May Blogs 2008
May 30, 2008
The Ideal
I am making myself the corniest music mix in the world. I’ve reached the point where not even poetry or narrative can ignite me, and I’m sitting for hours with my arms wrapped around myself, listening to music. How many hours I’ve spent curled in a fetal position, listening to music. I would love one day to be able to teach people about the healing properties of poetry, how poetry can be used in the same way music can, to wash over you and remap your synapses, jumpstart your heart and tickle your head. I reread Donald Hall’s _Without_, the memoir for his wife, Jane Kenyon, who died of cancer. And that’s enough poetry for me today. Moral of Donald Hall’s gorgeous poetic memoir: You can still talk to the dead. In poetic form. You can gossip with the dead, chronicle your life for them, write them letters. Also read Jennifer Wiener’s newest book, a sequel to _Good in Bed_ called _Certain Girls_. For the most part I enjoy her work, although I do think it’s a bit sappy and trite and melodramatic. I like her literary sensibilities, how she employes literary techniques such as imagery, symbolism, allegory. There’s always a point in her fiction where I feel she takes it too far. I’m with her up until a point in the narrative, and then we’ve crossed into Jacqueline Susann territory. One of the things I admire about Rod is how he so staunchly stands by his past. He cannot be mocked out of his love for Jethro Tull or for the small New Jersey town where we grew up. I’m compiling a music mix, the soundtrack of my earliest childhood, made of ’70s supergroups and music that my parents listened to, like the Beatles. This means the mix is somewhat schizophrenic and can include both Dolly Parton and KISS. Remembering a poem by James Fenton today: The Ideal This is where I came from. I passed this way. This should not be shameful or hard to say. A self is a self. It is not a screen. A person whould respect what he has been. This is my past which I shall not discard. This is the ideal. This is hard.
May 28, 2008
Foggy Rock Lobster Bottom
It’s official: I’m clinically depressed. Thanks, Doc, for the validation. And the prescription. I’m suffering Major Depression and I walked out of the office yesterday evening with drugs, which I was instructed to ingest at breakfast once a day. This morning I took an antidepressant pill for the first time in my life. Apparently, this is the Ferrari of antidepressants. It has a lyrical name with a lot of vowel sounds in it, which is appropriate for a poet of Italian descent. I didn’t realize until today that I have bottomed out. I’ve been talking about falling apart, how I feel I’m in a deep well. Well, there’s no question of me holding it together anymore. I am not okay. I am not fine. I need help, and time, and patience. I’m Rilke’s crystal cup that shattered even as it rang. After I sat through a two-hour staff meeting like a zombie, my boss requested a meeting in his office, where I promptly burst into tears. Negotiated a leave of absence from my day job. I’m blogging this when I *should* be sitting in the seminar I booked on How to Submit a Nonfiction Book Proposal. This is the thing that drives me craziest about depression. I try to arrange good things for myself, to lift myself up. And then I can’t make myself do them. I don’t know if talking to the psychiatrist made me feel better or worse. In a way, there’s relief in someone telling me, “You’re not imagining it. You hurt all over because depression compromises your body’s ability to block pain.” or “Naturally you can’t concentrate or hold a conversation. You’re not inventing this: your frontal lobe is becoming affected by the depression.” Lobe. Serotonin. Symptom Management. Woman Against the Machine. If this were the nineteenth century, I’d be a screaming spinster in her family’s attic. I’m staying home and reading Pablo Neruda, a poet who believed that there was no such thing as unassailable solitude. And I can’t believe that I’m actually craving Anne Carson’s _Autobiography of Red_, a book that I have literally thrown on the floor and danced on, in my hatred of it. More than once! I hate the book, but I’ve read it twice, and now I want to read it again. I have to face the fact that I deeply enjoy arguing with Anne Carson. Why do I hate _Autobiography of Red_? For one, I can’t stand the constrained tone and voice. Geryon is a winged red monster, for pity’s sake. His poetic voice should sound like Johnny Rotten’s. No future. Also, for a novel that’s set in verse, there’s something so *muted* about the narrative; the cataclysmic events of Geryon’s transformation are narrated in these long lines that lull the reader, and then in the short lines that are supposed to pack the punch…they just read like the dramatic pauses prepubescent girls insert into their conversation, to give unearned spark to pedestrian revelations. And I get the whole juxtaposition of form and content thing, how the most startling ideas can be even more incendiary when they’re cloaked in unassuming guises. But I am Italian, and for me sometimes more is more. Which is why I like Chagall, and why I try again and again to like opera. There’s something so punk rock about the excess of opera that I want to enjoy and appreciate, but just don’t. Yet. I did reach out to the middle sister tonight, and she was entirely compassionate as I blubbered into the phone, asking her, “You’ve known me all my life. Was I always this crazy? Wasn’t I ever happy?” It scares me to be so vulnerable. That’s why I do it; I try to do one thing each day that scares me. Because I’m such a nutcase, that isn’t a difficult agenda. Sometimes it frightens me to go into the bodega for a cup of coffee.
