tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34147802024-03-06T20:44:34.263-08:00I Do Not Think That They Will Sing To Me(Each to each)Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.comBlogger349125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-10352149820972541992014-06-22T10:11:00.000-07:002014-06-22T10:11:08.874-07:00In Praise of the Revised-Draft WorldI'm catching up on the sections of the Sunday NYT I somehow never manage to finish until weeks after the fact (namely the Travel section, the Book Review, and the magazine). Book News from April 20 (yes, April) has a short article about the poet Laura Sims, who struck up what wound up being a years-long correspondence with the experimental-fiction writer David Markson. Markson's side of their correspondence wound up in a book, <i>Fare Forward</i>.<br />
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I'm not familiar with Markson or his work, and I'm not really one for experimental fiction any more than I am for experimental art, but I loved this tidbit about his reaction to the online world (and yes, I see the irony of posting this here).<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Markson may have lived on the cutting edge of fictional technique, but he happily lagged behind in the world of technology. In March 2004, Sims offered to print out and send pages from several blogs that praised Markson's work. Markson, unaware of blogs, reluctantly agreed to take a look. When the materials arrived, he found them riddled with errors and omissions.<br />'Hey, thank you for all that blog stuff, but forgive me if after a nine-minute glance I have torn it all up,' he wrote back. 'I bless your furry little heart, but please don't send any more. In spite of the lost conveniences, I am all the more glad I don't have a computer. HOW CAN PEOPLE LIVE IN THAT FIRST-DRAFT WORLD?' Later he wrote: 'I have just taken the sheets out of the trash basket and torn them into even smaller pieces.'"</blockquote>
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(From "Fan Letter to Pen Pal," by John Williams, NYT Book News, April 20, 2014)Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-342811216679595192011-08-02T19:27:00.000-07:002011-08-02T19:30:51.232-07:00In Which Otis and I Issue a Plea to MC Hammer<style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Arial; panose-1:0 2 11 6 4 2 2 2 2 2; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:0 2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:Verdana;} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} span.actorname {mso-style-name:actorname;} span.messagebody {mso-style-name:messagebody;} span.textexposedshow {mso-style-name:text_exposed_show;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; mso-outline-level:6"><span class="actorname"><span style="font-size:7.5pt; font-family:Times"><b><a>Emily Wilska</a> <i><u>posted to </u></i></b></span></span><span class="actorname"><span style="font-size:7.5pt; font-family:Times"><b><a>Michael Richman</a></b></span></span><span style="font-size:7.5pt;font-family:Times"><b></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; mso-outline-level:6"><span class="messagebody"><span style="font-size:7.5pt; font-family:Times"><b>Hammer, we're asking you very gently and politely: please strongly consider not hurting 'em.</b></span></span><span style="font-size: 7.5pt;font-family:Times"><b></b></span></p> <div style="border:none;border-bottom:solid #8057CC 1.5pt;padding:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:5.0pt;margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:5.0pt;margin-left:0in;text-align:center;border:none;mso-border-bottom-alt: solid #8057CC 1.5pt;padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:0in 0in 1.0pt 0in" align="center"><span style="font-size:8.0pt;font-family:Arial;display:none">Top of Form</span></p> </div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Times;"><a>Michael Richman</a><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:1.0in"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times">The world is a dangerous, endlessly violent place, Hammer. Perhaps it's God's plan; perhaps there is no God. We will likely never know. What we do know, Hammer, is that adding pain to an already painful existence is not the Peaceful Way as Buddha describes it. Ergo, if you should be considering the act of hurting 'em, Hammer, won't you please, please think again? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Times;"><a><br /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Times;"><a>Emily Wilska</a><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:1.0in"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times">May we suggest perhaps putting on a nice comfortable pair of loose-fitting pants, say, and engaging in some relaxing and rejuvenating dancing rather than hurting 'em? We will uphold our promise to respect your wishes that we not touch this.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Times;"><a><br /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:1.0in"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times"><a>Michael Richman</a> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:1.0in"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times">We know, we know. You've toured around the world. From Mother England to the San Francisco Bay area. And while it might be frustrating, everywhere you go, that "It's Hammer go, MC Hammer, Hammer, yo! Hammer!" and the rest can go and play we<span class="textexposedshow"> request respectfully that you simply consider all of these souls to be as much a citizen of the world as you are. Hammer? Are you listening to us, Hammer? MC Hammer? Yo? Hurting 'em doesn't solve anything. Regardless of your latitude / longitude. It's about going and PLAYING, Hammer. Not - we must repeat - NOT - about hurting 'em.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Times;"><a><br /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Times;"><a>Emily Wilska</a><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:1.0in"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times">Know what, Hammer? You--no one else, just you--have the power to redefine Hammer Time, to take it back, to remove the smudges and the sting. Do people think that Hammer Time, by its very nature, involves hurting 'em? Maybe. Maybe they do. But that doesn't have to be the case. Rise up, Hammer. Heed the higher call. We know you have it in you.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Times;"><a><br /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:1.0in"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times"><a>Michael Richman</a> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-top-alt:auto;mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:1.0in"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;font-family:Times">Hammer, you're a better person than 'em. 'Em are just trying to get a **rise** out of you, Hammer. And you know, what? If you hurt 'em, Hammer, you're just going to GIVE 'EM WHAT THEY WANT. Don't give 'em the satisfaction, Hammer. 'Em aren'<span class="textexposedshow">t worth your time. You know what **is** worth your time, Hammer? Serving God. That'll take the better part of the next decade or two. Why not start now? Or? What about medical school, Hammer? Ever thought of MD Hammer? Now, that has a ring to it, doesn't it?</span></span></p> <div style="border:none;border-top:solid #8057CC 1.5pt;padding:1.0pt 0in 0in 0in; mso-border-shadow:yes"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:5.0pt;margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:5.0pt;margin-left:0in;text-align:center;border:none;mso-border-top-alt: solid #8057CC 1.5pt;padding:0in;mso-padding-alt:1.0pt 0in 0in 0in;mso-border-shadow: yes" align="center"><span style="font-size:8.0pt;font-family:Arial;display:none">Bottom of Form</span></p> </div> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-24359424047149229022010-09-16T22:16:00.000-07:002010-09-17T10:23:41.713-07:002010 Hunger Challenge, Days 4 & 5: In Praise of Distraction/Life Interferes<span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 4 (Wednesday)<br /></span>There's a fascinating thing that happens on occasion when I'm with a client and we're deeply engrossed in work: no matter how hungry I might get, I'll reach a point at which I'm so far beyond hunger that I can go for hours without eating. Even once we've wrapped up for the day and I've left, it sometimes takes a while before I realize that I haven't eaten for many hours and am, in fact, ravenous.<br /><br />Unhealthy as this is, it's actually fairly handy: no need to interrupt the flow of the work I'm doing and no weirdness or worry about when, how, where, and what to eat when I'm in someone else's home or office.<br /><br />I didn't particularly intend to invoke this hunger legerdemain yesterday, as I was home (which usually means that I get unignorably hungry on schedule) and was working on my own admin stuff, not a project for a client. But somehow it happened. I had a quesadilla (one Trader Joe's handmade wheat tortilla, about an ounce of cheese, and salsa--45¢) in the late morning, and then set to work weeding out, digitizing, and reorganizing my business files.<br /><br />Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, I had an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie from the batch I'd made on Saturday (15¢), along with some water.<br /><br />And then it was 7.30 p.m. My friend Mary called, and as we chatted, I realized that I hadn't eaten for hours and was bound to go downhill fast if I didn't make myself some dinner. 7+ hours on a single quesadilla and a cookie=cheap, yes. Recommended, not especially.<br /><br />Thanks to the grocery center stipend of free produce, the only part of my meal that actually cost me anything was the pasta (32¢) and the feta (25¢); the roasted potato, carrot, and onion that went with them were "free." Total for the day: $2.12. (After I tallied that late in the evening, I ate another cookie in celebration, bringing the sum to $2.27.)<br /><br />This get-beyond-hunger-by-working phenom reminds me of a saying my high school French teacher taught me: <span style="font-style: italic;">Dormir, c'est manger</span>, or To sleep is to eat. Lose yourself deeply enough in something else and you might forget that nothing of substance has gone in your mouth for hours.