Ranting Details

Ready. Aim. Fire?

I am feeling aimless right now.  Even as I sit here in this Soho coffee shop I have little on my mind other than returning to my couch and inserting a DVD of Mad Men into the player. I want TV.  But I need structure and a purpose to get me out of my holiday stupor in which I did little more than drink egg nog, eat fast food, and watch every movie with even the slightest chance of garnering an award this season.  After months of working as a freelance writer and photographer, I have hit a wall like a sticky rubber hand out of a vending machine and now, to say nothing of the type of dirt and hair said rubber hands attract, I am not sure how to peel myself off.

For a while I thought the answer was to leave the city.  When I returned to the buzz of New York after a tranquil summer in the mountains of Montana I felt as if I had been dropped into the middle of a pinball machine and it was only a matter of time before the iron ball rolled me over.  I wanted out.  I called my parents and informed them I was coming home in the winter for an indefinite amount of time and I was going to start school.  I made the announcement to my friends over multiple dinners, giving them an ever-shifting percentage of the likelihood of my departure as I watched them sip margaritas.  Eighty percent sure I will be gone at the beginning of January, I would tell them. 

Today is January 16th and I’m still in the city I’ve come to call home.  Yet without the fix of going to school—at least not until the fall—I am living each day without any type of structure; and unfortunately I’ve never been good at self-imposed structure (or at least not as diligent as I want to be).  This is probably because I spent my whole life enacting the schedule put up on a bulletin board at school and work, one that would delineate each hour of my day not only down to the room I was in but to the type of shoe I was wearing while in it.   

Those days are gone.  They fell away two years ago when I came down with Epstein Barr Virus and replaced a healthy work ethic with a couch tenure of epic proportions, one where chicken noodle soup was as essential as water and bagels became their own group on the food pyramid.  Through the discomfort I redefined my sense of normalcy.  I adjusted to the habit of enacting one task a day when my body allowed, and resolved myself to waiting out the virus and creating a life where my brain and creativity could coexist with the illness.

When I look at the past two years rationally I am able to give myself credit for persevering.  When I look at it with my dancer brain intact, the brain where eight hours of rehearsal would be followed by the gym, I feel utterly lazy.  But life changes.  Captain Obvious hand delivered that message to my door each time I popped in a new movie from my Netflix queue. 

The list of movies may be never ending but as each day passes I feel my life is returning to a true sense of normalcy where I can not only execute jobs to make money, but go out and socialize with my friends over the occasional glass of wine; the highlight of my week is no longer the eager anticipation of opening my mailbox and seeing a new disc of Battlestar Gallactica. (That’s just an added bonus.) 

But this transition back to a healthier life is proving just as confounding and difficult as the loss of my health in the first place.  I feel like an inmate on parole, always nervous that one mistake—whether pushing too hard with physical or social activity—will land me back behind bars.  To live with a chronic illness for any period of time makes the idea of living without it unfathomable.  Without the weight of the illness sitting on my shoulders like two grand pianos I have so much more opportunity; I can pursue photography with more fervor; I can enter a more intense school program; I can hopefully get to a point where dance is a part of my life again; and I can continue to be mindful of my ongoing recovery. “I can” is slowly replacing “I can’t.” 

Most importantly, as my incredible sister reminded me yesterday, I can give my permission to be aimless for a while.  It’s time to rebuild and understand that I have to lay out the foundation brick by brick because I can’t reach the top floor of the building without first creating the ground floor.  And if I have to watch an episode or two of Mad Men along the way, so be it. 

While writing this post I was reminded of the lyrics to one of my all time favorite Stephen Sondheim songs: “I Know Things Now” from Into the Woods.  I first discovered this song when I was five but the lyrics continue to resonate more with each passing day. 

Mother said,
"Straight ahead,"
Not to delay
or be misled.
I should have heeded
Her advice...
But he seemed so nice.

And he showed me things
Many beautiful things,
That I hadn't thought to explore.
They were off my path,
So I never had dared.
I had been so careful,
I never had cared.
And he made me feel excited-
Well, excited and scared.

