The Seasons Reverse

"Nature is badly arranged, dear boy." - the father of Blaise Cendrars, in his suicide note

The price of kale differs $2.04 between four groceries in town. I went for $.75/lb at the 300,000 sq. ft. international market (finale sale: $.49 a bundle) and slipped sweets into my basket, enough to mock the random appearance of a leafy green vegetable as diversionary tactics. Chili/sugar/salt mix tamarinds, Reed's peanut butter ginger chews, Bali's espresso and citrus green tea hard candies, and a Valentine's promo bag of cherry Tootsie Pops. The bakery ran out of the cheese crowns I always make a point to buy (a single one, purged into its frosted pastry bag). A slice of "Amish recipe pumpkin bread" on the day-old rack offered a cream cheese substitute. Acceptable, so long as the money doesn't go to the actual fundamentalist group disallowing police intervention for rape and puppy mills. Shame steered my cart to the checkout lane of a heavyset girl. She kept chatting to her co-worker restocking flavored cigarillos, paid no attention and passed no judgment on things decided in accordance with Amyclaean silence.

Binge? I never. Sometimes I eat frantically the way Lifetime movies depict bulimia, little pieces taken without utensils from cold and congealed leftovers, not enough to make a proper meal or threaten the waistline of their actress. I don't binge. Lollipop hanging out my mouth. Rooting in the glove compartment for J's Christmas gift, a hobo tool. Eating the misshapen tamarinds three at a time and dropping granules on the seat. Annoyed a three inch fork slows consumption. Wiping my mouth on the back of an equally sticky hand, disposing of evidence when another vehicle pulls up. Over in less than ten minutes. Never touched the hard candies or chews, 19/20 lollipops left, what's the problem? I eat too much high fructose fruit to crave additional sugar beyond the occasional square of dark chocolate or scoop of ice cream. Blame C and the Jolly Ranchers scattered over his desk, a fantastical smell embedded in dreams (and Gerald Lee Mitchell's). Or the Eltroxin, forgotten unlike most of my chewable supplements because drinking is complicated.

We don't outright deny; we adjust, resolve, minimize, compensate. 75% of taste occurs outside the mouth for everyone. True, mostly olfactory, but who'd contradict  the visual feast when you rearrange your fridge again and again, satisfied handling food without gustation, running fingertips over packaging on grocery shelves, chemoreceptors hidden among whorls and stimulated by texture. We adapt, learn differently. I discovered the taste buds on my epiglottis through purging instead of a textbook.

"Drawing on research that shows that perception and mental imagery engages neural machinery

in a similar fashion [to habituation] and similarly affect emotions, response tendencies and

skilled motor behavior, researchers [at Carnegie Mellon University] tested the effects of

repeatedly imagining the consumption of a food on its actual consumption."

By the last experiment researchers determined "mental imagery

can reduce the effort people will expend to get food."

+ 1 for hypnotherapists. Self-help audiocassettes work.

Pollux and Castor and Regulus and Procyon

Holy hell, triple digits in the best possible scenario! Thank you followers sincerely for the support, humor, and poetic asides. The self-indulgence of blogging and eating disorders makes your tolerance for my defenses that much more endearing.

J and I went to the Los Caprichos exhibit today,  Francisco Goya's 1799 collection confronting "human hypocrisy, pretense, fear, and irrationality, picturing them in every conceivable form ... monsters, specters, corpses, and other bitter or callous beings enact[ing] challenges to authority of all kinds, including that of the church and state." His etchings highlighted "the innumerable foibles and follies to be found in any civilized society, and from the common prejudices and deceitful practices which custom, ignorance, or self-interest have made usual." Apt sentiment to borrow for American misconduct, what I touched on in posts prior and always crowds my mind between numbers. Its commentary was brief, translations of titles and the occasional guess to meaning or historical note. We learned prostitutes were called owls under old Spanish slang - anyone know why? Are the words similar? Is it a play on the owl's symbolism, nocturnal streetwalking and heart-of-gold whore wisdom? The art itself was small but convincing. We went too late to eat in the museum café before closing and instead walked around outside, frigid air circling ankles like nipping dogs. Snow's beauty lasts the duration of the false quiet when it falls. Not enough accumulates to look better than lint gray slush collected at the edges of parking lots. J tells me I'm always complaining. Probably. I'm optimistic about our six mile winter hike next weekend, though. And thick striped socks.