<br /><br />But that forgetting, of course, can't last.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 5 (Thursday)</span><br />Can't last, and doesn't. I woke this morning, 45 minutes before my alarm, hungrier than I've been all week. Normally I can find myself at least a few hours into my morning before I'm truly hankering for breakfast, but today, no such luck. I was so distracted and miserable that I had to eat a bowl of cereal just to function.<br /><br />I went through the day today knowing that this evening I'd be going to a networking meeting for which I'd already paid, and at which there would be appetizers. I wrestled with the Hunger Challenge protocol here: since I'd paid weeks ago, wouldn't it be foolish to go and <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> eat anything? Also, how much of what I paid for the meeting went toward food, and how much toward the general meeting expenses? Finally, how guilty should I make myself feel for veering off the path here yet again this week?<br /><br />I decided on a compromise, sort of: I kept the rest of my food expenses today to $2.23, bringing me to $4.50 total for the past two days. To balance that out, I decided I'd let myself eat sans guilt at the meeting tonight.<br /><br />And then I blew that compromise by buying a glass of wine. It was completely overpriced event wine, and chardonnay at that, but sometimes these schmooze-y meetings are just easier with some vino.<br /><br />Which brings me to this: so much of my life, whether personal or professional, involves food in some way. With friends, I go out for dinner and drinks, or we gather at someone's house over wine and tables crowded with things to eat. When I network, nine times out of ten a meal--or at least a beverage--is involved. With colleagues, we meet in taquerias or cafes to swap stories and offer support, or we show up at each other's doorsteps with a bottle of something, a plate of something, and then sit and talk and laugh and eat. And eat.<br /><br />But what if I couldn't? What if I really were subsisting on $28 a week, plus rations of produce from a grocery center? What if every time someone asked me to join in a meal or a drink out I had to beg off because I couldn't afford it? I would, I admit, be totally adrift.<br /><br />This week, life has interfered with my ability to be completely faithful to the Hunger Challenge. It's jarring to realize the reverse: just how much being hungry and in need would interfere with my ability to live the life I'm used to. Damn if I don't take that for granted.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-20654462800320193052010-09-15T23:31:00.000-07:002010-09-15T23:59:14.355-07:002010 Hunger Challenge, Day 3: My Cheating Heart (and Stomach)<span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 3, a Day Late</span><br />I admit: last evening I knowingly and intentionally fell (well, leapt, really) off the wagon. In the second of my two planned social outings for the week, I went with my friend Dana to 15 Romolo for cocktails and bar bites, both because--theme alert!--I had a voucher for same, and because I was sorely in need of a cocktail.<br /><br />All told, the evening cost us each $20--which, for two drinks each, three shared appetizers, and one shared dessert, was not a whole lot (thanks to the aforementioned voucher). Of course, $20 was ridiculously far above and beyond my food budget for the day. It was also worth every last guilt-inducing cent.<br /><br />In my everyday life--that is, even when I'm not intentionally aiming to eat three solid meals for $4 per day--I tend to be fairly frugal when it comes to grocery spending. A few times a year, I'll splurge on something special, like the Meyer lemon olive oil I bought from a very sweet man at the Castro farmer's market a few weeks back, but I'm generally inclined toward the cheap(-ish): I buy a lot in bulk, stick with pretty simple and inexpensive produce, and resist the allure of the fancy cheeses at Rainbow in favor of the basic cheddar and ricotta salata and Bulgarian feta that are a fraction of the price. (Yes, I realize this is a wildly bourgeois definition of frugal grocery shopping.)<br /><br />But it's a different story when it comes to dining and drinking out. Since I'm already laying myself bare here, I will admit that I shell out $9+ per cocktail on a pretty regular basis, even though that same $9 would buy me, say, a hunk of cheese that would last all week, or some handmade ravioli, or some other non-essential but lovely foodstuff that I probably wouldn't buy because it seemed too expensive.<br /><br />Hello, my name is Emily, and I'm penny wise and pound foolish.<br /><br />I'm also someone who thrives on being around other people, especially when that communion involves food, and doubly especially when that communion involves food and a cocktail that comes with its own back story, as did those Dana and I drank last night. So while there's a big part of me that feels like I should be engaging in some (more) self-flagellation today--after all, people who are really living on food stamps cannot simply decide to take a night off and belly up to the bar at 15 Romolo--there's also a part that's OK with having savored last night: the bar, Dana's company, our conversation, and, yes, that final sip of stout ice cream milkshake at the tail end of our meal that left me feeling, for the first time all week, completely and delightedly full.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-89928054303254237202010-09-13T21:50:00.000-07:002010-09-13T22:44:04.653-07:002010 Hunger Challenge, Day 2: What $4 (Plus 2 Potatoes, 1 Apple, and a Cucumber) Looks LikeI woke up this morning realizing that part of the crazy-ass dream that filled my sleep (once I finally fell asleep, that is) last night had me in Spain with some friends carefully deliberating whether to spend $2 on a glass of sherry or $2.25 on a glass of red wine. For the record, I went for the sherry, not so much because I was in a sherry mood but because, hey, 25¢ can buy a decent snack. When I finally pulled myself fully awake, I was both baffled by the dream in general--it was insane--and vaguely alarmed that food price calculations have already filtered into my subconscious.<br /><br />It is literally and existentially exhausting to have to think all the time about what every single bit of your food costs. I've only been doing this for two days and already I'm tired of it.<br /><br />Here, for your reading pleasure, is a rundown of what I ate today, and roughly what it cost.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Breakfast<br /></span><ul><li>Coffee with milk and sugar: 40¢</li><li>1 small and 1 medium potato, roasted as home fries: free (I'm counting these as part of what an individual in SF would get from one of the Food Bank's grocery centers; see yesterday's post for details)</li><li>2-egg omelet with cheese: 55¢</li><li>tortilla: 21¢</li><li>1/2 cup orange juice: 13¢</li><li>(Technically, I should've counted the ketchup I ate with my home fries, but there comes a point at which laziness takes the day; this was that point.)<br /></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lunch<br /></span><ul><li>PB&J on whole wheat: 45¢</li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">Snack</span><br /><ul><li>1 small apple: free (I'm substituting apples for pears in the Food Bank's sample list)</li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dinner</span><br /><ul><li>1/2 veggie banh mi: $2 (I'm guessing; I ate it at the board meeting I went to this evening)</li><li>1 mini and 1 fun size Milky Way: 15¢ (I made the mini last for 4 bites and the fun size for 6--not an easy [or fun, frankly] feat)<br /></li></ul><span style="font-weight: bold;">Snack</span><br /><ul><li>1 medium cucumber: free</li><li>1 small homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookie: 12¢, give or take</li></ul>Grand total for the day: $4.01! Of course, without the "free" potatoes, apple, and cucumber, I'd be hosed.<br /><br />This list reads to me like some kind of crackpot diet plan: enjoy one (more or less) normal meal in the morning, and then go slowly off the rails throughout the day until you find yourself so hungry in the late evening that you're unable to resist the siren song of a cucumber and a cookie (which, let's be honest here, are not exactly packing my stomach right now). The fabulous results? Lingering hunger for most of the day, followed by a gradual descent into loopiness, accompanied by longing for things like avocados and cheese and toast lousy with butter.<br /><br />Dammit. I'm hungry.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-41268951481736881802010-09-12T21:33:00.000-07:002010-09-12T22:24:55.858-07:002010 Hunger Challenge, Day 1: Chocolate Is Not Lunch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvU8o4B4Y-5FzLRAdbhnmCTWCllI661I2zRYJMlHXev6XP7HiEe17XsESkMkBMfb_CvgOMWxpeWPvtdmMFQJh0Ng8Gb5nTmPHt0BQTOgW9J8n-DKvJHFaICNaatyhtw_MB4BHP5g/s1600/Hunger_Challenge_badge_2010.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvU8o4B4Y-5FzLRAdbhnmCTWCllI661I2zRYJMlHXev6XP7HiEe17XsESkMkBMfb_CvgOMWxpeWPvtdmMFQJh0Ng8Gb5nTmPHt0BQTOgW9J8n-DKvJHFaICNaatyhtw_MB4BHP5g/s320/Hunger_Challenge_badge_2010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516251876449399490" border="0" /></a>Because it was so fascinating (if very literally painful) last year, I signed on again to the <a href="http://hungerchallenge.blogspot.com/">San Francisco Food Bank's Hunger Challenge</a>, entailing a week of attempting to eat for no more than $4 per day. (If you missed my posts from last year's challenge, <a href="http://divert.blogspot.com/2009/09/numbers-bulk-foods-and-real-caffeine.html">start here</a> and work your way through.) Today was Day 1 of the challenge, and already I have--completely consciously--blown my food budget.<br /><br />First, a little background: $4 per day, or $28 per week, is the average amount a food stamp recipient in California gets. Trying to eat on this budget, as the hunger challenge suggests, gives you a starkly real sense of just how limiting it is, even if you opt for super-cheap foods like dried beans and inexpensive (read: probably conventionally grown) produce. Every bit of food and drink you consume (with the exception of tap water, salt, and pepper) counts toward this total, whether it's stuff you've paid for or stuff you've been given by others.