On tourism

This is the grand fiction of tourism, that bringing our bodies somewhere draws that place closer to us, or we to it. It's a quick fix of empathy. - Leslie Jamison, "La Frontera"

You're just a tourist inside someone else's suffering until you can't get it out of your head; until you take it home with you--across a freeway, or a country, or an ocean. - Leslie Jamison, "Pain Tours (I)"

5 acts of truth

1. Our bedroom door doesn't latch, just sticks to the painted frame. Mornings, Snickers throws herself into it, announces the hour with the crack of paint like a suction of air from our dark. She breaks in while Scooter wags in the hall, waits until my footsteps to stretch into a hello whine I can't close my eyes to.

2. I'm in love with podcasts, essays I can listen to while I paint, while I clean, while I drive. I'm in love with Radiolab, This American Life, and On Being. Serial, TED Radio Hour, Dear Sugar, and Pop Culture Happy Hour. Stuff You Should Know, Stuff You Missed in History Class, and I Guess We're Grown-Ups Now. I want to learn, to engage in a thought conversation, to absorb words. 

3. "It isn't working," said Jack when I tried to get Master Chief to hold his gun. Master Chief has 26 recumbent joints and eight guns that attach to his body. He has hands that grip if you know where the parts go, what it looks like to hold a gun. Jack wants an AKsomethingorother angled to kill in Master Chief's hands, but his wrists won't rotate, and I can't say I want them to. "It isn't working," he says, and hands Master Chief back again and again. 

4. I tossed some of the last pre-me food over the weekend. You know, those cans of chili or preserves that the pre-me Phillip or well-meaning relative bought. Those canned peaches and single-packaged applesauce cups that are easy to eat but haven't been eaten in a year, two years, that will likely never be eaten unless after one, two years the post-me house has a change of taste or a child reminds us they exist. Sometimes even the post-me food sits untouched, an intention of home-cooked meals and the failure to plan for other appetites.

5. Wallpaper on the ceiling is the worst. Removing wallpaper from the ceiling is the worst. Dripping fabric softener, powder white texture, throbbing thumb from the pressure is the worst. 

Intention

I set small intentions for 2015.

Unlike my friend Ryan who goes all out on his resolutions and excels at all of them, I kept mine to my desire to reestablish routines in my life. I set the intention to center 2015 on the concept of NOURISH. As in, will this decision I'm about to make nourish me in some way? And with some specifics, some of which I'll share and some of which I'll keep to myself.

Take my vitamins. For the first time--really ever--I'm taking my vitamins daily. I'm actually doing it. Two weeks in and no end in sight because I incorporated it into my morning prep routine. I open the medicine cabinet for the moisturizer, and I have to leave it open until I take my vitamins.

Wash my face before bed. I did this every night from preteen years to Spartanburg, particularly because of my acne. I moved in with Phillip and promptly forgot about this step. Yes, that means I've been sleeping in whatever makeup was left on my face every night for the last year and a half. Until two weeks ago, and now I'm on it.

Walk Scooter every day. I'm already failing at this because I still shut down when it's below thirty degrees. I just haven't found the gumption to walk despite the cold. Sorry, Scoots.

No pop. Well, no brown pop. I've had Sierra Mist/Sprite a few times, but I'm brown pop free for nearly two weeks. I will not fall for a Coke. I will not.

Choose a book instead of a screen. I haven't been on a reading binge for quite some time, and I haven't been excited about much I've picked up (except The Unspeakable). But I set a goal of reading 26 books this year and checking them off of a list to get me going again (like read a debut novel, read a banned book, read a translation, read a book I can finish in a day). I will succeed.

Fill a journal. It's no surprise that I haven't been writing much either--in my journal, on this blog, or working on essays. I got out of that habit, too, and it's something I haven't discovered how to do regularly with a husband. It's not Phillip's fault--believe me, he wants me to write--it's my own psyche. With him to talk to, with significant part of my life feeling secure and content, I lost the driving urge to have to write out my feelings and thoughts to understand my self and my place. But I'm far from done figuring those things out, and I will force myself into talking to myself again as I leave my twenties.

Cook more and attempt to like it. I'm still lost in the kitchen. I'm not creative or even practical when it comes to dinner. I think dinner has to come from a recipe, and in my anxiety about it I forget that a chicken breast and asparagus on the George Foreman Grill is a simple, healthy dinner that I can do without instructions. So I haven't really engaged with this one yet, but that's partly because my kitchen is partly torn apart (hello, progress on the cabinets). I'm betting on the fact that I'll want to spend so much more time in a beautiful kitchen.

Just call. Too many of my friends are far, far away, and we go far, far too long between phone calls. I hate the phone, but I love my friends. I need to just call. ONLY CONNECT.

I'll leave it at that, and I'll let you know how it goes.