When he said, "Come in!"
With that sickening grin,
How could I know what was in store?
Once his teeth were bared,
Though, I really got scared-
Well, excited and scared-
But he drew me close
And he swallowed me down,
Down a dark slimy path
Where lie secrets that I never want to know,
And when everything familiar
Seemed to disappear forever,
At the end of the path
Was Granny once again.

So we wait in the dark
Until someone sets us free,
And we're brought into the light,
And we're back at the start.

And I know things now,
Many valuable things,
That I hadn't known before:
Do not put your faith
In a cape and a hood,
They will not protect you
The way that they should.
And take extra care with strangers,
Even flowers have their dangers.
And though scary is exciting,
Nice is different than good.

Now I know:
Don't be scared.
Granny is right,
Just be prepared.

Isn't it nice to know a lot!
And a little bit not...

 

Close Up Shop

Last night marked the official end of my four-year career with American Ballet Theatre.  There were no balloons, no speeches, no tears, and ultimately no closure.  Standing in the wings, watching my childhood idols Julie Kent and Ethan Stiefel dancing Giselle, I was reminded of how lucky I am to have worked alongside so many inspiring artists.  But as the second act progressed, and the ghost-like wilis overtook the stage, I couldn’t help but feel like one myself. 

Over the past year I have had moments of hope where my return to the company seemed almost within reach.  Then, in March, the decision was made that I was going to step away from the company and devote my emotional and physical energy into healing; hoping was replaced with coping.  That was long ago, and over the course of the subsequent months I have faced the emotional devastation of dealing with a chronic illness that ultimately pulled me away from the goal I worked toward since I was thirteen. 

One of the words I have wrestled with most through this time is “closure.”  As performer and a writer, I enjoy experiencing the arc of my movement or words when creation is complete.  The art that I lose myself in, often wraps things up in a way that morphs my perception of the journeys we take. 

I put much of my hope for a neatly tied bow in the end of the year party that typically occurs on the Friday before the final day of Met season.  It is a time to celebrate the dancers’ hard work and acknowledge those who are leaving.   Because of the nature of ABT’s schedule this year (which continues after Met with four weeks of tour), the party was eliminated.  With its cancellation came a barrage of emotions. 

It is one of many rituals dancers experience when parting ways with the company, in which I could not partake.  I didn’t know my last show, a Romeo and Juliet in Chicago in April 2007, was going to be the final bow I took with the company.   While some of these rituals may indeed be superficial, they are moments I wish I had the chance to experience. 

In reality, my departure began shortly after that bow, when I was diagnosed with Epstein Barr Virus.  Since then, I have drifted away from the friends that became my family during my time with the company.  Yet my name still rested comfortably in the middle of the corps listing of the program.  Its removal cuts the final strings that tied me to my first New York family.

I took a walk through the Met yesterday evening (essentially this family’s home), gathering my memories of my time as a member.  As I wove through the maze, I wondered if it was the last time my ID would let me through the doors; if my dressing room spot would ever be mine again; if I would ever warm-up at the barres in the wings; if I would have another ‘first’ performance, entering the stage and feeling the orchestra sweep over me.   These are all questions I can’t answer. 

Walking around backstage, I began realizing that life, unlike the movement or words in whose arcs I trust, isn’t something that can be revised through rehearsals or drafts in order to come to a resolution.  It is a constantly evolving creation that isn’t over until it’s over.   It’s entirely possible that I will be back.  And it’s entirely possible that I won’t.  I guess that’s the beauty of not having closure; possibilities are endless. 

For Your Viewing Pleasure

Tonight I sat in a cage and rested my chin on a pole extending in front of my face.  The pole connected to a post, which led the floor of the Metropolitan Opera House's downstage left wing.  For three acts of a ballet, I hovered above the people who I used to see a daily basis as they performed “Don Q.” 

It was one of the first ballets I performed with ABT, and as I observed from the photographer's position known as “the cage,” I felt a torment awake inside of me that clashed with the jovial nature of the dancing below.  Old friends paraded on stage -- swishing their skirts, beating their tambourines -- and I felt the stillness of my body in comparison.  As I inched closer to the edge of my railing-less perch, dancers took notice and began to flash smiles my way; a game of sorts - 'how many glances can we sneak in without notifying the audience of an offstage presence?'