<br /><br />This year's challenge features a new wrinkle: participants can supplement their $4-per-day stash with food that represents what a family or individual in San Francisco would receive each week from one of the Food Bank's neighborhood grocery pantries. As an individual, here's what I'd get around this time of year:<br /><br />Potatoes--1.2 Lbs per Person<br />Cucumbers--1.1 Lbs per Person<br />Pears--0.9 Lbs per Person<br />Carrots--0.7 Lbs per Person<br />Tomatoes--1.1 Lbs per Person<br />Stone Fruit--1 Lb per Person<br />Onion--1.1 Lbs per Person<br />Honeydew--4.5 Lbs per Person<br /><br />Having done the challenge last year, I can appreciate (immensely) the difference a few pounds of produce can make in terms of stretching a week's food budget. In fact, I'm about to have a peach in an attempt to quell my rumbling stomach, and am very happy that peach won't make today's budget overage any worse.<br /><br />Because here's the thing: one of the biggest bummers I discovered during last year's challenge was that there's not a whole lot you--or, more to the point, I--can do socially that doesn't somehow involve food or drink. Even with an event that's not food-centric--watching a movie at home, say--food so often comes into play: you make popcorn, or have a glass of wine, or go to Walgreens and buy gummy-somethings to eat during the film. Last year, because everything that passed my lips counted against my $28 for the week, I gave up several social outings, or whimpered through a few that were, sadly, just painful--viz. my friend Nir coming to my house with a burrito from the Little Chihuahua while I downed a salad and then watched longingly as he ate.<br /><br />I can deal (if complainingly) with the hunger I know I'm bound to feel while trying to eat on $4 per day, and can deal with the required hyper-consciousness of the cost of every single thing I consume, along with the knowledge of everything I love eating that's off-limits this week because it's too expensive--most cheeses, the walnut baguette from La Boulange I want like crazy, a coffee and breakfast burrito at Arlequin....<br /><br />But what I couldn't face for another year running was saying no to social events, or giving friends the brush-off for most of the week, or more salad-vs.-burrito showdowns. So I gave in and planned two outings, the first of which was today: a visit to the Ghirardelli Chocolate Festival with my friend Maria.<br /><br />Insane as it sounds to go to a chocolate festival on day 1 of a hunger challenge, I had a coupon that gave us a big discount: two 15-taste passes for $10, working out to about 33¢ per taste. I had 8 tastes, for a total of $2.64. Not bad for fancy-ass chocolate, except that 1.) it did not exactly (or, really, at all, in any way, shape, or form) make a meal, and 2.) $2.64 is more than half of my daily budget. So even though breakfast worked out to a petite $1.18 and dinner to $1.37, I'm still over budget by $1.19.<br /><br />Could be worse, but peach or no peach this evening, I'm going to go to bed hungry, because I haven't had enough protein or--chocolate samples notwithstanding--fat today. Neither of those, you'll note, is on the free-from-the-food-bank list for an individual, and I'm not going to exceed my budget any more than I already have.<br /><br />It would be too facile to say that there's a necessary trade-off between socializing and eating on a strict budget; I could, of course, have had Maria over for something super-cheap at home and spent just as much time with her as I did waiting in line for toffee samples. Nonetheless, it's jarring to realize how much of my time with friends is spent out over food, and how much I love that combination, and how impossible it would be if a single burrito or a few pieces of chocolate truly did undo my eating budget for an entire day.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-52386425588525863822010-09-01T15:18:00.000-07:002010-09-01T15:23:03.448-07:00To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time (San Francisco Version)Wear thee ye summer clothes while ye may,<br />Warm weather is always fickle-y:<br />And these same temps that soar today<br />Tomorrow will be sickly.<br /><br />(Sorry about that, Robert Herrick.)Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-16521222985781582412010-08-24T23:13:00.000-07:002010-08-25T04:43:20.200-07:00"Her Hardest Hue to Hold"/The Pursuit of Happiness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_qvyEwocDSDl3h1gfmRm76Dm6AohULoTIiUp9dHTgeOPtqFbz6_HOJa-danCEpA217v0FTJCzzqCBvwgU3GN2JXY7CswTZaRAoNYkQjqILdR4xeLBhG0iTqvmDnSd3SWr5k8Dw/s1600/Lilypads.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_qvyEwocDSDl3h1gfmRm76Dm6AohULoTIiUp9dHTgeOPtqFbz6_HOJa-danCEpA217v0FTJCzzqCBvwgU3GN2JXY7CswTZaRAoNYkQjqILdR4xeLBhG0iTqvmDnSd3SWr5k8Dw/s320/Lilypads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509227162315752610" border="0" /></a>This post was slated to begin several days ago as a litany of the sweet and funny and heart-swelling and purely fun and interesting and just plain awesome moments that wallpapered my two weeks on the east coast. I sat, last Friday morning, in my aunt's backyard on the outskirts of Boston, swimming back through those moments and thinking of Robert Frost and his leaves subsiding to leaves, thinking how reluctant I was to fold up the tail ends of my vacation and return to San Francisco.<br /><br />But then, this evening, S. and I sit on my sofa, suddenly a little heavy and teary after a long and spectacular day, and it's another poet who comes to mind.<br /><br />Earlier in the day, we drive around Marin, in awe of our unbelievable summery weather (finally, finally). At the Muir Beach Overlook, we stare for a long time out at the ocean, all blue and green and glittering madly. At Stinson, I wade into the water, cold and bracing and tugging at my feet like a sweet ache; we eat ice cream and drink cold caffeine and wander languidly through town. We drive and drive, stopping to snap photos of cows, to Point Reyes. Back south in Sausalito, we sit at the edge of the water and watch the city in the distance, the city to which S. is about to bid farewell, the city in which my life will carry on. Finally, then, back to Hayes Valley for our last supper at PaulK.<br /><br />And then we're home, sitting on the sofa laughing until we're choked up with the reality of our impending goodbye. We talk and talk--about heading into the unknown and unseen, about having your slate wiped clean, about not promising but hoping, about how to go on when your life isn't what you thought it might be, about believing that, ultimately, people are wired to connect and care and love. (And S., they are, they are, they are.)<br /><br />S. says something about the unlikelihood of leaving behind what you've done and starting over in the name of happiness and I immediately go über-American on him. <span style="font-style: italic;">You can always start over</span>, I say. <span style="font-style: italic;">If you take nothing else away from your year in the U.S., take this: the belief that you can begin again, the belief in the pursuit of happiness</span>.<br /><br />And when, at length, I hug him goodbye one last time and watch him walk down my front steps, out into the night, it's Frost who comes to mind first: Nothing gold can stay. (How we both know that, and far too well.)<br /><br />But then it's Whitman--unabashedly hopeful, slightly goofball, occasionally naïve Whitman, master of lightheartedly beginning again. Who better to wave the flag of optimism for whatever it is that's out there?<br /><br />And so, S., it's with deep affection, no promises but hope (l'espoir, l'espoir), and some Walt Whitman that America and I bid you <span style="font-style: italic;">au revoir, bonne chance, et a bientôt</span>.<br /><blockquote>From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines,<br />Going where I list, my own master total and absolute,<br />Listening to others, considering well what they say,<br />Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,<br />Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.<br /></blockquote>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-35188307272934537032010-06-21T22:23:00.000-07:002010-06-21T23:02:17.384-07:00Who's Left and Who's LeavingLast night Scott and I sit in the lounge at Jardiniere, sipping fancy-ass drinks and debating which cheese on the platter before us is the most pungent. (For the record, Scott? It was that sheep-y one, case closed.) Within 24 hours he'll have emptied his apartment here in San Francisco and will be on a plane to Boston--a mirror image, nearly 3 weeks to the day, of Jenn's departure for New York at the end of May.<br /><br />So many of my friends seem to be leaving the Bay Area lately that it leaves me dazed and whimpering. Jenn goes, then another Jen (to Austin and then Boston), then Scott, then Val and Isaac a few weeks hence, then S at the end of August, and then...I can't bring myself to imagine or anticipate who's next. This exodus punches dozens of tiny holes in my heart. Why so much loss, and so many goodbyes, in such a short period of time?<br /><br />I try to focus on who's still here, on what's unlikely to change. Eric and I spend Thursday evening together over dinner, hilariously inappropriate conversation, and "The Hurt Locker," and I marvel again, again at the dumb luck that threw us together at MS lo those many years ago--and at the fact that he's still here, unlikely to leave. I exhale with relief when Dana reports a part in a new play; I fear, achily, that she'll be the next to go, so this is a stay of execution of sorts, at least for a little while. I hold hard to news of friends here who move to new apartments or renovate their houses or take new jobs, thinking, <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes! OK! This is proof that they'll stay for a bit, right?