No news, I think, today, is good news.
I dreamed in a few states of sugar exhaustion today that for some reason I, among a few others, were given charge to look after the new princess. The one the Duchess of Cambridge just gave birth to in case you missed that news. I was delighted, but I recall quite clearly looking the little thing over and asking, “Do you think the Duchess knows she gave birth to a six-year old?” Though, I think, I realized at some point that that sort of stretched-looking child was not the Princess, and the Princess was nearby, a perfectly charming and correct looking baby flailing about on the floor.
I have been thinking about the story I want to write for my aunt, and the stories I tell about myself. And that I know, quite well, that change can’t occur without changing behavior. And playing a video game all day is about relaxation, but it’s also about hiding. It’s getting to be time to do something better for myself. I am getting convinced of the necessity once again of this second phase of my life’s struggle.
It was interesting, I was on tumblr, just scanning about as you do, and I came across Roxane Gay’s tumblr and she had this post about how she, in my mind, a pretty famous author goes through an event where focus is placed on her and consequently, albeit in something of a post-script (as in not the whole and entire point of the post), her body. And she, this person I think of as really psychologically “on it” and seemingly in this place of transcending so much of the garbage we illogically feed ourselves out of the hands of our culture (obviously, I don’t know her personally so my opinions are based on what someone seems like on the internet) and she wants to avoid those sorts of feelings you get when someone looks at you with judgment. She wants to do some fitnessing.
It just made me go, oh, I’m not the only one who gets a fire in her belly for self-care when she’s made to feel less than in some way. And I wish that weren’t so, for the both of us, for all of us. I wish it were comfortable and desirable to be able to love yourself and want to make progress on yourself rather than a see-saw where love exists only so long as it isn’t converted to hate. And vice versa. None of these positions seems tenable. Culture fights hard against spaces where people have complete love for their bodies without insinuating that there is always some private timeline of self-improvement. The implied body guilt we use as currency for acceptance, it’s hard as hell to spend that shit without it taking on some tangible dimension. And then it’s just body guilt and we’re rich with the stuff, we’re all Rockefellers. All the while, we’re aching and writing and musing and being drawn towards this idea that a place should exist where we don’t have to improve at all.
I want to improve because it’s fun. Not necessary, not out of fear, or loss, or the idea that maybe he somehow would have reacted differently if I could have reacted differently because I was okay with myself. I want to just do things without it having this palimpsest of emotions tattooed all over it.