May 26, 2008
Fresh Turmeric Is Among Us
Yesterday was a day of multiple wonders. And sneeziness. Whatever the hell’s blooming, I wish it would stop. When I reflect on exactly how grumpy I was yesterday, it seems unfair to anyone who had to interact with me, namely Rod, who exercised all his ingenuity to get me out of the apartment. Not an easy task, when I’ve got a stack of library books that are brain candy titles like the newest Louis Sachar book (a companion to _Holes_) and a frothy Meg Cabot concoction called _Pants on Fire_. He knows that I’m a fragrance whore, and that when he says the words, “We can stop by the Fragrance Shop on East 7th Street,” my heart starts to pitter patter. So I slathered on the eyeliner and hauled my agoraphobic behind down to the East Village, where Rod purchased a fetching linen fedora so that he won’t sweat to death wearing a wool hat in summertime. We also located fresh turmeric root in one of the Indian groceries on First Avenue. I’d stopped there looking for multani matti to wash my face with, and lo! There was the unassuming root, nestled in a basket in front of the store, next to the Indian mangoes, modestly basking in the slanting light from the afternoon sun. I have been looking for fresh turmeric for the eight years I’ve been living in this city, and now I’ve got some. Apparently I’m not the only one who loves turmeric so much that she wants to bathe in it, either. It’s an antiseptic and it quickens the blood, so it makes a great ingredient for a body scrub. If you’ve never tasted the gorgeousness of fresh turmeric, just think of the difference between fresh and powdered ginger and then you can imagine how lovely my incipient curries will be. We stopped and had a celebratory beer in D.B.A. (or Rod did, anyway. I’m kind of off alcohol at the moment.), and then headed down to Cafe Katja, an Austrian restaurant on the Lower East Side that we’ve been meaning to try. I accompany Rod to all these taste tests of German restaurants, even though, for the most part, I really loathe German food. I’m a recovering vegetarian, and I just can’t get it up for meat. It takes a lot for me to turn off a cuisine. I give it five tries, at five different restaurants, eating five different dishes. Usually I can find something that I like. In German restaurants, it’s spaetzle. But now that I can make spaetzle at home, with carmelized onions and buttery cabbage, I have become very finicky about the kind of spaetzle I will eat. Besides, Cafe Katja is so close to Chinatown, I could hear the dumplings and noodles and steamed pork buns crying out to me in a veritable symphony of soy-laden savory goodness. And I mourned for the Asian food that would not be mine that night. And also, as I wrote earlier, I was very sneezy yesterday. I haven’t smelled anything in four days, which means I haven’t tasted anything, either. Which means that the only thing I care about right now is coffee. We took a seat at the bar, where the bartender tried to sell me on a rhubarb cocktail. I do not like rhubarb, and I told him flat out that it sounded vile, even if it did include hibiscus (which I love). Whereupon he redirected his efforts to Rod, who is easy to satisfy by giving him a very hoppy beer. I ended up ordering a soft pretzel, which came with sour cream and a spread called Liptauer. I am here to tell you that Liptauer is the only substance in four days that has penetrated my allergy-laden fog of total lack of taste. It leapt lightly onto my palette with a tang of cornichon and a zazzy bite of onion, both of which were cuddled in a soft white creamy cheese spiced with paprika. Rod reminded me that we’ve had this particular spread at Ludwig’s Garten in Philadelphia, which has the distinction of being the only German restaurant in America that I actually get excited about going to (their spaetzle is unparalleled). It’s understandable that everything about Ludwig’s pales in comparison to the cheeky things they get up to with egg pasta, but now that I’ve remembered about Liptauer, I’m wild to create it in my own kitchen. I think it would make an awesome savory spread for scones, since it has the same consistency as clotted cream. It starts with a soft white cheese called Quark. First thing this morning, I looked on Chowhound and hit the Manhattan board to find out where to purchase this cheese. Turns out it’s available at the Whole Foods in Columbus Circle, which is a short walk from our apartment. Hurrah! You might recall that Rod and I made taralles from scratch just last week, and you’ll say to yourself, “I spot a theme.” Which is that I cook for fun on my days off, and I try to rope Rod into helping me. Today I think it would be great to make our own pretzels and Liptauer to dip them in. Rod thinks of such things as pretzels merely as foil for beer, so I’m going to have to pitch it to him in terms he’ll understand: “Let’s go to Whole Foods and cruise their beer selection.” Last night we watched Wes Anderson’s “Darjeeling Limited,” which I enjoyed. My fave of his is still “The Royal Tenenbaums,” seconded by “Bottle Rocket.” I know no ‘poo news has been thin on the ground lately on this blog, but that’s because, after the initial investment of time and energy figuring out a strategy, no ‘poo is the lazy person’s godsend when it comes to hair care. Now that my scalp has detoxed, all I’ve had to do to my hair in the last three days is brush it. I haven’t even had to wash it with water. It’s official: Shampoo is totally unnecessary. I have an appointment with a psychiatrist tomorrow and I’m nervous about it.