</span><br /><br />To some degree, San Francisco has always been a place of comings and goings: I came here amidst an influx of people like me in 1997, and have watched so many of those people leave in the ensuing years, one after another after another. But now it's reached a critical mass--<span style="font-style: italic;">like having a whole hand lopped off at once</span>, I tell Dana, <span style="font-style: italic;">when all I've gotten used to is losing fingers one by one</span>.<br /><br />That fell swoop is so much harder.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-3346451164110184772010-04-03T08:27:00.000-07:002010-04-03T09:38:51.465-07:00Adieu, Claude<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmDA5BCY3cYSap0M7VV6ernph5glVs1A5zTX5e2aZstvEub8IvA0RFJ3R6cp77yIsjC_ma2MludClBoTtwpmJaZvrsd51PDlhTrgCtQ2NnnaHc12oOVQuX_TogLyMSICIKnL0cQ/s1600/Claude.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlmDA5BCY3cYSap0M7VV6ernph5glVs1A5zTX5e2aZstvEub8IvA0RFJ3R6cp77yIsjC_ma2MludClBoTtwpmJaZvrsd51PDlhTrgCtQ2NnnaHc12oOVQuX_TogLyMSICIKnL0cQ/s320/Claude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455933785770754706" border="0" /></a><br />After several months of deliberation, I decided earlier this year that it was finally time to sell my car. And on Tuesday, following a week of typically nutjob Craigslist-facilitated interactions around this transaction (more on those in a moment), I watched the two sweet British guys who became the car's new owners drive it away.<br /><br />It will sound odd or melodramatic or perhaps slightly crazy to say that, in that moment, my heart did something funny, but that's exactly what happened. I felt a sense of relief--this selling process had been, frankly, kind of a pain in the ass--and a wave of happiness as one of the guys said to me, "We'll send you a postcard when we make it to New York" (more on that in a minute, too). I also found myself in the crest of a wave of nostalgia, because this car--this slightly dinged and dented 1993 Toyota Corolla--had taken me so far.<br /><br />It was my parents who'd found it originally, back in January of 1997, when I was in Boston. We were on the hunt for a car to replace the giant sky blue Buick I was then driving (word to the wise: Buick in Boston=bad idea), and the then-young Corolla was perfect. In honor of its significantly smaller size, we dubbed it Little Car, and somehow we wound up referring to it as "he."<br /><br />So it was Little Car who accompanied me for my last few months in Boston, and he who allowed me to leave New England in mid-March and head west, first to Chicago to pick up Monique, and then down Route 66 to California. In Texas, after what felt like an endless stretch of road with nothing to offer by way of services, we drove into Claude, a little town where we gassed up and, at the local soda fountain (for real), got snacks and drinks to clear away the west Texas dryness. In gratitude, Little Car got his official name: Claude (pronounced the French way, just because).<br /><br />Little Car took me up Highway 1 and into San Francisco 13 years ago this weekend. He went back and forth to Sonoma countless times in those early years, anytime a visitor came into town and anytime we could come up with a reasonable excuse for a day in wine country. In Little Car I went back and forth to Palo Alto, and then to Mountain View, sometimes alone, sometimes with Otis or Shayne or Daryl or Deb. On the days we didn't want to drive the whole way, we'd drive only to CalTrain, fueled by Peet's and speeding down (or attempting to speed down) 17th Street, entreating other drivers with <span style="font-style: italic;">Gooooooooooo</span>!<br /><br />It was in Little Car that my first Shanti client and I would take his two dogs out to Fort Funston each week, evidence of their fur and the sand they carried on their paws still popping up in various crevices in the car, numerous rounds of vacuuming and many years notwithstanding. With my current Shanti client, back and forth to the grocery store, to the food bank, to Mitchell's ice cream. A few weeks back, we drove Little Car to the top of Bernal Hill and marveled at the city below us.<br /><br />Little Car transported a lot of beloved passengers, from boyfriends to family to friends. A select few even got to drive him; I would sit on the right side and marvel at the change in perspective.<br /><br />When I traveled a lot for work and would drive to the airport, it was, of course, Little Car who'd be there waiting for me in the long-term parking lot when I returned. Seeing him there meant, simply, <span style="font-style: italic;">Home</span>.<br /><br />So it was that, when it came time to sell my sweet little vehicle, I hoped, a bit shmoopily, that he'd go to someone who'd be happy to have him. Posting the car to Craigslist got me a crazy number of replies, several of them claiming that they'd pay me whatever price I was asking in cash, no haggling, because they needed a car right away "to get to work/to school/to my band gigs." There were enough of these weird responses that I have to assume they're shorthand for something, though I don't know what.<br /><br />On Monday, amid the flurry of calls I got (having grown tired of dealing with people by e-mail) was one from a guy in Pleasanton who told me his uncle would come to the city right away to pick up the car, full asking price guaranteed blah blah blah. Said "uncle" then called and brushed off my insistence that I was legally required to get the car smogged by telling me that I should save my money, because he was just going to export the car anyway.<br /><br />As Export Dude made his way to the city, I got a call from Sweet British Boy #1, who arranged to come by with his friend and have a look. And then there they were, young and adorable and did I mention British. They told me they were in the States for about 3 more months and were looking for a car to take them around--to Yosemite later in the week, perhaps up to Vancouver at some point, maybe all the way to New York, from where they'd depart to go home.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Eureka</span>.<br /><br />After a test drive and a look under the "bonnet" and some very light negotiating, the three of us shook hands. I went to get the car smogged and, when I returned, found the "uncle" waiting. I told him I'd found another buyer, despite his protests now that he was not going to export the car, but was instead going to use it for himself. (Can anyone explain to me what's behind this type of scam, anyway?) After a while he gave up and went away.<br /><br />Tuesday morning, I went out to meet with the Sweet British Boys and to hand over the keys. They met me on the street, all smiles, SBB #2 brandishing a Rand McNally road atlas. We walked to the garage, talked about their trip to Yosemite, American road laws, California drivers.<br /><br />I backed the car out of the garage and pointed them in the direction they wanted to go. We all shook hands again. I wished them happy travels. They said they'd send photos from New York. Then I stood on the sidewalk and watched them drive to the light at Franklin Street, then turn left and drive away.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-49758112048814030712010-03-13T16:37:00.001-08:002010-03-13T16:45:08.030-08:00Girl Scout Cookies ReconsideredPhone conversation with my sister-in-law this afternoon<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> It's totally relative, but I was surprised to discover that Tagalongs have fewer calories than I thought. And my client gave me a box of Do-Si-Dos a few weeks back, and those weren't bad at all.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sara:</span> Yeah, but Do-Si-Dos are kind of the bastard cousin of Tagalongs.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> True. They are sort of redneck-y.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sara:</span> Do-Si-Dos are like...like Billy Carter. You know--Tagalongs win the Nobel Peace Prize and all. And then there's Do-Si-Dos.<br /><br />[In case I haven't mentioned, I have the best sister-in-law ever. EVER.]Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-50513137034756541632010-03-12T13:36:00.001-08:002010-03-12T13:43:50.949-08:00Maybe it makes sense in the original GermanFrom Austrian Airlines' online booking page:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZiUcewvi5Ut-jXqZ6f9bJPmbWUdB1QNhyf576tjVGE6oKlhD8hHCCBVP8ksNG9gyffdvF2Pga6W0D5a5K-cUsVtUdRIeYOvigNRyNWzgACq5cKA5x6FAdomKKqsfGMAgPSA8zg/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZiUcewvi5Ut-jXqZ6f9bJPmbWUdB1QNhyf576tjVGE6oKlhD8hHCCBVP8ksNG9gyffdvF2Pga6W0D5a5K-cUsVtUdRIeYOvigNRyNWzgACq5cKA5x6FAdomKKqsfGMAgPSA8zg/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447864646732626050" border="0" /></a>Evidently there are no <span style="font-style: italic;">Frauleins</span> in Austria, and the Dr. part matters more for women than for men.<br /><br />So, since I have to choose an inaccurate salutation anyway, should I take this opportunity to temporarily grant myself a doctorate?Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-70532656989439937732010-03-05T19:33:00.001-08:002010-03-05T20:01:16.599-08:00The World Shines (for Krista)I'm sorry, but this deserves a "Well, GODDAMMIT!": my friend and colleague Krista, who is smart, funny, sweet, creative, and sassy to beat the band, has been diagnosed with breast cancer--invasive ductal carcinoma, to be exact.<br /><br />I know this because Krista has been <a href="http://twitter.com/kristacolvin">Tweeting her heart out</a> about her diagnosis this afternoon (brave, brave, BRAVE, mon amie!), and has also <a href="http://organizeinstyle.typepad.com/organize_in_style/2010/03/i-rana-similarpost-almost-2-years-ago-and-today-im-feeling-anxious-not-mopey-im-awaiting-results-from-a-breast-lym.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+OrganizeInStyle+%28Organize+in+Style%29">posted a message to her blog</a> asking people to share some of their favorite things so she has pleasant stuff to think about as she deals with what can only be called some seriously crapwad news.<br /><br />It so happens, my dear Krista, that I've recently gotten into the habit of adding to the daily summary I write each night a few notes on whatever made me happy throughout the day. This is generally a random, ragtag, not-exactly-puppies-and-balloons kind of list, but it shows me that sometimes glee pops up in totally unexpected forms, and sometimes from ridiculously simple things.