With each consecutive glance I felt a screen solidify in front of my eyes.  It was as if I was watching a movie of my old life, full of characters staring out from the celluloid into the abyss.  The Latin fire pervaded the barrier as corps members clapped rhythmically to the beat.  My heart replied, sending blood down my arms and through my hands, urging them to clap along as they used to; I reached for a camera to steady my confusion. 

Acts progressed and my posture defied my dancer nobility as the weight of jealously, sickness, nostalgia, and comfort pressed down on my shoulders.  I clapped, not as the dancers did, but as an audience member, and lifted myself to stand; I had to get out of the cage. 

Announcement

I've known about this for two months now, but I feel as if it's the right time to discuss a major life change. 

38-4-34.    Even a year away couldn’t make me forget that combination.  For four years I
used it two or three times a day to open my locker at ABT.  In that time I had five or six other locks that I lost and forgot, but this one touched my hands so many times that the numbers were as ingrained as my own birthday. 

Each time I opened it I would be surprised at the remnants of days passed that I’d left to collect at the bottom: energy bars, old water-bottles, a pair of tights I’d been looking for for weeks.  All things that built up to create a mountainous grab-bag of dancer memorabilia.  They are all things that are now covered in dust. 

When I opened the metal door five days ago, I felt like I’d time traveled back to my old life.  Only this time I hadn’t come to collect my things at the end of a workday, I’d come to collect my things for the last time.  At the end of July, I will be removed from the roster of ABT.

It was this week a year ago that I found out I had Epstein Barr Virus (EBV).  Never in my wildest nightmare would I have imagined it progressing to this stage.  As I looked into the pile at the bottom of the locker I noticed a pair of red booties, once vibrant, now covered in a thick coating of dust.  On the top shelf: a pair of half-sewn pointe shoes from my last day of rehearsal when I was learning the role of Bottom in The Dream.

For a moment I questioned if these items were indeed mine.  I don’t feel like the same person I was a year ago; I’m not the same person I was a year ago.  When asked what I do for a living, my once solid stock answer of “dancer,” now catches in my chest, unsure of its ability to make an appearance to the world.   

The backpack I was carrying was proof of that professional change.  What was once a dance bag now housed a set of dance clothes to take barre, a camera to photograph my friend’s rehearsal, and a computer to work on magazine articles afterward.  I feel more like a writer and a photographer at the moment than I do a dancer, and I ask myself how I can own that title if I’m not actively engaged in the profession. 

Yet looking in the bag as it sat beside my locker, I realized how I am not defined by what my profession is, but by how I handle myself through everyday life.  The three letters “ABT” may have been replaced by “EBV,” but I know that neither define who I am.  At the moment I’m not dancing, but I am still a dancer in my soul and I can’t wait to be back performing again. 

With the absence of ABT, in many ways, I will be the most lost I’ve ever been.  But as is typical with the universe, it has mysterious ways of teaching us lessons.  EBV has informed my spirit in a way that I never would have thought possible a year ago; it has grounded me and taught me about what I want in life.  Every change it has initiated has been more drastic than I ever could have anticipated, but I’m still soldiering on and defining myself by my strength of character and not by my profession for the first time in my life.  No choice but to brush off the dust and start anew...I'm sure it won't be the last time.   

Here’s a toast to the future and whatever it holds in store. 

Triggers

I wrote this last night (kind of "stream of consciousness") and decided to share it.  It's here unedited from how it came out of my fingertips.  And a sidenote, that my mother pointed out, I do wash my face.  Have just been using something different since I got back to the city.  Leave it to the mothers of the world to point things like that out.   

Tonight I ran out of face wash.  To be honest, I sometimes forget to wash my face now that I’m on medication for my skin.  Whereas it used to be part of my routine, it’s now become something like flossing- a habit I should keep up but sometimes neglect. 