May 24, 2008
Another Radiant Day
If I could just get enough time to myself, perhaps I would not need antidepressants. I’m perfectly fine as long as I don’t have to leave my house… I’ve been having a thoroughly marvelous time today, playing one of my favorite games: what can I get rid of in the apartment while Rod is off doing something else? This game is second in preference only to the elaborate jigsaw puzzle of cleaning the refrigerator, which I do every week. I have often had cause to wonder whether I have a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder, so enamored am I of Pyrex dishes that stack and nest. Reading Francesca Lia Block’s _Ruby_, which is wonderful. I don’t quite like any of her books as much as I like _Weetzie Bat_, but I have enjoyed all of her books except _Necklace of Kisses_, which seemed forced. _Ruby_ is about a young girl who leaves her abusive family and embarks on a journey of transformation. Sounds like my life, and the life of many of my favorite people. One of the ideas that I love in this book is the notion that, when you come from an abusive family, you get the idea that you are not safe anywhere, since home, which is supposed to be sanctuary, is tainted and dangerous. I hadn’t realized exactly how much of that sentiment went into forming my worldview, until September 11, 2001, when it occurred to me that I didn’t feel any more victimized or outraged than usual; my innocence was punctured long before the Twin Towers fell. And I immediately began to address what I could do to create sanctuary inside myself, so that it would always be with me. Middling results with those efforts; the predator inside is very strong. If I could be more authentic in my interactions with other people, perhaps I would not need to spend so much time by myself in order to recharge. Makes me think of one of my favorite Tony Hoagland poems:
Social Life
After the party ends another party begins
and the survivors of the first party climb
into the second one as if it were a lifeboat
to carry them away from their slowly sinking ship.
Behind me now my friend Richard
is getting a fresh drink, putting on more music
moving from group to group—smiles and
jokes, laughter, kissy-kiss—
It is not given to me to understand
the social pleasures of my species, but I think
what he gets from these affairs
is what bees get from flowers—a nudging of the stamen,
a sprinkle of pollen
about the head and shoulders— whereas I prefer the feeling of going away, going away,
stretching out my distance from the voices and the lights
until the tether breaks and I
am in the wild sweet dark
where the sea breeze sizzles in the hedgetop
and the big weed heads whose names I never learned
lift and nod upon their stalks.
What I like about the trees is how
they do not talk about the failure of their parents
and what I like about the grasses is that
they are not grasses in recovery
and what I like about the flowers is
that they are not flowers in need of
empowerment or validation. They sway
upon their thorny stems
as if whatever was about to happen next tonight
was sure to be completely interesting— the moon rising like an ivory tusk,
a few funky molecules of skunk
strolling through the air
to mingle with the aura of a honeysuckle bush,
and when they bump together in my nose,
I want to raise my head and sing,
I’m a child in paradise again
when you touch me like that, baby,
but instead, I stand still and listen
to the breeze departing from the upper story of a tree
and the hum of insects in the field,
letting everything else have a word, and then another word,
because silence is always good manners
and often a clever thing to say
when you are at a party.
Friday May 23, 2008
C’mon Everybody
I feel rinsed clean now that I’ve had the day to read and write. Mostly write. I’m working on a series of poems about Don. What’s been messing me up the most is to feel that I have no right to mourn him, since Don and I were not in each other’s lives for the last ten years or so. I couldn’t claim my grief and so my grief seized me and wrestled me to a standstill like a terrible angel, the dark gift of this sorrow rolling out of her mouth, an undiscovered planet. I was trying to explain this to the middle sister when she kept saying, “Oh, it’s so terrible that you’re depressed! That’s terrible!” There are worse things than being depressed. It doesn’t feel good, obviously, but if you dive into it and explore it, it is far less frightening than the horse shit we have to put up with every day for the sake of polite society…well, let me refer you to Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck.” She said it first and she said it better, so I won’t pursue this vein of thought. I’ll confine myself to remarking that I would rather be entirely by myself, unshowered and steeped in my own misery and decoding my own darkness, than do a lot of things, including but not limited to attending a cotillion, frat party, business meeting, or family reunion. I’ve been listening over and over again to the Indigo Girls’s song about Virginia Woolf, returning to those lines, “the apathy of time laughs in my face…each life has its place.” That’s what we want, isn’t it? To know that we matter, to know that the people we love can never truly disappear, but hold their place in the universe. I have so much to thank Don for. I will be singing that gratitude long and loud for the rest of my life.
C’mon, Everybody
Now that you are dead, the only thing
I can do is play “C’mon Everybody” on the uke.
Remember how you, as Johnny D.A., Performed it in the high school talent show,
Slick pompadour gleaming.
Screaming girls receding from my glare.
Back off, he’s mine.
Time hasn’t dimmed my love
shunted aside when we broke up;
like magma, it’s shifted the ground under me.
C’mon Everybody, you sang. Let’s have a party.
We will all crash this one last bash
and you got there first
wearing a shiny suit of stars,
your hair black as deep space.
I imagine the spark of you.
Unhampered by flesh, you are
everywhere. Free
for mischief, puckish
grin, all shimmer and twinkle and instigation.
C’mon, everybody. C’mon. Remember
we are all trembling through one another’s hands.