<br /><br />So Krista, here are a few bits and pieces from my lists. If I could bundle them up and send them to you by mail, I would, because I sort of think they'd pop out of the envelope in a huge, delightfully messy, pleasantly chaotic jumble, like a much cooler version of one of those fake cans of nuts with a spring-loaded Slinky snake inside. But I'll mail you some restorative San Francisco chocolate instead, and will give you these moments right here:<br /><ul><li>The driver of a plumbing van playing a harmonica with his window rolled down while stuck in traffic on Gough Street the other day</li><li>Listening to "Wait Wait--Don't Tell Me" on my iPod at the gym and laughing so hard I had to put down the weights I was trying to hoist</li><li>Discovering the cheapest Bulleit Manhattan in SF at Bar ($6! For Bulleit!)<br /></li><li>Standing in the patch of bright afternoon sunlight spilling through my kitchen window and onto the floor</li><li>Watching the wedding montage in "Up in the Air" for the second time</li><li>Finding multi-colored popcorn at Rainbow Grocery (even though, alas, it all pops out to be the same color--which is probably some sort of "Kumbayah" lesson for us all from the food world)</li><li>Getting a free box of Girl Scout cookies from a client who'd bought multiples</li><li>Watching <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJKythlXAIY">the band geek version of OK Go's "This Too Shall Pass"</a> over and over (and over and...). I can't NOT be wildly, stupidly happy every time I see this. </li></ul>Cheap top-shelf bourbon, harmonica-playing plumbers, and marching band-filled pop tunes can't keep the world and its sometimes-sucktastic realities at bay forever, but for a little while, damn, do they brighten things up.<br /><br />We're with you, Krista, all the freaking way.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-80918097247283714552010-02-14T21:35:00.000-08:002010-02-14T23:08:57.880-08:00Relative MeasureFrom <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/14/us/14alabama.html?scp=4&sq=shaila%20dewan&st=cse">an article in today's NY Times</a> about the suspect in a shooting at the University of Alabama on Friday:<br /> <p></p><blockquote><p>Dr. Bishop and Mr. Anderson have four children, ranging in age from 9 to 18, Mr. Reeves said, and they frequently took them to hockey and soccer games.</p> He and others who knew Dr. Bishop described her as a normal person, perhaps a little quirky but no more so than most scientists.</blockquote>Textbook definition of a relative measure, no?Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-8340204915663951742010-02-08T21:36:00.000-08:002010-02-08T22:50:41.405-08:00Songs for an Achy but Hopeful HeartI just watched, in his Tiny Desk concert from All Songs Considered, John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats sing "Going to Georgia," and promptly embarked on a brief but intense crying jag. (You, too, should take 12 minutes and 39 seconds to <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122106507">watch the full little concert</a>, explosion of tears optional.)<br /><br />What the hell with the sobbing? It's not a depressing song--in fact, if anything, it's precisely the opposite, fast and loud and insane with what sounds like the shiny hope of young love. And yet, it punched me squarely in the chest. So I listened to it again. And again. Then once more.<br /><br />The last song that (figuratively) knocked me on my butt in the same way was the National's "Slow Show," which I listened to about 5 times on repeat when, on my way to the library early last November, I actually paid attention to what it had to say. That whole "You know I dreamed about you/for 29 years before I saw you" thing did me in--though in a generally good, hopeful way at that point.<br /><br />A few weeks hence, that all seemed to play out nicely. At least for a little while.<br /><br />But back to "Going to Georgia." Though the track from the album doesn't quite have the same flat-out, pedal-to-the-metal energy and thrill of the live version, I decided it must immediately go on a playlist, along with other songs that are either therapeutic in their feel-your-pain misery (Elliott Smith, I'm looking at you) or, in the interest of being fair and balanced, somewhere on the spectrum from cautiously to flamingly, unabashedly hopeful.<br /><br />So here's where you come in. Because I'm in the mood for some surprises, I leave the other entries on this playlist up to you, my, um, extensive readership. Your recommendations for good cryin'-in-yer-drink or I-defy-you-to-resist-hope songs? Lay them on me in the comments. (Yes, sometimes I cry in my drink while listening to the sweet, shiny, hopeful stuff, but don't let that stop you.)<br /><br />My only guidelines: nothing bitter, nothing angry, nothing saccharine, nothing religious, no speed metal, no smooth jazz (just because), and R&B or slow jams only if absolutely, positively necessary (and, really, when are they ever?). Everything else is fair game.<br /><br />Gimme what you got. And in the meantime, get yourself to the NPR Music site and listen to John Darnielle's little gembox song stories. They're good for what ails you.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-50518364458371390482010-02-05T21:26:00.001-08:002010-02-05T22:26:26.671-08:00Ebbing and Flowing<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9x8okQJyoa-BBlj3Q9nhWGm-uQZ0Hs5Ll7zNJ8vJYg4WLifOErM0j8eiZJ-9lSj7NkoFx4A5gNyL4CB7gzOgHAR2Nd9J9LBcwvQD1w-Ty_vooZlHAD0dlCapCnNIjE8PbEtF_Q/s1600-h/surething.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9x8okQJyoa-BBlj3Q9nhWGm-uQZ0Hs5Ll7zNJ8vJYg4WLifOErM0j8eiZJ-9lSj7NkoFx4A5gNyL4CB7gzOgHAR2Nd9J9LBcwvQD1w-Ty_vooZlHAD0dlCapCnNIjE8PbEtF_Q/s320/surething.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435000334113102386" border="0" /></a>From <a href="http://www.welivenow.org/">Live Now</a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I stumbled this morning on Live Now, a sort of collective art project/"community of happiness" that sprang up in the wake of creator Eric Smith's diagnosis of and treatment for cancer. Live Now is a somewhat indescribable combination of art, design, words, collaboration, and general good feeling--to which I could only say, Yes, please.<br /><br />There's plenty of interesting work on the Live Now site, but what really grabbed me was the piece above, both because I had to sit with it for a decent amount of time until the meaning and import really sunk in, and because, when they did, they stopped me short. I wanted to pass the message of this sweet little boat along (just 'cause), and I wanted to repeat the words to myself all day, a mantra, a reminder, a goad.<br /><br />Half of me this week wants to do what's generally easiest when you find the carpet pulled from under your feet and your face in sudden, unanticipated, and generally unwelcome contact with the floor: that is, to withdraw, retract, go fetal and conservative and quiet. It's this half that would stay in bed all day with books and tissues and carbs were it not required to play along as a Responsible Adult.<br /><br />The other half has decided that this is as good a time as any to write a proposal for the book idea I came up with back in early November and have since largely ignored. Almost without my awareness, this half has climbed the mast of the SS Sure Thing and is ready to do a swan dive into whatever body of water we're sailing in.<br /><br />Whence this crazy-ass idea? Who knows. I can only say that, on Tuesday night, as I walked to the gym, something in me proposed this pact: <span style="font-style: italic;">If in fact you're about to experience a relationship implosion, you have to promise yourself that you'll return to the book</span>.<br /><br />Perhaps because I didn't want to give much (more) thought to the disappointment I feared was ahead, or perhaps because I didn't want to pay much heed to the voice in my head ready to commit me so blithely to such a huge project, I simply thought, <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, ok, fine, done and done</span>, then went inside to read bad magazines and sweat for a while, assuming the insanity would pass.<br /><br />But then, alone with myself on Wednesday night, I thought, <span style="font-style: italic;">Well, you promised</span>, had some wine, and went online to hunt down a book on writing a proposal and finding an agent.<br /><br />Is this utterly ridiculous and Quixotic? Quite possibly (though regular readers of this blog should be used to such things by now). But somehow it also seems unquestionably necessary. After all, I can't convince anyone else that there are risks worth taking and potentially illogical passions worth pursuing, but I can convince myself.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The sure thing boat never gets far from shore</span>.<br /><br />So here's to a completely <span style="font-style: italic;">un</span>sure thing, and to stretching myself farther than I ever have before, and to learning to face rejection again and again and again, getting up every time and trying once more. Here's to Live Now. Here's to what will become "Lost on Me."<br /></div></div><img src="file:///Users/emwilska/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/moz-screenshot.png" alt="" /><img src="file:///Users/emwilska/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/moz-screenshot-1.png" alt="" />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-12609812029768152392010-02-03T11:03:00.000-08:002010-02-03T11:59:24.953-08:00"dark though it is"As one almost must in cases like this, I turn to Elizabeth Gilbert.<br /><br />Not her new book--its topic a million miles away from me right now--but rather <span style="font-style: italic;">Eat, Pray, Love</span>, with its dog-eared pages and the notes I made in the margins when I first read it three years ago, right around this same time. (April is the cruelest month, T.S. Eliot? <span style="font-style: italic;">Au contraire</span>; it's February.)