I don’t know why I decided I needed to wash my face tonight.  Perhaps it was the filth I saw at the theater that made me want to rinse myself to a purer form.  Whatever it was, I didn’t mean to ask for all of this when I reached for the bottle. 

I didn’t have any of my normal face-wash left after traveling.  Tucked in the corner of an otherwise barren shelf in my bathroom was an old bottle of a cleanser called “Purity.”  It was one of the few decent items in our Met gift bag a few years back, and something that all the dancers started to use as makeup remover.

As I rubbed the cream colored wash between my even paler fingers, I looked into the mirror and saw a face covered with stubble.  I never kept this much stubble on my face when I was dancing.  I haven’t shaved in almost a year.  I just trim. 

I brought the face-wash up to my cheeks and started to rub it in circles.  I was suddenly transported back into the Met dressing room, to my old life.  The smell reminded me of performing.  The feeling as it touched my skin (unlike any other face wash I’ve used) removed me from my body and pushed me further in.  The more I rubbed it in circles, the thinner it became.  And I couldn’t stop smelling it.  I reached for the bottle and pushed out a second (and completely unnecessary) serving onto the ridges of my fingers.  I repeated. 

I bent over and began to rinse my face with water.  Usually, when I was performing, the water would start to flood back into the bowl mixed with my make-up.  Bruises would rinse off, or whatever bizarre makeup the evening’s ballet had called for would just swirl into the bowl.  Tonight there was no makeup, just milky water.  I felt paralyzed.

Birthday Bash

(Warning: Intense brain fog today...please forgive any issues with this post!)

I can't believe that it's already been a year.  This past Wednesday I celebrated my 22nd birthday and it was a bittersweet occasion.  The unfortunate fact of the matter is that my birthday now acts as a reminder of the last time I felt healthy.  Things went downhill rather quickly after I turned 21 in Minneapolis last year, and it wasn't even a month before I succumbed to the trials of Epstein Barr Virus.  I knew that this celebration was going to be emotional, but it also ended up being a wonderful in unexpected ways 

The day started out a bit boring; some apartment cleaning, a minor breakdown, and lounging around saving up energy for the night's festivities.  However, it wasn't long until Carson and our friend Melissa showed up to put a smile on my face and treat me to my first pedicure ever.  There's nothing like letting a random woman cut your toenails and gasp at your calluses; confidence booster indeed.  As pleasant as that experience was, it was all in preparation for the required footwear of the evening: bowling shoes. 

The guest list for the night was an eclectic assortment of my friends, many who had never hung out before.  I always get a bit nervous when mixing groups, but from the moment we arrived at Bowlmor, it was clear that everyone was in the mood to mingle. 

(All pictures by Timur Civan.) 

(My one and only girlfriend Ashley catches up with Carson as I loom in the background.  I make a good hat.)

(Carson looks grumpy that I chose to enter the picture.  Tough.  Just enjoying a crazy night out with my special celebratory birthday drink: Coca-Cola!  Craziness, indeed.)

(Not sure what I made Marcelo laugh about.  Obviously I'm hilarious.)

(The fabulous Erin picks out a ball that is bigger than her entire body.)

(Alec knows that the black light is the perfect opportunity to show off his pearly whites.)

(Julio gives bowling lessons to the onlookers.)

(Thinking about getting back together?  No, just talking about how fierce we looked in our prom photo.)

(Be careful...Melissa will eat your face.)

(Feeling my generous heart?  Or smearing beer on my chest?)

(Melissa celebrates the fact that she is wearing grey and white stripes...just like Carson and me!)

(Marcelo and Julio celebrating a strike?  Or the fact that Britney Spears has a new anime music video out? )

(Carson gets the coolest shot of the night and proves that she MIGHT be a speed skater.  Look at that form!)

(It's possible that my leg is asleep in this picture.  Or made of wood.  That being said, I did beat everyone .  That's right...blogger AND bowling champion.)

(Hence the Evita pose.)

