8 Months On...

I tend, when reading over past posts of mine, to be accosted by the annoying tone of my writing. It seems to try to hard, and furthermore this is not often met with a satisfactory outcome. In respect of this, I will attempt to convey less enthusiasm in my writing and hope for success. 

At the moment, I am again obsessed with Veronica Mars- having just completed watched the third, and sadly final, season of this legendary TV series. In my opinion there has never been a character on TV that can even begin to compare with Veronica, with regards to wit, talent and appeal.  

I find it a real disappointment that such a truly great show had to fight so hard for viewers and was ultimately cancelled long before its time. It says a lot for the general public, especially young people, who obviously only enjoy TV when the plot is straightforward and devoid of subtle, clever nuances. Perhaps where Rob Thomas went wrong, is that he developed a series about young people not appropriate for the typical unwilling-to-think young person. The true greatness of Veronica Mars lies not in flashy story lines but rather in the subtle wit delivered through deeply developed, unusually real characters. 

If I ever post again, I'll be sure to include more about V Mars. Especially the character for that is wherein my real obsession lies. 

My Typical stance on Photographing as opposed to my sister's overzealous love of photo ops.

Lindi and Dani Ios, originally uploaded by gangsta-angel.

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

As I Promise All Shall Be Fine

Your deep, heavy breathing heats my air,

As you whisper aside a strand of intrusive hair.

Away from the imperfect features you swear you’ve come to love.

Those which have made me curse whatever entity may soar above.

When we cease to speak it is my soul you seek.

But then it strikes, fantasy and life are disentwined,

And your luminescent eyes appear hopeless and bleak.

As you believe our beings will never be aligned.

Only when you reach into my portals with your own,

Will you fully grasp how my love has grown.

Floating in your arms, I feel your heartbeat mingling with mine.

And so for a fleeting moment, tranquillity transcends as I promise all shall be fine.

Why I Love Imperfect Women By Walter Kirn: One man explains why he loves the bits you hate.

They tend to go out in pairs; the conventionally pretty one and her average-looking friend. The pretty one thinks that with the plainer one by her side, she’ll look even more dazzling than usual. When I spot them at the bar, I often feel sorry for the pretty one- she’s about to learn that she’s not the pretty one.

‘What are you girls drinking?’

The pretty one answers for both of them in most cases. Hers is the dominant personality, and her heels are higher, too. The (supposedly) plainer one isn’t wearing heels. They hurt her feet, and she’s not afraid to say so because she has no image to preserve. This makes her easier to talk to. It also makes her more interesting to talk to - and as the night wears on, to look at. By then, see, the bar is full of similar-looking pretty women.

The plainer one doesn’t look quite so plain now. I like her nose. I like the fact that she has one. The pretty one had a nose at one time, but she got a surgeon to cut most of it off.

When the pretty one tires of checking out her look-alikes and wanders off to the ladies, I don’t notice. I like her friend. Her hands are too big for her wrists, and when she gestures with them, I’m mesmerised by their power. I’d like to hold them, to feel them on my back. I bet they’re warm – much warmer than the pretty one’s, which are small and slender but look icy.

‘Could I have your phone number?’ I ask. The woman who’s no longer plain at all says, ‘Sure.’ Her friend sees what is happening. She stiffens. She narrows her eyes. It isn’t pretty.

In the story, Cinderella goes unnoticed until her appearance is transformed to match little girls’ ideal of loveliness, which they grow up believing is little boys’ ideal of loveliness, too. This belief is wrong. I should know, as I long for Cinderellas who’ve never touched a pair of glass slippers- who are perfectly alluring barefoot.

Maura, the first barefoot Cinderella I fell for, was not a fussy eater, and it showed in her hips. It also showed in her face, radiant with the happiness that comes from filling up on pasta and not leaping up afterwards to go running. This distinguished her from the other girls I dated during my first two years at college. They were slimmer than Maura, their features more symmetrical, but their facial expressions were harder and more anxious, particularly at meal times. Salad without dressing will do that to you.

Maura’s skin had the glossiness of a toffee apple. Her figure reminded me of an apple, too, but this was not a flaw because apples reminded me of pie, pie reminded me of ice cream, and pie and ice cream made me hungry for…Maura.

My relationship with Maura confused those who thought she wasn’t worth pursuing. A girl I’d dated, the type that counted her croutons, asked me if I had a thing for women who ‘enjoyed life’. My ex seemed to find this threatening. She realised, I think, that it’s easier to keep off the weight than to keep on the happiness.

The barefoot Cinderella’s charm is that her beauty obeys no formula and therefore can sneak up on a man. When he becomes aware of it, he feels like he’s discovered an exciting secret.

I once worked in an office with a woman whom none of my colleagues seemed to know was there. Her job was distributing memos, and she drew no attention to herself as she passed among the cubicles. One day, she caught my eye while walking towards me down an empty hallway. Straight hair, straight posture, straight in every way. Flat, too. And wearing glasses. Yet she was provocative as hell, like a stripper working under cover. She had a disciplined, stealthy sensuality, that seemed to whisper to me as she slipped by, ‘What you see isn’t half of what you’ll get.’

I set out to get it, whatever it was, confident I would face little competition. Hanging around the woman’s desk one morning, I spied another guy my age peeking at me over his computer. I detected jealousy. ‘Get in the queue,’ he hissed.

