The Girl Called Rachel

Poetry (Wo)Man

I hate to preface myself but I will.                                                                                                                                                                                                                       No, I won’t… Do whatever you want, if you are even reading this in the first place. That’s what I’ve decided to do.

I want to write a story in which one of the characters has a neighbor who hums too loudly.

He has a rent-controlled apartment by the park that he gives up because of a floormate’s persistent humming and his girlfriend dumps him. Is that a reason to break up with someone who would give up a great place for something so trivial? I think so. It’s probably a sign of erratic behavior in the future.

Would someone break up a party of people who were just humming? Could it get so loud even in a filled apartment that someone would call the cops? It’s not a very offensive activity. It might even be soothing in a womb-like way. People are humming in unison next door and through the walls you can sleep and relax like it was your mother’s dulcet tones when you were just a fantasy of her future child.

Like sleeping on a rocking boat. The best sleep I’ve ever had.

I started this new thing today: When I really want to go out and buy food that I don’t need to eat, I’ll take some of the money that I would have wasted on junk and use it to help someone. Today, after work, I was on my way to buy a frozen pizza. Before I could get to the grocery store I passed the flower stand outside of the market. I started thinking that I would really like to have some flowers in my apartment, and then, after finding cool, beautiful flowers that I’ve never seen before, I decided to buy them for my manager/friend who attended her grandma’s funeral today. It was just a humble bouquet, not fit for a funeral, but it showed that I was thinking of her and she might want some nice flowers. It’s good for me to spend my money on charity and friendship or a nice gift for myself rather than waste it on tools of isolation.

I think I’m going to really test what I can possibly do with this blog. “I don’t know how many years on this Earth I got left. I’m gonna get real weird with it.” I’ve never even looked at some of those buttons up there.

Living life is so much for me about all 5 senses. How are we watching people in movies and TV or even looking at art, totally satisfied, without smelling what they smelled and hearing what they heard. That seems incredibly unfulfilling. un-full – feeling. I love to notice everything in the periphery. One of my favorite ever things in life is when an actor is so still that you can see the pulse in his neck or a twitch in his finger. I reminds me that we aren’t all that different.

Maybe you should refer to the beginning before the following.


The best thing I ever ate?

I’m sitting here on the floor of my living room watching Food Network’s new series “The Best Thing I Ever Ate”, which features FN stars talking about… you know. These men and women are so passionate about food: cooking it, eating it, describing what makes it delicious. This episode is all about deep fried food. Doughnuts, hot dogs, french fries, bacon, pork rinds. Nothing gourmet, absolutely guilty pleasures. But really celebrated and worthy of the calories because of the joy it brings to the customers’ lives.

I am a woman who has had an eating disorder for as long as I can remember, but realistically, absolutely more than half of my life. I have trouble classifying it because I, along with most other people in the world, are just beginning to acknowledge disordered eating that does not involve binging and purging or starvation. I graze, I binge, I sit around hating myself for the food I ate, the money I spent and the isolation I enforce on myself.

For all of the time I spend thinking about food and eating it, I barely ever enjoy it. I can’t even call the bad food that I eat “guilty pleasures” because the way I feel before, during and afterward is hardly pleasurable.

When I was younger, the first thing I ever wanted to be was a chef. I can’t remember ever helping out in the kitchen, or being a particularly daring eater, but at eight years old I knew I wanted to go to Cornell to be a culinary arts major. (I think I heard my dad say once that Cornell was a good school for aspiring chefs, so it’s an idea that I clung to blindly.) Today, I wonder why I wanted to cook in the future, but had no desire to practice it as a kid or teenager. Did I want to surround myself with food all day long? Or did I watch my parents (mostly Mom) cook dinner and make the meal special every single night until I went to college, and I wanted to continue the tradition of spending time with the people I love eating delicious food? Maybe I just met a chef when I was a kid and thought working in a restaurant would be fun. I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that after 12 years of wasting calories and time on food that has done nothing for me except make me hate my body, I really want to learn how to cook. I want to spend the time on myself to create something simple and nutritional and satisfying. I don’t believe that diets work and I don’t want to restrict the kinds of food I eat. I just can’t continue to use food to avoid living and feeling the natural ups and downs of being an adult.

Now, when I cook for myself, I feel like I am wasting time because the result isn’t what I excepted and the meal is over much faster than it took to make it. I want to learn to enjoy the time I spend in the kitchen, appreciating myself as someone who doesn’t deserve to eat processed shit and garbage ingredients. I want it to be an activity that I will look foward to every day, because I know that it will encourage a turning point in how I feel about myself and what my life is all about. Let’s do this.