Between Angels
After re-reading Li-Young Lee’s ravishing book of poems, _Rose_, I’ve decided what the companion tattoo to my peony will be. I’ve been planning to get a peony tattoo on my right shoulder, to symbolize the wealth and felicity of marriage. On my left, a chrysanthemum, to honor the dead. I’m reading more poetry than anything else because it is the language of high emotion; also because I can’t think or speak in complete sentences lately. I’m memorizing this poem by Stephen Dunn:
Between Angels
Between angels, on this earth
absurdly between angels, I
try to navigate
in the bluesy middle ground
of desire and withdrawal,
in the industrial air,
among the bittersweet
efforts of people to connect,
make sense, endure.
The angels out there,
what are they?
Old helpers, half-believed,
or dazzling better selves,
imagined, that I turn away from
as if I preferred
all the ordinary, dispiriting
tasks at hand?
I shop in the cold
neon aisles
thinking of pleasure,
I kiss my paycheck
a mournful kiss goodbye t
hinking of pleasure,
in the evening replenish
my drink, make a choice
to read or love or watch,
and increasingly I watch.
I do not mind living
like this. I cannot bear
living like this.
Oh, everything’s true
at different times
in the capacious day,
just as I don’t forget
and always forget
half the people in the world
are dispossessed.
Here chestnut oaks
and tenements
make their unequal claims.
Someone thinks of betrayal.
A child spills her milk,
I’m on my knees cleaning it up– sponge, squeeze, I change nothing,
just move it around.
The inconsequential floor is beginning to shine.
Monday May 19, 2008
Climbing Out of the Well of Despair
Ongoing process, obviously, but here’s what I’ve done so far to lift the fog of self loathing: 1. Made an appointment with a psychiatrist to discuss the option of taking antidepressants. 2. Baked chocolate chunk brownies. 3. Concocted a parsley-rosemary hair tonic in an effort to a)clean out the refrigerator, and b) make my hair shine. 4. Enrolled in a memoir-writing course. Hell, if I’m going to be self-obsessed, I might as well get paid to write about my life. 5. Chucked the James Wright poetry book on the floor. Can only stand the greatest hits of James Wright, and certainly nothing that has masculine end rhymes. 6. Got some books of essays from the library: Nick Hornby’s _Housekeeping vs. the Dirt_, and Susan Reinhardt’s _Not Tonight, Honey: Wait ’til I’m a Size 6_. 7. Admitted to myself the deep ambivalence I have about performing, and how that might affect bellydancing. 8. Encountered the mysterious fact that, overnight, my hair has consumed the moisture that plagued it yesterday, entirely of its own accord, or else the hair fairies have been sleep styling again. Woke up looking like a magazine ad for Bumble and Bumble. Am afraid even to brush it for fear the magic will evaporate. 9. Cheered out loud after reading the titular poem of Stephen Dunn’s _Between Angels_ and have decided to memorize the poem so I can spread the gospel of Dunn to those who have never heard of him. 10. Ate an avocado and hummus sandwich. 11. Broke the news to myself that my agoraphobia is at an all-time high. Nearly had a panic attack walking the two blocks to the library and back. Wonder how I’m going to teach a grammar course tonight? 12. Spoke sternly to myself regarding caffeine consumption: Five cups of coffee for breakfast is not helping a) irritability, b) jumping out of my skin whenever I encounter the outside world or other people who aren’t Rod. 13. Put Rod on a pedestal. Worshipped him. I am not worthy. 14. Scoured eBay for cat’s eye frames, akin to neverending quest for holy grail of perfection of eyewear so I can stop wearing contact lenses: one of Janeane Garofaolo’s tips for women over 30 is to embrace attractiveness by donning eyeglasses. 15. Reread _Bridget Jones’s Diary_ in hopes that Fielding’s literary prowess will enter me osmotically.
Sunday May 18, 2008
Alien Dream
I woke up at 8:00 this morning with an asthma attack after having a dream that my family were aliens who puked bile on me to paralyze me and then tried to eat me. This is the fun part of depression, when the unconscious mind plays the fool. This dream could be because I had a conversation with the middle sister last night, who is disturbingly similar to my parents in that she takes offense when I don’t share the particulars of my mental illness with her. It goes like this: “You’re feeling depressed? Why didn’t you call ME?” The funny thing is that I had called her, and because she never checks her messages she didn’t call me back. So I was able to say, “I did call you. And wouldn’t you feel stupid if I stepped in front of a truck because you didn’t call me back when I was depressed?” Almost a month of going no ‘poo, which I started on Earth Day April 22. This week I skipped the shikakai, as my scalp seems fine. This morning I washed with hot water, did a scalp massage, and then rinsed with white vinegar and a few drops of tea tree oil. My roots are oiler than they would have been if I’d just left them alone. I’m going to try to stretch the shikakai scrub to once every two weeks instead of once a week. Honestly I think my hair really likes being left alone. It seems to do best just with vigorous brushing and a little cornstarch. Note for those of you trying this: Styling gels or mousses that have petrochemicals in them can throw off your results; the only way to get chemicals out of your hair is with more chemicals. If you must use styling products, go as natural as possible. There was a fairly recent article, from February, in the New York Times about how more and more New York salons are encouraging patrons to shampoo only once a week. This is because many girls are getting towering beehive hairdos a la Amy Winehouse and then letting the ‘dos come undone over the week. Hot. I’ve been waiting all my life for beehives to come back in fashion. I’m also trying out a DIY deodorant made of baking soda, cornstarch, and lavender oil. I haven’t been doing anything too strenuous this morning, so I’m still shower fresh. This formula looks gnarly with black clothes, so I’m going to have to put this powder in a base of shea butter or cocoa butter, otherwise all my clothes will have white streaks on them. I am proud to report that Melissa Voodoo held down the fort at Tribal Fest and performed last night. We agree that we perform better together, though. There’s a maniac energy we conjure when we’re bouncing ideas off each other. I think I had this alien dream in part because Melissa and I are pondering an intergalactic bellydance choreography. If any of you want to see the Voodoo Sisters perform in the near future, we’ll be at Spring Caravan on June 7. I plan to have my head on straight by that time. P.S. I’m also noodling around with Bon Jovi’s “Wanted:Dead or Alive” on the uke, and I feel it my duty to tell you that I rock megahard on that tune.