Later, I wrote a book, Thumbsucker, about my agonising adolescence, which then became the basis for a movie. The director asked me to spend a few days on set. There, I met the woman playing my mother: the Oscar-winning actress Tilda Swinton. She invited me to her trailer for a chat.

At first, she struck me as less than stunning with her pale skin and short hair dyed mousy brown. But the awe didn’t take long to set in. Fifteen minutes into the conversation, Tilda’s unorthodox glamour overwhelmed me. Her pallor turned luminous. And because she lacked the curves of the typical star, there was nothing to distract me from her assured, refined intelligence, which was the sexiest thing about her. In even her most ordinary gestures – raising her coffee cup, patting her pockets to locate her mobile phone – there was a magnetic elegance. By the end of our conversation, my head was swarming with inappropriate fantasies.

My mother wouldn’t have been surprised by this encounter. She told me back in high school that there was often an inverse relationship between a woman’s superficial lustre and her power to entrance the deeper self. But I was a teenager stuck on cheerleaders, so I didn’t believe her. Then I went out with a few cheerleaders. And later, with a model. She wasn’t shallow, but she wasn’t stimulating either. The first time I saw her naked, I was flummoxed. Where to focus? Where to start? I gazed at her on the hotel mattress and searched for a scar – or a flaw of any sort that might afford my lust a toehold. My attention kept losing its grip and sliding away, though, so I ended up ordering chocolate mousse from room service as a stalling tactic. When the confection finally arrived, she was fast asleep, of course.

To me, it comes down to Los Angeles versus Paris. In LA a lot of the women have nothing wrong with them – but nothing particularly right about them, either. The outer layers of skin they’re constantly peeling and dermabrasing must strip away some of their inner selves as well. As for implants, they lend a woman a slight cyborg aura.

In Paris, which I first visited in my twenties, the situation is the opposite. On that trip I sat at a café near the Louvre, watching the French women walk by. As they strolled past, what loomed were their protruding noses, conspicuous ears and overly broad shoulders. I noted their formidable posteriors, or their lack of posteriors, or their squat or boyish physiques. What lingered when they vanished, however, was their heartbreaking seductiveness.

They came in all shapes and sizes, but rarely in the standard ones. Until I saw them, I hadn’t realised how many ways there are for women to be themselves – their best and most enchanting selves. I’d been living in one dimension – on the surface of the TV screen, the catalogue page. But I had an awakening there, by the Louvre, with its galleries, including the one that houses the Mona Lisa- no knockout herself, but always drawing a crowd.

So thank you, Paris. Thank you, Tilda Swinton. Thank you, sleeping model. Thank you, Maura. Together, you and your ilk have granted men a power we’ve longed for since we were teenagers: the ability to see through clothes, not to mention layers of foundation and coquettish posing, to the sexy centre of a woman. You taught us to walk into parties, bars and offices, and look around – not for pageant-winning figures and blown-glass complexions, but to direct our gaze downwards, at women’s feet.

Crooked toes? No glass slippers? Promising.

A revolting revolution

'Just don't go back to old patterns,' my dietician reiterates on Thursday morning when I see her after a progressive intermission of almost a year and a half. I've returned from the UK and she is apparently 'pleasantly surprised to see I do not weigh 100 kg like most of the girls that take gap years.' I've lost a 1/3rd of my body fat she tells me. I'm now 23% or whatever the index is. Model Leanne Liebenberg's is 25, but as Nicole (the dietician) explains hers is in all the right places. Whereas I am a not so attractive, poisoned apple. 

Revolt against this revolting revolution. 

Rebel against this ridiculousness. 

Really just ignore my retard rhymes.

In the beginning of February 2007, I attempted suicide- in reflection the inevitable outcome of 3 years spent in a deep depression inextricably linked with compulsive over-eating and some intermittent purging in the form of restricted eating. Post-suicide attempt I went into a clinic for a few months and then less than 2 months later I uprooted to London intending to stay there for a few months. This extended as I began studying; however I have now returned home and whilst by no means would I have said I was perfect in London, I had lost a substantial amount of weight and was not completely agoraphobic like I had been. 

I've been back for a week and a half now and whilst the first few days were busy and I would say I was doing well, I now find myself slipping back into the habits that landed me in the unhappy situation I was in before. I will state this as definitely as I can on paper: I will not live a life being fat and I will not be unhappy all the time anymore (not for anyone, including my mother).

The cure and prevention of these are the choices I make and the level of responsibility I am willing to take for myself. For my 20-year-old self. 

I have never said this before, but: I am not my mother or anyone else in my family; I do not have that type of personality. I am far more A-type. I am not a fat person inside. I have let myself believe I don't believe I don't have will power like everyone else. Or maybe I don't. But I'm simply not prepared to be the type of person who can't be thin or say no to food. I won't be that. 

Sitting in front of the TV with my parents tonight, eating- I said (sarcastically), 'Ahh, this reminds me of happy times gone by.' And my father- surprisingly, but encouragingly- responded, 'no this is nothing like that... You have come so far.' 

I hope that is true. I hope I have grown up. And I do have one secret weapon on my side- although I did get to my fattest with that in my arsenal, so who knows.