Interlewd

For someone who channels personal frustration into political outrage, I'm pretty sick of this stalemate-as-truce in the wake of the Arizona shooting and hope our country regroups over the weekend. First of all, quit overusing the word "vitriol." Second, stop pouting how so-and-so did it too when reprimanded. (Seriously, "You Lie!"-engraved rifle parts cannot compare.) Third, both sides need to remember bullets, not animadversions, hit the real victims.

My youngest sister came home for a follow-up dermatology appointment Thursday, recuperating from a wide excision and eleven stitches on the living room couch with Bridalplasty and cinnamon raisin toast. I joined her for the latter with a sudden craving for butter (fat soluble vitamins, yeah?) at 11pm. Otherwise I'd done so well. An espresso and clementine for breakfast. Half a can of tuna with yellow onion, carrot, celery, cilantro, seaweed, almonds, and ginger paste on raw spinach for lunch. Then two cracked pepper Triscuits around dinnertime which burned my mouth until some instant apple cider was cool enough to drink. The Alpine brand uses maltodextrin instead of aspartame like the generic and is 15 calories a packet. It lulls in a way water can't. Anyone else hate water, or cold fluids? I've struggled with dehydration long before the daily vomitting, white-tongued, nails flaking at the tip and bruised in pale flecks. My cue for thirst is a sudden inability to produce saliva or swallow. Drinking more, my thumb ring catches the knuckle now. I'm not bloated but not losing weight either: 112.2, 112.8, 112.4...



Making up for the mini-rant ^

Nipples in the Cathedral

"Complete abstinence is easier than perfect moderation."

- Saint Augustine

November article from the Daily Mail: Was Catherine of Aragon anorexic?

Nothing much to report from my end. The weight stagnates. The minutiae of our nervous disease bores even me. Eating these dried hibiscus flowers has taken over three hours. They have the texture of a thick fruit leather, the faint taste of cranberry, and cholesterol lowering and diuretic properties. I love to eat flowers but contrary to my regular consumption, not in their natural state. Candied violets are another favorite. When I worked at a mall-based tea shop, I'd shift through the lavender white tea for those and feed skeptical customers. Did the same with the employees, baffled and amused how often I'd say, "Eat this," and my co-worker would lick whatever random ingredient off their palm before asking, "What is it?" More important than intelligence is curiosity. People close their lips around obscenities and allow products like mechanically separated meat to pass as foodstuffs. Steer clear of unfermented soy protein isolates, newly resolved vegans and vegetarians.

Perihelion

First weigh-in of 2011: 112
Pull dress over head and step on again: 112

My week of fever, fatigue, and body aches where I literally consumed nothing for a day, then water and frozen lemonade cups (100 cal) the next two, didn't change an ounce from the 21st's reading. When I was better this weekend, I ate a prepacked tin of tuna with wheat crackers and Panera's French onion soup (sans provolone and croutons), letting C. waste the gift card from my Christmas stocking on cafe sandwiches I couldn't stomach. Fingers crept over the enlarged glands in my armpits and groin, a dubious calculation as if their swelling impacted the scale. Apparently, nothing fucking affects the scale.

Let's ring in the transformative new year with a bit more positivity. I finished the Year of the Tiger back at but down to the number previously my highest weight ever - a Sumatran instead of a Siberian. I haven't eaten cereal for over two months. My favorite was Cranberry Almond Crunch, the granola/cornflake hybrid too high in calories, sodium, and carbohydrates to masquerade as a healthier alternative. A gift certificate to Me&Goji delayed the inevitable, allowing me  to combine my love of cereal and combining things. Peanut butter has been cut down to the finely melted drizzle over a snack of flaxseed and cinnamon dusted apple slices. Time now to mend before embracing the world with energy and cleverness. Or fornication, trances, and eating babies, Year of the Rabbit Ken Andrews-style.

I'm thinking about taking advantage of membership specials while gyms actually expect to gain new clientele this month, but wouldn't they do more when they don't? When is best to hit up a gym for the maximum discount? I'm poor and public workout averse but looking for regular access to a pool.

Also, RIP Hideko Takamine.



I wanted to find a picture from The Munekata Sisters, but Google Images 

prefers A Woman Ascends the Stairs like everyone else.