<br /><br />Last night, it was Anne Lamott's <span style="font-style: italic;">Traveling Mercies</span> that I pulled from my bookshelves, because I love Anne Lamott, and will happily do my best to lose myself in her words at any time, and because things last night had not yet stepped off a cliff with both feet. I read until I fell asleep, thinking, after I turned my lamp off, of the final words of the W.S. Merwin poem with which she opens the book ("we are saying thank you faster and faster/with nobody listening we are saying thank you/we are saying thank you and waving/dark though it is").<br /><br />But now, come morning, an unhappy chat behind me, I'm off that cliff, and it's Gilbert, not Lamott, I need most. I can't shake the vision of those paintings of Jesus in which he has two fingers in the open gash in his chest, right over his heart. At the risk of sounding utterly sacrilegious, I know the feeling today, my man: something in me that was intact has torn open, and I can't ignore the wound, much as I'd like to.<br /><br />So I return to <span style="font-style: italic;">Eat, Pray, Love</span>.<br /><br />Being the annoying completist that I am, and now faced with an unwelcome surfeit of free time clamoring to be filled with distractions, I will, of course, read the damn thing cover-to-cover all over again. Maybe twice.<br /><br />But for now I flip through and read the passages I marked last time, thinking <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes</span>, thinking <span style="font-style: italic;">Remember that</span>, thinking <span style="font-style: italic;">Know that</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">You made it through--and out--before. You will certainly make it through again.</span><br /><br />With my fingers over that new, sore, achy, messy wound, then, I keep reading.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-89493373652886890682010-01-24T21:44:00.000-08:002010-01-24T21:49:48.569-08:00Suggestion"I can only suggest you do your best to banish anxiety, possibly with a glass of Champagne, and lay yourself open to the moment when happiness becomes irresistible. I'm writing this at a good time of the year. The beech trees are covered with fresh, green leaves--we are going to have a birthday lunch in the garden. My grandchildren will play in the mysterious sunken copses, disused flint pits now filled with tall and ancient trees, where I also played as a child. The daffodils will be in flower, and the dogs will be jumping over them. There is every possible reason for happiness, but it's a moment of sadness too. How many more such birthdays will there be? It's sad my mother never saw my daughters grow up. Although the poet Shelley was right about our sincerest laughter being fraught with sadness, it's the sadness, in a way, which makes happiness complete."<br /><br />--from <span style="font-style: italic;">Where There's a Will: Thoughts on the Good Life</span>, by John MortimerEmilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-56651243754774300862009-12-20T21:24:00.000-08:002009-12-20T22:24:21.351-08:00Toward the Light<blockquote>"<span style="font-style: italic;">In this strange season, when we are suspended between realization and expectation, may we be found honest about the darkness, more perceptive of the light.</span>"--Jack Boozer</blockquote>This evening, working my way through a hefty To Do list, I step outside to go retrieve my laundry from the basement and am struck momentarily still and silent. It's quiet in my backyard, save for the muffled dripping of halfhearted rain onto cement and the steady whir of cars on Fell Street. It's mild enough out that I've left the kitchen door open while I putter around, mild enough that I'm almost tempted to sit here for a while, just breathing and listening, mild enough that I can barely fathom the true winter I'll be descending into when I land in Boston tomorrow evening. I feel calmer than I have in days.<br /><br />This week took it out of me. Despite regular flashes of delight--sitting in the dark at Berkeley Rep on Thursday night, S's arm around my shoulder, tipsy on awe and affection; letting what was meant to be a brief stop at my friends' holiday party last night stretch into many hours of fun; et alia--the past seven days have been oddly heavy and exhausting. There's so much cause for levity and brightness these days, but those kids have had to rumble with a murky dimness that, like its literal dark-at-4.30-p.m. counterpart, acts like an unwelcome party guest, arriving much too early, staying much too long, getting embarrassingly drunk, and loudly singing show tunes. Terrible ones. Off-key.<br /><br />So I was relieved when, there in my backyard, avoiding the laundry for a few moments, I realized that although tomorrow shaves away a few additional moments of daylight, bringing with it the biggest dose of literal darkness we need to deal with all year, come Tuesday we start to change course. Being unable to resist the Obvious Metaphor, I thought, <span style="font-style: italic;">OK, then. There's so much more light ahead. Go that way.</span><br /><br />It's all too easy sometimes to be dragged down by the slings and arrows, especially when they seem to come at you (read: me) as if from one of those machines at a tennis club that automatically lobs ball after ball without stopping<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>. What's harder, though critical if you're (read: I'm) to continue functioning like the generally lucky, happy, smiling human you are (read: well, you know the drill), is to let them hit you and then let them fall. Maybe sweep them into a neat little pile, maybe just kick them aside. Walk away from them. Put ice on the bruises. Bandage the places the arrows drew blood. Keep walking. Keep walking.<br /><br />Enough of this wintry darkness. There's so much more light ahead. Go that way.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-68497842956210394902009-11-29T20:48:00.000-08:002009-11-29T21:30:40.590-08:00Expansion<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3CN6NBg8y3W7H-a_Jca4CDNyokYk4xxwL9qPRkMi0ktTBSj-3uHLnoe23OhwwZuh43czr0OEkHITO8Hc0ZJFtSe8osfMGXuyq1gKoHZh2PtQzz8LRh1sJBcVNJ0lqpxdYqCS8Xw/s1600/Sonoma+Moonrise.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3CN6NBg8y3W7H-a_Jca4CDNyokYk4xxwL9qPRkMi0ktTBSj-3uHLnoe23OhwwZuh43czr0OEkHITO8Hc0ZJFtSe8osfMGXuyq1gKoHZh2PtQzz8LRh1sJBcVNJ0lqpxdYqCS8Xw/s320/Sonoma+Moonrise.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409754273140359730" border="0" /></a>Moonrise in Sonoma<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">There are days we live </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">as if death were nowhere </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">in the background; from joy</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">to joy to joy, from wing to wing,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">from blossom to blossom to</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">-from Li Young-Lee, "From Blossoms"</span><br /><br />I had forgotten this: the feeling of so much concentrated bliss that it's almost hard to breathe, and nearly impossible to fathom, at least for a while, that anything could ever be wrong in the world. But now I remember.<br /><br />We spent the day in Sonoma, S and I and his visiting friend, and for hours I was so happy I sometimes couldn't speak. Sitting overlooking the lake at Gundlach Bundschu in the bright sun of late afternoon with my eyes half-closed and S's arms around me; looking up from every sip of wine to see that beautiful and adoring face close to mine; watching out the window as we sped through the heartbreakingly pretty golden hour scenery along route 12, my hand on S's knee as he drove: I don't have adequate words to describe how these things made something in me lighten and expand so much that there was no room for anything other than untempered joy and amazement.<br /><br />Those two can't last forever on their own, of course; back in the city, with night fallen, there were parking woes, an unexciting and overly expensive meal out, S reaching a saturation point after 5 straight days with his friend, and the annoying reappearance of the real world in the form of outstanding work tasks and bills to pay and planning to do for the week ahead. And, of course, there was our goodbye, utterly untenable despite being very temporary, which has left me listless and unmoored.<br /><br />And yet, and yet: those hours of sunshine, brilliant skies, <span style="font-style: italic;">baisers volés</span>, hands touching, free wine, effortless joy--they've left me feeling calmer and more whole than I have for much too long, and have reminded me that sometimes fate or good luck or good timing intervenes and kicks open the door that's kept you for months in a murky dimness, leaving you blinking, dazzled, and pleasantly dazed in the sudden onslaught of light.<br /></div></div>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-8198789856031099802009-11-21T09:19:00.000-08:002009-11-21T09:59:00.878-08:00GratefulOn Thursday, sometime near dusk, we will sit around my brother and sister-in-law's table, eight adults and one outrageously adorable child. One of that child's grandfathers will ask us to go silent for a few moments, then will say a blessing.<br /><br />I'm not much for religion, but this grace I can abide. I'll bow my head, close my eyes, listen to what Dad or Rod says, and will give a collective thanks for all of this:<br /><br />I am thankful more than anything for my darling Kate, the world's best niece. She reminds me that every time I think I've reached the extent of my ability to love someone, I never really have: I can always love more. I know this because every time I see her, or even hear her joyous babbles over the phone, my heart cracks open and expands a bit. It has grown a lot in the past 17 months.<br /><br />Also amazing is my huge, crazy, immensely loving family. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that every single day, something reminds me just how lucky I am to have the kin I do. We love and support and stand by each other without condition, without preamble, without question. My family may not prevent me from occasionally falling flat on my face, but I never have any doubt that they'll be there to help pull me upright again.