Saturday May 17, 2008
What I’m Doing Instead of Dancing at Tribal Fest
- Brushing my hair with a boar bristle brush (not too much or it stirs up the oils–the idea is to distribute the oil evenly. Brush twice a day.) 2. Watching reruns of the cartoon of the Tick. Ben Edlund is my hero. 3. Baking taralles (Rod helped. They burned thanks to our schizophrenic oven, and they’re not as crunchy as I want them. Next time I’ll try brushing them with an egg wash.) 4. Listening to episodes of This American Life. 5. Writing poetry. 6. Reading poetry: _Rose_ by Li-Young Lee, _Saint Judas_ by James Wright, _Between Angels_ by Stephen Dunn, and an anthology of ghazals in English called _Ravishing Disunities_. 7. Dreaming about a poetry/dance event featuring bellydance and ghazals. 8. Crying until I throw up. 9. Cooking rava uppma with watercress and red lentils. 10. Adding to my uke repertoire: “All My Lovin’” by the Beatles, “I’ll Fly Away” by Alison Kraus. (My strumming continues to suck) 11. Reading David Sedaris. 12. Talking to my friends who are calling me in panic because I’ve blogged about how flipping depressed I am. 13. Attending the 9th Avenue Food Festival to sample brownies from the Little Pie Company. 14. Researching how to make my own creamy deodorant in a base of shea butter and almond oil. Going to try to duplicate the scent from Lush that I like, which has ylang ylang and cassie absolute, as well as lychees. 15. Gloating because I have successfully washed The Man out of my hair. It’s much less greasy than last week. 16. Fixing English muffin pizzas for lunch. 17. Singing. 18. Flirting with my husband. 19. Mucking out the stall of my childhood trauma with my own two hands. 20. Listening to tarantella records.
Friday May 16, 2008
Depression Is Boring
I am depressed. I mean really depressed. The kind of depression that means I have to explain to everyone what the hell is going on with me, because I clearly can’t function at normal capacity. My inner Elvis has not only left the building, he has vacated the premises in his underwear, his shiny jumpsuits and spiffy hairdo nowhere to be seen. The best anyone’s getting these days is a vacant stare. The kind of depression that makes me call out of work, stop eating, stop showering. The kind of depression that means I’m either sleeping twelve hours at a time or I’m awake long after everyone else is asleep, rising early with my demons forking me off the mattress scratchy-eyed and with a spiritual itch that brands me like a fire that never goes out. The kind of depression that hisses encouragement like, “Just walk into traffic. Your husband is better off without you. He deserves better than you.” I cancelled my trip to California for Tribal Fest. My dance partner is being wonderful about it, and miraculously she doesn’t hate me because I’m having a flipping meltdown and can’t even fathom performing right now. I can’t understand why I ever wanted to perform. I can’t even leave my apartment without suffering a panic attack. I feel like a five-year-old crouching on the floor with my hands over my eyes crying, “You can’t see me!” So forgive me if I don’t call you back when you call me. I still love you; I just hate myself. I haven’t had a depression this bad in about ten years, but for most of my twenties my depression was so debilitating that I couldn’t work full time. I managed to work in the corporate environment for ten years only by sustaining multiple addictions that tamped down my neuroses. As soon as I started peeling away those addictions, I was right back where I started. Not functional. If I didn’t know better, I’d go pick up a pack of cigarettes right now.