What A Tramp

One of the hardest things about being sick the past ten months is the enormous amount of guilt I carry around with me on a daily basis.  As foolish as it sounds, there is a part of me that feels I should do nothing but sleep in a dark cavernous room and anxiously await my return to full health.  For the first two months of my illness, that was what I did.  Hibernating in my apartment took its toll on me psychologically and I realized that I had to instill some sense of normalcy into my routine. 

Months pass and the ups and downs continue to come and go.  Through an activity log I have attempted to find a correlation between the type of activity I engage in, and the repercussions it has on my health.  Not surprisingly, higher levels of physical work, or draining social interactions, leave me feeling depleted.  However, after a while I began to see that (to a certain extent) my ups and downs come and go as they please.  I need to push on and try to enjoy life as much as possible in spite of the lingering fatigue, nausea, headaches, and brain fog that accompany me  as frequently as my extended wear contact lenses; too bad I can’t take the symptoms out as well.   

Regardless of the knowledge that I still have to live the fullest life possible while I’m saddled with this dilemma, it’s impossible for me not to feel guilty when I’m doing something that feeds my soul.  When I was working, the social part of my life felt earned, while now it stands alone.  There are days where mustering up a smile is difficult when I think about how long it has been, and may be, since I have danced professionally.  Then I met the trampoline. 

When I was a kid, I lived across from a family with a trampoline.  I knew it was there, even though I couldn’t see it from the street, so whenever I could sneak away and steal a few bounces I raced out my door and through the trees.  My mother was (rightfully) concerned about a young dancer spending time on what could easily be a dangerous device.  One wrong landing and you’d fly off like a renegade popcorn kernel onto the hillside. 

I spent more time thinking about jumping than actually doing it, and added "trampoline freedom" to a long list of things, such as skiing and bungee jumping, that I would save for later in life.  I’ve never been one to throw caution to the wind, but I’m so happy that I did for a few brief minutes the other day. 

I never realized how freeing a trampoline could be until last weekend up in the mountains at the Cloud’s house with David.  After making our way back from a morning walk, we had planned on going inside to gather our things and then head back to Missoula; that was before David spotted the trampoline. 

Before I knew it he was bouncing over to the spring-loaded fabric like a five year old racing for the tree on Christmas morning.  He quickly undid his sneakers, grinning all the way, and then began to get a few preliminary hops in.  Suddenly he was flipping through the air like a bona-fide gymnastic star and I grabbed my camera to capture the action. 

(Sometimes I hate people that are perfectly turned out even while flipping in the mountains.  One of my favorite pictures I've ever taken.)

There was no way I could resist for much longer, so I kicked my shoes off and cautiously started bouncing alongside him.  We started to gallop around the circumference and I was completely in awe of the scenery that surrounded us.  It’s not often that you can jump towards an open sky with enormous mountains towering all around you. 

Not only did the mini-adventure result in some of my favorite pictures ever, but it put a smile on my face and got my mind off of things in a way I haven’t felt in the past 10 months.  It may have just been for five minutes, but I’ll take it.

(Getting going.)

(Future star of "Billy Elliot" on Broadway?)

(Future star of...?)

(Being abducted by aliens.)

(Alien.)

(Overexcited five year olds.)

(Keri Strugg.)

 

The History of BAM (Blaine and Matt)

(This is how we look in the morning before we shower.)

I often don’t remember my first encounters with many friends, but I remember meeting Blaine Hoven. 

It was a Spring afternoon in North Carolina and I was making my way back to the dance building after grabbing a snack.  Ninth grade was winding down, and there had only been a few other boys in my class.  As I walked along the second floor of the courtyard, I passed a faded blue “Dance” painted on the wall when I ran into one of my teachers, Christine Spizzo. 

“Matt, I want you to meet Blaine,” she said to me as I gazed at a boy and his mother whose Southern roots became apparent the moment they said hello.  “Blaine’s thinking about joining us next year at NCSA.  Wait until you see this boy turn.”

Immediately I felt threatened.  Turning was one of the things that had given me insecurities my entire dancing life.  Suddenly there was a boy in front of me who not only had the endorsement of one of my teachers, but he also excelled at my weakness; I’d worked all year on those things. 