<br /><br />If I had my choice, I'd pull my friends from the near and far reaches of the globe they inhabit--LA, Seattle, Portland, New York, Laos, North Carolina, Chicago, bits and pieces of Europe--and collect them all here in San Francisco. But I'll settle for knowing that they're out there, knowing that there's a litany of places I could go and find myself welcomed with open arms.<br /><br />Despite what has been an occasionally hellacious and uncertain year work-wise, I'm grateful to have the freedom and flexibility to be my own boss (however inept I may sometimes feel in that role!) and to be able to say that I've created something of which I'm immensely proud.<br /><br />I'm thankful to my Shanti client for reminding me time and again that love and compassion can cross any tangle of age, race, nationality, gender, and language. Too much of the world forgets how easy it is to just be human together.<br /><br />And I'm grateful, finally, for this: walking back from Market Street on Thursday night with a smile involuntarily taking over my face after four hours of talking and laughing and pizza and wine; spending all day yesterday feeling <span style="font-style: italic;">funny</span>, that kind of funny I haven't felt in a very long time; swimming in this delightful back-and-forth flow of words and photos and plans and possibilities. It all makes me amazed and awed and hopeful. "Hope is an unruly emotion," says Gloria Steinem. It is. It's also a giant breath of the purest air, and a shaft of early morning sunlight hitting a white wall, illuminating an entire room.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-54856408237474007742009-10-07T19:40:00.000-07:002009-10-07T20:43:38.202-07:00A Votre SanteOn Saturday morning, I woke up feeling slightly amiss.<br /><br />I was in LA, staying at my friend D's apartment, down south both to attend a conference and to do some visiting. When I dragged myself out of bed for the first time, I sensed a pang of what felt like indigestion, which I assumed was due to either the vegetable-heavy meals I'd eaten at the conference hotel the day before or to the perhaps-one-too-many Hendrick's gimlets I'd enjoyed in the evening. But after a while, after a few round-trips between bed and washroom, I began to despair that this was regular indigestion because it would not leave me be and was in fact beginning to pummel me with serious and bizarre pain.<br /><br />And then things sort of went off a cliff: D knocked on the bathroom door, opened it to find me curled up fetally on the floor (cushioned, mercifully, by a bath mat), and, alarmed, asked what was going on. I could only answer <span style="font-style: italic;">I don't know</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">serious pain</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">auuuuuugggghhh</span>. He helped me off the floor and back into bed as the lower-left side of my abdomen exploded into excruciating hurt, getting worse by the moment.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Do you want to go to the hospital?</span> he asked, and I said, <span style="font-style: italic;">No, no, I'll be fine</span>, imagining that in fact I would, that whatever this was would pass, that I would manage to make it downtown to the conference as originally planned. And then I became a groaning, writhing mess of hurt, and he said, <span style="font-style: italic;">That's it: I'm calling 911</span>.<br /><br />At this point, I couldn't speak clearly for the pain, but running through my head was this: <span style="font-style: italic;">no, not 911. That means an ambulance, which means a huge expense, which my insurance will only cover half of</span>. No matter that there was no way D could, on his own, maneuver me into his car and to the closest hospital, let alone that I was likely to improve on my own. But even as I heard him telling the 911 dispatcher his address, all I could think was not <span style="font-style: italic;">Relief is coming</span> but <span style="font-style: italic;">No, no--too expensive</span>.<br /><br />The EMTs came, strapped me to a gurney, sped us to the ER at Cedars-Sinai. In a haze, I signed what felt like an endless series of papers to get myself admitted, waited for the IV stuck into my left arm to deliver painkillers and anti-nausea drugs, had blood drawn, got rolled into a tube for a CT scan, and spent hours floating into and out of consciousness, all the while trying to beat back flittering bits of thought about how much all of this would cost me.<br /><br />It was that fear--<span style="font-style: italic;">cost, cost, cost</span>--that kept me from waking D up in the middle of the night on Saturday, hours after we'd come home from the hospital, and asking him to take me back because the pain had returned, that fear that kept me from taking myself to get help on Sunday night when, in my own bed in San Francisco, I was pulled from sleep at 2 a.m. by pain that would not let go. On Monday, I gave in and called my own doctor, hoping, as he examined me, that he wouldn't ask for another scan or any sort of expensive testing.<br /><br />And that, of course, is insane. I wish my first thought in each of these cases had been <span style="font-style: italic;">Something serious is wrong, and I clearly need help</span>, not <span style="font-style: italic;">If I try to make it through this on my own,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">I won't need to worry about an unpayable stack of medical bills</span>. And I, it's important to note, actually have insurance.<br /><br />The intricacies of the health care debate currently raging here baffle me, but this much I understand: there are entirely too many people in the U.S. who don't even have the (possibly) marginal medical insurance I have, and who really would be in serious danger of major financial catastrophe should they find themselves in need of an ambulance ride, a CT scan, a bed in an ER, a battery of lab work. Too many people who might actually forgo care they need, even in an emergency, because they simply can't afford it. Now more than ever, I'm stunned by how crazily wrong that is.<br /><br />Despite my foray into medical drama, I consider myself lucky: lucky to have had D around to shepherd me through a process I don't think I would've made it through on my own on Saturday morning, and to stay with me all day in the ER; lucky to have friends here in SF who drove me to my doctor's office, brought me ginger ale and bland food, showered me with offers of help, <span style="font-style: italic;">anything, any hour, just call</span>. I'm lucky to be young (-ish) and healthy, these kidney stones aside, lucky that I wasn't dealt a crappy hand in terms of major medical issues. And I'm damn lucky to have insurance that will at least offset part of the costs of what I've just gone through, however hideous those costs may be.<br /><br />At the risk of stating the overly obvious, it's depressing and painful to contemplate how many millions of people right here within our borders are nowhere near that lucky.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-66102295037370995482009-09-26T20:36:00.000-07:002009-09-26T21:50:15.635-07:00Changing the QuestionI'm staring down the end of the <a href="http://www.hungerchallenge.com/">Hunger Challenge</a> as I write this, and I have to admit to both a huge dollop of relief and a pang of loss. Believe me, I am so excited to be able to eat with fewer restrictions as soon as Sunday rolls around that I'm more than a bit tempted to watch the clock strike 12 and then celebrate with a hunk of cheese and a glass of bourbon. But there has been something grounding, and something extremely eye-opening, about this past week that will inevitably be lost when my food budget balloons past $4 a day once again.<br /><br />The question I started with this week was, "Is it possible to eat on $4 a day?" (For those catching up, this is the average daily amount food stamp recipients in California get.) Then I changed that question slightly, to "Is it possible to eat more or less locally, organically, and very healthfully on $4 a day?"<br /><br />When, early in the week, I realized that the answer to both permutations of that question would, for me, be a resounding "No," my challenge became to experience just how hungry it's possible to get if, in fact, you try to stick with the healthy, local, organic thing on $4 a day. The answer, in short: Very, very hungry. Literally painfully hungry. Hungry enough that you unwittingly shed pounds, lose the ability to focus and think clearly at times, get tired more quickly, and have to deal with a rumbling stomach with relatively alarming frequency.<br /><br />[As an aside, I will say here that several other folks who took this year's Hunger Challenge (you can find a list of their blogs and Twitter feeds on the left side of the <a href="http://www.hungerchallenge.com/">HC webpage</a>) seem to have made it through within budget, and eating fairly well. Some admit to "cheating." Some took planned breaks from the Challenge. I recommend taking a peek at a few of the other participants' blogs--very interesting stuff.]<br /><br />Having grown somewhat acclimated to that nagging hunger (though not nearly acclimated enough not to celebrate its coming demise), and fully acknowledging that this week has been an experiment from which I've always had an escape hatch--the ability to blow my budget if I wanted to, coupled with the knowledge that this is a project with a set end point, not my everyday reality--I want to change the question yet again, and this time to splinter it into several.<br /><br />How, in a country as insanely rich as the U.S. (economic downturn notwithstanding), can so many people go so hungry? There were about 34 million food stamp recipients as of April 2009--up 20% over April 2008. And that's only the folks who qualify for food stamps. According to the San Francisco Food Bank, "<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="">In California, a single person is eligible to receive food stamps, only if their yearly gross income is $14,079 or less. A 2-person household is eligible only if they make $18,941 or less. And a family of 4 can't have more than $28,665 in income." This means that if you live in San Francisco and, as a one-person household, make $14,100, you're ineligible.