Tuesday May 06, 2008
No ’Poo Day 14
Day 14 of the No ‘Poo experiment. Before I started this, I used to shampoo my hair every day. If I was stretching it, every other day. About two months ago, in preparation for this detox period, i started going two days in between shampoos. Now my hair looks healthier, more full of body. Definitely fewer flyaways, particularly in the humid weather. My scalp does not appear to have reset itself back to the Edenic days of infancy yet, because I’m still getting greasy two days after I wash it. So I’m using a combination of water-only washes or Powder Puff at the roots and brazening out the detox period. Maybe I’m fooling myself, but it seems other people are too absorbed with their own lives, thank gods, to focus on the state of my hair. So I can carry out this research in peace without worrying that polite society will shun me. This only works because I am largely estranged from my family, who point out the tiniest defects in my appearance and/or character as a matter of course and, it seems, for entertainment. We’ll be at Rod’s family this weekend, and I must say my resolve not to shampoo is quailing a bit in the face of the social obligation. I’m already a childless, freelancing, Wiccan, tattooed, pierced, bellydancing in-law; I don’t want to add DIRTY and UNKEMPT to the list of offenses. I will definitely be using the shikakai again on Saturday. Yesterday I rinsed with water in which I’d put about 7 drops of lavender essential oil. I was astonished to find that the oil actually seemed to help my hair degrease. Benefits of No ‘Poo: No split ends Fewer flyaways Gives hair body Saves time in the shower. Saves water. Saves $$. Reduces consumption of plastic containers that hair products come in. No SLS chemicals, which are bad for the earth, your health, and apparently your appearance, too. My skin has never looked better. Drawbacks of No ‘Poo: Adjustment period can take up to two months, during which time you will have to have sufficient aplomb to carry on with your life in spite of bad hair days. Or wear a lot of hats. Must be willing to devote time to experimentation and figuring out which combination of techniques will work for you. This is not a one-size-fits-all process. I am so exhilarated by it that I am investigating making my own toiletries, such as shave gel, moisturizer, and even deodorant. Some DIY recipes: Shave gel: Carrier oil such as jojoba oil, olive oil, castor oil 5-10 drops essential oil of your choice per ounce of carrier oil 1/8 tsp. glycerin per ounce of carrier oil Facial moisturizer: 4 tbsp. beeswax 8 tbsp. cocoa butter 4 tbsp. jojoba oil 2 tsp. distilled water essential oil that’s good for your skin type Melt the beeswax, then mix all ingredients together.
Sunday May 04, 2008
Great Day
Yesterday was a fun day. Rod made an escarole/caper/kalamata olive omelette for breakfast. Then we puttered around while waiting for the seltzer delivery (you may remember that in our effort to go plastic free we are getting reusable glass bottles delivered). I went to the library book sale and stocked up on some books I’ve been intending to read, which have been recommended to me, such as _Confederacy of Dunces_, and _The Red Tent_. Also got the newest Artemis Fowl book. I love that children’s series about ass-kicking fairies who are armed to the teeth and live at the center of the Earth, and Eoin Colfer is my hero. He was a junior high school teacher for years and years, and then his Artemis Fowl series got so popular that he was able to concentrate full time on writing. In the interest of full disclosure, I also got Sophie Kinsella’s _The Undomestic Goddess_. I hate to admit it, but I remember the plots of some of the trashy novels I’ve read better than the plots of the Shakespeare I studied and wrote papers on in college. And I wonder if the difference between literature and pulp fiction isn’t about 100 years. After all, Ann Radcliffe’s novels were seen as pulp fiction when they were published, and now they are classics of gothic fiction. One of the other little gems waiting for me at the library book sale was _The Thousand Recipe Chinese Cookbook_. Now I can complete my agenda of learning to cook decent Chinese food at home, a project that I started in my twenties, and which has met with minimal success so far just using recipes from the Moosewood cookbooks. In the afternoon, Rod and I took a walk to Kalustyan’s to pick up some shikakai and other goodies. He had never seen the place, and it’s one of my favorite places to be in the city, so I was glad to introduce him to it. It is very crowded in there on the weekends and therefore not so relaxing for Rod to be in there with a person who can spend a full fifteen minutes just looking at varieties of quinoa. He amused himself by looking at the different syrups and cordials that can go into seltzer to make Italian sodas, finally choosing a ginger one and an elderflower one. When we got home he made me a ginger soda and he tried the elderflower, which is right up his alley; if you like herby tastes that are bittersweet, you’d like elderflower. I picked up some rava, which is the Indian cream of wheat, and I can’t wait to make some rava uppma for breakfast. One of the tragedies of my healthy lifestyle is that I just can’t bear oatmeal, and the sting goes out of that when I can feast on a savory, spicy Indian porridge made with black mustard seeds, ginger, onion, cilantro, green chilis, and whatever else I feel like putting in there. Some recipes call for cashew nuts, some for coconut flakes, and most for some kind of dal, such as chana or urud dal, neither of which I remembered to get at Kalustyan’s, so overwhelmed was I by the selection of completely herbal soaps based on coconut oil (a nag champa soap found its way into my bag–how did THAT happen?) There is a point when I’m in that store that I have to talk myself down, or I’ll end up spending $100 on things like berbere powder, just on the off chance that I’ll want to make Ethiopian food. There are no hard and fast recipes for mixing up shikakai powder, so I ended up washing my hair with it last night in the same way that I would use baking soda, mixing about a tablespoon of powder into half a cup of hot water. The only difference is that a baking soda mixture of this kind can be used immediately, but shikakai needs to soak for at least fifteen minutes. Some people recommend leaving shikakai in for hours, some for fifteen minutes, some for two to five minutes. I am impatient, so of course I left mine in for two minutes before I rinsed it out. It smells kind of earthy, like rhassoul clay. Hurts like hell when you get it in your eyes, but it’s great for your skin, and I’m happy to report that my complexion and hair are both glowing. I have only baking soda and regular shampoo to compare shikakai to, but I am happiest with this result. Shikakai seems much more moisturizing than baking soda, because my hair is clean and shiny and soft, without the somewhat poofy quality it gets from the baking soda (baking soda’s still better than commercial shampoo, don’t get me wrong); I just can’t get over this idea that it is the overdrying effect of shampoo that makes hair greasy. It seems so counterintuitive to moisturize your hair to make it free of grease. I don’t think I applied the shikakai exactly right; I still have to work on the ratio of powder to water. Some people suggest making a watery paste, others a thick paste, and the directions on the box said to dissolve it in water and then strain out the grains. This is the bad side of having the Internet at my fingertips; plenty of information, but no consensus on that information. I guess the good news is that there isn’t really a way to mess it up. If you put shikakai on your hair, cleaning will result. The neighbor baby woke me at six o’clock this morning, and I usually can’t fall back asleep when I wake up, so here I am bright and early.