Before I knew it, the fleet footed turner had stepped into my territory at NCSA.  Armed with a yellow “Murphy High School” Track Jacket, and a suitcase full of extra Southern syllables, I wasn’t sure what to make of him at first.  He fit nicely into my group of friends, but I remember people began to pit us against each other. 

Girls in class would debate our butts, or whose extension was nicer (he usually won both of those contests).  Of course, key above those debates was that of our dancing.  It was the type of competitive friendship that I had lacked my entire first year.

My friendship with Blaine escalated to a type of brotherly camaraderie.  We would bicker (as we still do at times) but there was always a sense that we were looking out for each other.

It quickly became apparent to me that Blaine and I were like night and day when it came to our dancing.  One of the hardest things about our initial friendship was learning to rise above the judgment from other people.  If there was one dancer I knew I could learn from at NCSA, it was Blaine; falling into the pattern of pitting ourselves against each other would be useless in the long run. 

As we grew, it became clear that as different as we were, somehow the same career path had chosen both of us.  Two years together at NCSA led to Studio Company contracts, and we moved up to the city in August 2003. 

Once we got there, sharing bunk beds in an apartment that had ten mice for each of the six people, we became closer than ever.  There were still catty fights to be had, and drunken explorations of the city that are some of the most vibrant memories of my life, but whatever the event, it was just another piece of the puzzle of our friendship. 

Somehow we came out of an apartment with six teenage boys alive, and in the spring of 2004 entered the main company.  It was then that I began to rely on Blaine more than ever.  Blaine is always there to clarify a step, or make a blunt comment to lighten the tension in the room.  Blaine is always there to be my friend and push me to be a better dancer.

It’s been difficult over the past year because as much as I’ve gone through with Blaine, this illness was something I could only endure alone in many ways.  To say it has cut into my friendships (and obviously my professional life) is an understatement. 

When Blaine told me that he wanted to come to Montana, I didn’t believe him.  It’s expensive.  And far away.  And freezing this time of year.  All in all, not the most enticing travel package.  Regardless, Blaine made the trip and we had a wonderful time exploring several facets of Montana’s gay culture, and catching up on all that both of us have missed from each other’s lives.  Just a few more memories to add to the already crowded library. 

Not Quite The Picture...

(Photo by Gene Shiavone)

When I was picking out a shirt to wear this morning, I knew exactly which drawer to go to.  Normally I meander around my room, weighing the possibilities like I’m in “Clueless,” but for my first day back taking barre, my BIP/BON (breathe in the positive/breathe in the negative) shirt was calling my name; there was no other option.  With my mantra emblazoned on my chest reminding me to focus on the positive, how could class go wrong?   Choosing a shirt was the easy part, because if the moments waiting around before getting in the car for class were any indication, it was going to be an emotional process.   

The last time I set foot into a studio with the purpose of dancing was six months ago.  At that point I was doing small jumps and beginning to feel like myself again.  A return to ABT for the City Center season seemed not only plausible, but like it was actually going to materialize.  August was brutal health wise and left me lower, both emotionally and physically, than ever before.  I then made the conscious choice to hold off on pushing back into shape until I felt like I was ready. 

There was only so long I could stay away from the studio all together without going crazy.  Even though my health has only improved by baby steps, I knew I needed to return to the barre and get my body moving again, little by little.  Whereas last time I jumped in and did full barre within a week, this time I have weathered the repercussions of that foolishness and am wiser because of it. 

As I turned the corner into the basement of the dance building at the University of Montana this morning, I heard grande allegro music swelling through the hallway; it immediately felt like I had been mute for almost a year.  I crooked my head into the doorway and saw the students traveling across the floor and I was hit with an arrow reminding me how much I miss dancing.  It’s not as if I’ve stayed away from dance entirely over the past year (I’ve photographed and seen plenty) but day by day, it gets harder to stay away from the studio. 

Before I knew it, the previous class was over and I stepped into the room dressed in a baggy shirt and pants to take my place at the barre by the door, where I could excuse myself without a commotion. 