<br /><br />Will we ever be able to fix what's broken with our food system--farmers who grow crops they know will have to go to waste (but for which they'll be paid anyway, due to subsidies), factory farms that are disasters for animals, employees, and the environment alike, increasingly packaged and processed foods that often seem like the least expensive options? Will we reach a point at which it's possible for anyone who wants to commit to eating locally and organically to do so, regardless of their income level?<br /><br />And, most pressingly, do I have the power here to change any of this?<br /><br />Maybe not the big stuff: there's not a whole lot I alone can do to change California's food stamp policies (among the most convoluted and restrictive in the nation) or to make responsibly produced food cheaper or to even begin to have any impact whatsoever on national agricultural legislation.<br /><br />But there's the small stuff. How many times do I pass the Food Bank collection bin in Rainbow without putting a few cans or boxes of food in it? Um, all the time. I vow to change that. When was the last time I volunteered to be on a food bank crew for a day? Uh, circa 1998, with Otis and DaveG. I think 11 years between shifts is more than long enough.<br /><br />What the Food Bank needs the most, though, more than the occasional few cans of non-perishables and the occasional handful of volunteer hours (though both, I know, are greatly appreciated), is donations. They're able to exact an impressively high rate of return: for a $20 donation, they can provide $180 worth of groceries to San Franciscans who, unlike me, aren't just experimenting by eating on a budget.<br /><br />So I'm wrapping up this fascinating, painful, engrossing week by <a href="https://org2.democracyinaction.org/o/5420/shop/custom.jsp?donate_page_KEY=447&track=HUNGERCHALLENGE">making a $40 gift to the San Francisco Food Bank</a>, in honor of this experience and in honor of my mom's upcoming birthday (October 7). I am amazingly fortunate to have grown up never knowing hunger, no matter how tight things sometimes got, and to have parents who have always fed and nourished me, both literally and figuratively. Mom, thank you, and I love you.<br /><br />I don't need to tell you all (though, of course, I will anyway) that for the price of one meal out, or a halfway decent bottle of wine, or a few fancy ice cream cones, or a slab of high-quality cheese, or insert-your-own-indulgent-foodstuff-here--for the price of any of this, just once, you can do a lot to support a food bank that's working to battle hunger in your area. If you've been following my Hunger Challenge adventures this week, I truly hope you'll consider making a donation--no matter how great or modest--to a hunger-relief program in your community. (You can find one by using <a href="http://feedingamerica.org/foodbank-results.aspx">Feeding America's online directory</a>.)<br /><br />I hope you'll also consider trying the $4-per-person-per-day challenge at some point, even if only for a day or two. It's both jarring and immensely enlightening.<br /><br />Oh, and my final tally for the week? $28.97, and a profound understanding of how fortunate I am to be able to call this just an experiment, and to call it done.<br /></span></span>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-56728846412449942062009-09-25T20:49:00.000-07:002009-09-25T21:12:52.576-07:00Anti-SocialThis afternoon (Day 6 of the <a href="http://www.hungerchallenge.com">Hunger Challenge</a>), as I left the gym and contemplated the evening ahead, I realized there was very little I could do by way of socializing that would not involve blowing my food budget--which, truth be told, was already looking a bit threadbare, due to the luxury of a Larabar for lunch ($1.29). I couldn't have dinner with friends (at least not a dinner in which I could eat what they did), couldn't go out for drinks, couldn't have people over for drinks. Going to a movie might've been a possibility, provided I didn't eat or drink anything during the show. No thanks.<br /><br />Then I looked back at the past few days and thought about the other socializing opportunities I'd had to sacrifice in the name of eating within a $4-per-day budget. I couldn't go to Cav on Monday to celebrate its 4th anniversary with a glass of champagne, because even though the champagne would have been free, everything else would've cost me. (Plus, technically, I suppose even the bubbly would have had to count.) On Wednesday, I begged out of the once-monthly social get-together I have with some of my fellow organizers here in SF because whether we went out or ate in somewhere, I'd have to stick with water. Last night: cheapest just to stay in. Tonight, I'm craving a drink and some company, but I have 27 cents left in the day's coffers.<br /><br />It's funny (except that it's not): when I imagined how this project would go, I visualized collective dinners, an occasional glass of (very, very cheap) wine, and less impact on my ability to go out and have fun (or stay in and have fun, for that matter). And so we come to another thing I've always taken for granted: the ability to spend money on food and drink as a form of entertainment and communing with friends.<br /><br />I'm ready for this week to end as much because I'll be able to actually be able to go out and engage in the sort of socializing I usually do (i.e., the sort that involves food and drink) as because I'm tired of eating each meal with a calculator at my side.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3414780.post-31467393218254925692009-09-24T15:43:00.000-07:002009-09-24T16:43:12.355-07:00Time Slows, Annoyance GrowsIt's Day 500--er, Day 5--of the <a href="http://www.hungerchallenge.com">Hunger Challenge</a>, and the passage of time has all but ceased.<br /><br />Today has been an in-the-office day for me, and typically on days like this, I'll look at the clock at, say, 10 a.m. and then discover, approximately five minutes later, that it's 1.30 p.m. Today, notsomuch. Regardless of the fact that I'm both getting a bunch of stuff done and obliterating a fair amount of time on Facebook and the like, the minutes have lengthened to hours. I had breakfast around 8.30--the same bowl of cereal that managed to do a decent job yesterday of filling me up for a few hours--and found myself hungry again less than an hour later. I promised myself I'd wait until noon for lunch, and that turned out to be a vow with painful repercussions, as it took about a day and a half for the numbers in the corner of my computer screen to creep to 12.00. And, of course, any feeling of satiety disappeared within the hour.<br /><br />There doesn't really seem to be an escape from this lingering hunger. Exercising keeps it at bay temporarily, and then, of course, exacerbates it. Busying myself with work and chores gives me something to do but doesn't quiet my stomach. Even sleep can only do so much: this morning, though I would gladly have slept more to delay the need to eat, I got so hungry that I couldn't convince my body to go unconscious again. (There's a French phrase that keeps floating back to me: <span style="font-style: italic;">dormir c'est manger</span>--to sleep is to eat. Evidently that only goes so far.)<br /><br />I will acknowledge here again that there are things I could do to cut my food costs further in order to be able to eat more. I could go conventional and processed, could cut out coffee (or go the non-Fair Trade, non-sustainable route), could cut out fruits and veggies (second to coffee in terms of expense). But, of course, I'm too stubborn for that, and would (somewhat twistedly) rather deal with a few more days of hunger than give up the part of this Challenge that has let me realize just how vast the divide between Truly Good Food and Truly Affordable Food is.<br /><br />Which brings us to the source of my annoyance. If you are a person of limited means who wants to avoid food grown with pesticides or trucked in from thousands of miles away, food that's overly processed or packaged, meat from animals that have been raised in cruelty, or stuff from Big Agra, you're kind of hosed.<br /><br />With a few exceptions, food that's grown and produced in a way that's healthy and sustainable for the land from which it comes, that's cruelty-free for the animals behind (or in) it, that comes from the small, local farms and makers I think many of us would like to support if we could, and that's good for the people who grow, pick, process, package, and sell it--food like this does not come cheap. Some of it is laughably expensive: there's not a visit I make to Rainbow Grocery that does not have me stumbling across something that's so pricey it stops me in my tracks. And some of it is just expensive enough not to make sense if what you're truly concerned with is cost: if you're hungry and on a budget, why would you go for the organic plums at $3 a pound when the conventional ones cost a third of that?<br /><br />There's a big, complex, difficult, frustrated argument to make here about how broken our whole system of growing, subsidizing, processing, packaging, and distributing food is. I, alas, am too spaced out this week to summon the brain power to even attempt to make that argument with any degree of eloquence or sense. (Besides, I think it's safe to say that <a href="http://bit.ly/O1Ktb">many</a> <a href="http://www.michaelpollan.com/">others</a> <a href="http://www.terryskitchen.net/clean-food/">have</a> <a href="http://bit.ly/RRdAH">made</a> <a href="http://bit.ly/mm3wL">it</a> <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/63283/super-size-me">before</a> <a href="http://www.foodincmovie.com/">me</a>, to much greater impact.)<br /><br />But I'll just say that that argument has played out for me this week in the form of the realization that when you're eating on a very limited food budget (and perhaps relying on the generosity of others to supplement it), you have to choose to either eat organically, locally, and sustainably or to eat <span style="font-weight: bold;">enough</span>. Were this more than a one-week experiment for me, I don't think that would be a particularly hard choice.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09246087955981774501noreply@blogger.com6