Saturday May 03, 2008
Ironman
Ironman was awesome. I had my doubts, mostly because Rod and I have seen several lousy superhero movies in the theater, including Daredevil, a movie that I would suggest you use as an emetic if you have ever swallowed poison and need to hurl the entire contents of your stomach. Likewise Ang Lee’s “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Hulk.” It came out five years ago and I still can’t forgive Ang Lee for that, even though he also directed Sense and Sensibility, which I love. When Jennifer Connelly’s teeth are the brightest spot in a movie, brighter even than the Hulk’s angry CGI eyeballs, you know there’s going to be a problem. Saw the trailer for the new Hulk movie and of course Ed Norton looks like he’s going to be great in it. The CGI I find really distancing; it’s like watching a video game, and instead of being inspiring it somehow takes away from the experience for me, not being able to embroider with my own imagination. We went to see the movie with a group of people, one of whom did not grow up in America and so wanted to know which other movies Robert Downey Jr. has been in. It was 2:30 in the morning, and I was sleepy, and so the only film I could remember him being in was The Pick-Up Artist. Oy. Went right past movies like Chaplin. Jon Favreau also directed Elf, which I liked, but oh Ironman I think was even better than some of the X-Men movies, which up to now have been my fave superhero movies. It was a surprise to me when looking up Robert Downey Jr. on the IMDB to find that he’s been working steadily. I kinda thought he fell off the map there because of various drug rehabs. And then, Jeff Bridges was in Ironman, too. I love Jeff Bridges. I know people who don’t, but I do. I saw him in King Kong when I was seven, and I thought he was dreamy. And before you mention KPAX, and Seabiscuit, you have to remember about Tideland, and The Big Lebowski. Jeff Bridges gets a free pass forever because he’s The Dude. And he’s bald in Ironman. You know how I love the bald men. Even Gwyneth didn’t bug me in this one. I feel she works well as part of an ensemble cast. Although she looks like an ingenue, she can’t carry a whole film. One of my fave movies ever is The Royal Tenenbaums, and she’s in that and managed not to bug. But I love Sylvia Plath’s poetry, and watching Gwyneth in Sylvia, I thought the suicide came far too late in the movie. Fifteen minutes in, I was hissing, “Just kill yourself already.” In no’poo news, my hair has cleaned itself miraculously overnight. I’m totally not kidding. Yesterday it looked like a frightmare, and I stuck some Powder Puff powder in it, which tamed it some, but today! I woke up this morning fully intending to wash it, as the last time I used baking soda was last Saturday. Planning on going to the Indian grocery to get some shikakai so that I won’t have to use baking soda again, but my point is that today was going to be the day, and now I’m having second thoughts because it looks marvelous. This is day 12–could my detox period be over? I’m going to be traveling in a couple of weeks. The Voodoo Sisters are performing at Tribal Fest in California. It would be wonderful if I didn’t even have to worry about my hair at all when I’m out there but could count on lovely locks with no effort. As far as the nervous breakdown is concerned, this is my regularly scheduled nervous breakdown–PMS descended on me like a velociraptor yesterday. I’ll let you know how that goes, not eating any refined carbohydrates during PMS so that I can keep my lungs open.