Plie, stretch.  Tendu, close.  These are words, movements, and emotions that my body had been starved of for quite some time.  The students around me proceeded to lift their legs to the ceiling while I kept mine moving half as quickly, and barely off the ground. 

Regardless of how far I still have to go, it feels like a huge accomplishment to be sitting here typing about my first class.  I’ll be moving at a slow pace for a while, but the key to that statement is that I’ll be moving. 

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade...Literally

Food has taken control of me.

After two weeks of an elimination diet, where I scraped anything cheesy, fatty, and delicious, I’ve entered the final stage of the elimination where I cut out EVERYTHING.  Instead of eating for sustenance, I’ve relied on a green water bottle full of a lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper, to provide my daily energy and flush out my system.  I ride the wave of food withdraw to varying to degrees of success through at least eight refills a day, taking solace in my computer and books while salivating at any Burger King commercial to grace the TV screen. 

Anyone who knows my eating habits is aware that I’m more likely to pick a cheeseburger over salmon, french fries over broccoli, and coke over herbal tea.  Needless to say, the past few weeks have been trying.  All vices have been thrown out the window as I attempt to rid my body of this devil virus, and so far the results are mixed at best. 

With only lemonade going in, I experience cravings that rival that of a pregnant woman.  Dog food suddenly reminds me of delicious Cocoa Puffs (which I haven’t had since I was about ten).  My mind begins creating new food products like the Burritza (a burrito with a slice of pizza in it, that was lovingly named by David) and I’ve become sensitive to any smell. 

As foolish as it sounds, I never realized how dependent we are on food.  Of course we look to it for energy, but cutting out snacking and flavorful enjoyment from your life is surprisingly difficult.  There is an oral fixation that cannot be satisfied by lemonade. 

In an effort to rid myself of food obsession, I’ve picked up a few books that are both fast (pun intended) reads.  First came the classic “Siddhartha,” which was absent from my upbringing.  As was the case with several other classics I picked up later in life, I wasn’t as moved by the story of a young man in search of Nirvana as I hoped to be. 

Looking at it from a writing standpoint (as seems to be the case with everything I read these days) I was impressed with how effortlessly Hesse spanned time and place.  To be able to condense a period of four years to a paragraph, and still develop a character is an astonishing feat to someone as inexperienced with fiction writing as I am. 

The idea of a book revolving around a spiritual quest sounded enticing to me but as I put the novel down, I didn’t feel any particular enlightenment. 

Between putting down “Siddhartha,” and picking up my next book “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” I imagined running through a cupcake mountain with milk rain and wafer trees.  Needless to say, the second book couldn’t be opened quickly enough. 

No matter how much I may lament the current state of my health, I’m not foolish enough to think that other people don’t have it much worse.  “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” is a perfect, and heartbreaking example of this fact. 

The memoir, which was recently turned into a movie, chronicles the life of a man who experienced a massive stroke at 45, that left him with “locked-in” syndrome.  Essentially, he is a “prisoner to [his] own body,” where any movement except the turning of his head and blinking of his right eye is all but impossible. 

If there was ever a person who is able to explain the heartache, frustration, and determination at overcoming life’s obstacles, it’s Jean-Dominique Bauby, the French editor of Elle, who dictated the memoir through a series of blinks on his hospital bed.  He allows us to not only see the pain involved in his plight, but most importantly the power of the human spirit. 

The prose is poetic, and full of some of the most beautiful word usage I have ever seen.  He is concise, perhaps because of the difficulty of dictating it, but never too brief.  It is a masterful work that gives us a hint of the freedom he experienced (and took for granted) as a fully functioning man, and the freedom he still allows his mind to have even when confined to a hospital bed. 

Unlike Siddhartha, I found this book to be a spiritual experience.  While it puts my situation into perspective, he also expresses the way I feel that I’ve been pulled away from the things I know, the things that defined me, and found a way to persevere.  That’s not to say it’s a book only for the sick or confused, it is inspirational in a universal way. 

When I closed the back cover on my freshly creased copy of the book, I looked to the table to my right and saw my handy green water bottle standing guard.  Just a few more days…