Not Even Here
Nice day, plenty of sun, Spring is coming. Please. A good day otherwise, in early, back later than I like, but the weekend follows and I received a shipment of black and white film yesterday. And maybe I'm going to go out and shoot. A picture. A roll of pictures. I've shot maybe two rolls of film since the operation, no interest or energy for the camera, and I hope the dizzy head takes a holiday, a weekend off visiting relatives, its relatives, not mine.
So it's Friday.
This has been a good week in that it's been the first week I've been able to watch my diet without particular effort. I put on about five pounds after the operation in November - four pounds, five pounds, whatever, you measure in ounces when you're truly obsessed - and this is the first week I've been able to eat the usual cereal and orange juice for breakfast, have a salad for lunch and a drink for dinner. And the occasional cookie that springs in ambush from someone's desk. Chocolate can also be particularly devious in its ability to bullet down a hallway and shoot across a room. So two of those four or five pounds have left and I'm feeling better.
Returning from the hospital, four pounds lighter than I'd entered, whetted my appetite. One seventy five would be a good weight. I weighed one sixty five once, but my butt was sore because it didn't have enough padding. Life without padding can be difficult. I'm not a masochist, at least not a pass the bandages physical poke yourself in the eye masochist. A psychological masochist maybe, keeping this journal comes to mind, but I can keep that thought at a distance.
There is such a thing as mental padding, the want and desire, if not the need, to keep some things at a distance. They say we need to eat our Broccoli for a better mind and body, but we don't want to eat our Broccoli, so we don't think about our Broccoli, we don't read about our Broccoli and we most certainly don't write about our Broccoli, not even here.
What in the hell was that?