Friday May 02, 2008
My Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown
If you’re going to be reading my blog, it should be clear to you by now that I’m a hypochondriac, and that one way to manage my existential anxiety is by controlling every single thing I put into my body. Now I’ve got a new wrinkle in my cosmic prospects of peace: One result of transitioning to no ‘poo is that I’ve become aware of a sulfite allergy. This is what happened: after a week of meditating peacefully in my apartment and avoiding chemicals to clean myself, I was enjoying an unprecedented period of being able to breathe freely, without any asthmatic symptoms. During allergy season. Which is amazing. Then for Beltane Eve I had a snack of things that have sulfites in them, including red wine, peanuts, potato chips, and chocolate. The next two days, asthma. And I had such a bad sinus headache, I thought I was having a stroke. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Which sucks out loud. Many of my favorite treats have sulfites in them. Just look at this list of foods to avoid if you’re sensitive to sulfites: Bakery and Grain Products Breads containing dough conditioners Breading batters Cookies Cheese-filled crackers Cornmeal Cornstarch Crackers Frozen dough Gravy mixes Hominy Modified food starch Noodle and rice mixes Pie and pizza crusts Potato chips Tortillas Tortilla chips Waffles Beverages Beverages containing sugar or corn syrup Beer Cider Cordials Dried citrus fruit beverages Fruit juices (canned, bottled or frozen) Instant tea Wine Wine coolers Fish and Shellfish Clams Crabs Dried fish Lobsters Oysters Scallops Shrimp Shellfish (fresh, frozen, canned or dried) Fruits and Vegetables Coconut Coleslaw and sauerkraut Fruit (bottled, canned, dried, frozen or glazed) Grapes (fresh) Prepared Foods Frosting (canned and mixes) Horseradish Olives Processed cheese Relishes Salad dressings Vinegar Guacomole Lettuce Maraschino cherries Mushrooms (canned or dried) Peppers (bottle, pickled or canned) Potato chips Potatoes (“fresh cut,” frozen, fries, deli potato salad or mashed) Tomatoes Vegetables (dehydrated, pickled or canned) Vegetable juices Protein Products Infant formula Imported sausages Soy products Textured vegetable protein Tofu Sweets & Sugars Beet sugar or corn sweetener (in low concentrations) Gelatin, flavored and unflavored Hard candies Jams and Jellies Pectin Sugar (brown, white, powdered and raw) Miscellaneous Foods & Ingredients Caramel color Dried herbs & spices Grape juice concentrate High-fructose corn syrup/sweeteners Maltodextrin Polydextrose Trail mixes I mean, according to this list it would be shorter to make a list of the things I CAN eat. What am I going to put on my salad if even vinegar could start an asthma attack? What this means is that I can never buy anything outside of the farmer’s market or the health food store. What this means is that I have to make all my own french fries, potato chips, tortilla chips. I’m already learning how to make my own Chinese food, and I stocked up at the Amish market on ingredients like rice vinegar and Chinese black bean sauce–both of which are loaded with preservatives, now that I checked the labels, and have corn syrup in them, for crying out loud. We live above a Chinese restaurant. When Rod found this apartment, I was fully aware that us living here was analogous to a crack addict living above a crack house. A day without dumplings is like a night without stars. But you know what? As much as I love peanut butter, and chocolate, and wine, I LIKE BREATHING MORE. All this time, I’ve been worried that I would develop a lactose intolerance, the way my mother and my sister have. And I keep reminding myself, this could be worse. I could be allergic to cheese. It will take a while to sort out which items are doing the damage. But I am not imagining the asthma attack I had last night after a meal of wine and cold sesame noodles that I prepared myself, goddammit, using organic frickin peanut butter. I guess I’ll have to find a recipe that uses tahini instead. In no ‘poo news, I am in full detox mode, it seems, because my hair is totally greasy. I’m just going to ride it out, though. It’s shiny and full of body, it smells pretty because of the rose-scented cornstarch powder; it’s just time for a ponytail or a kerchief because my hair is making strange architectural shapes even after I comb it. And maybe I’ll check out this Indian herb, shikakai, which is an alternative to baking soda. I’ve also decided to start crocheting my own cotton mesh produce bags, so I can stop using plastic bags to put produce in. Going to price the cotton yarn today. Okay, so is there any other way that I can be crazy about substances that are going into or on my body? Yes– I’m contemplating making my own Persian sugaring wax as a depilatory, but frankly I’m chicken. Waxing hurts.
Thursday May 01, 2008
Beltane!
Happy Beltane, y’all! This is the wiccan holiday that celebrates spring, and fertility, and libido, and creativity. Hooray for all those things. Traditional foods to eat on this holiday are dairy foods, as if this holiday could get any better. Go ahead and have that ice cream for May Day, kids. I regret to say that I spent Beltane Eve last night in the grip of a sinus headache, prostrate on the sofa, watching back-to-back episodes of The Nanny. I finally broke down and got the DVDs of the first season from Netflix. I crave that show on so many levels: To imagine what it would be like to have such a perky little figure as Fran Drescher has, to live vicariously through her outrageous wardrobe and her unselfconsciousness. And watching Renee Taylor as the mother makes me feel better about my own ethnic, loud, and crazy mother. I am enjoying a truly wonderful cup of coffee as I write this, and the sense of birth, of change, of new possibilities opening. I no longer feel stuck. I feel empowered to put in place the kind of life I really want. Mistress B and Rod raised some glasses with me for Beltane last night, and pointed out that Day 8 of no ‘poo looked fine with just a coffee rinse, so I was emboldened this morning of Day 9 to make a rosemary and white vinegar rinse. Last week at this time, I’d already knuckled under and put another baking soda rinse in. I’m going to try to make it this week with just one bs rinse, as my friends have assured me that my hair does not look dirty; it simply looks as though I have product in it.
