "Junior year you were just kinda... weird. Senior year you were sad." Senior year was the year of the internet, of being sad, of acting it out. But I can't remember being weird, though I know I was. I'm sure. I don't know. Sometimes I know I acted out, and made myself act more eccentric than I actually was. It's so hard to figure out what I was. I can't remember at all.
We watched Annie Hall. I liked it, though the urge to kill all the characters occasionally rose in my throat.
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Allmusic.com reviews occasionally give me great joy. They can be so good sometimes.
Trashy, energetic tracks like "Rock Show" and "Lovertits" � which is strangely reminiscent of the Stones' disco period, � la "Emotional Rescue" � put the "rude" back in rudimentary; it's the kind of cleverly stupid music that's made by pretty bright people. Indeed, it's quite possible to read all sort of women's studies theories into Peaches' music; she's unrepentantly, triumphantly sexual and turns the tables by objectifying guys (particularly on "AA XXX," where she sings, "I like the innocent type/Deer in the headlights," and on the funny, kinky "Hot Rod," where she demands "Huh? What? Show me whatcha got/Rub it against my thigh"), but the fact that her sexually explicit music isn't presented as a bravely feminist act is, paradoxically, exactly what's so liberating about it.Like this - it's doing what a music review should do (describe the music, help you orient the music) but it's absolutely spot on analysis. Also, I totally didn't get the "Chrissie be-Hynde" joke in "Fuck the Pain away." I was like "What's a chrissie behind? Is this some newfangled slang? I don't get it."
2004-01-04, all hands on
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