Judging from the grades I make in my math classes I'm not particularly good at Logic. Common sense I think I've got in abundance, but that other stuff (flutter of hands, rueful face...) You see, we went to visit some friends in Poughkeepsie this weekend past. It was combination housewarming and observance of the death of a guru, complete with meditation and a shrine and communion.
I have what I'll delicately called a perverse relationship to the spiritual arts -- I avoid them. In posts past I confessed to years ago in Brooklyn having a yoga teacher who loved me despite the fact that I Hate Yoga. Hate. It. And yeah, don't tell me it's good for me. I know that. What with this colossally shortened hamstring I'm sporting these days I can barely get down a flight of stairs, but you'd have to put a gun to my head to do anything about it except a few stretches and making Cuthbert drive me everywhere. But, as I've often written, I digress. (Embarrassment will do make you do that.) Anyway, Dear Reader, you'd be proud of me, I meditated. Really. I felt things I ordinarily would not have which while not always pleasant was interesting. All good. We drove to the hotel to sleep. Just before climbing into bed I ate a few apricots.
And that's where my troubles began. I woke up the following morning with a food processor dicing chicken bones in my gut. Not enough to deter me from eating breakfast, mind you, but enough to know that I'd better get home. So we called our friends just to say "so long and thanks for all the hospitality" and got invited over for tea. About 1/2 hour after arriving at their home I was pleading to lie down. I slept and slept and slept. Awoke, drank some herbal medicine, rattled around a bit, slept some more on the couch and then shuffled through the apartment to throw up in the toilet bowl. Spent an extra night in Poughkeepsie in case of encore.
Here's where the un-logic comes in: Meditation = puking your guts up. Oh oh.
Since Sunday I've barely eaten, mostly out of fear of which end and at what velocity will the food come out. And slept of course. I'm sticking to bland food and juice until then. Usually when I'm as stressed out as I am these days I'll eat anything. Just put a piece of wet sheetrock on a plate in front of me, and it's gone. No problem at all. But these days I'm giving food the side eye. Which is fine since I dropped a couple pounds that I sure don't need. Whether I'll continue when my stress = binge eating gene reactivates is unlikely, but for now it'll do.
All this to say that I am all kinds of tired. And the great David Carr has died. Namaste.
I have what I'll delicately called a perverse relationship to the spiritual arts -- I avoid them. In posts past I confessed to years ago in Brooklyn having a yoga teacher who loved me despite the fact that I Hate Yoga. Hate. It. And yeah, don't tell me it's good for me. I know that. What with this colossally shortened hamstring I'm sporting these days I can barely get down a flight of stairs, but you'd have to put a gun to my head to do anything about it except a few stretches and making Cuthbert drive me everywhere. But, as I've often written, I digress. (Embarrassment will do make you do that.) Anyway, Dear Reader, you'd be proud of me, I meditated. Really. I felt things I ordinarily would not have which while not always pleasant was interesting. All good. We drove to the hotel to sleep. Just before climbing into bed I ate a few apricots.
And that's where my troubles began. I woke up the following morning with a food processor dicing chicken bones in my gut. Not enough to deter me from eating breakfast, mind you, but enough to know that I'd better get home. So we called our friends just to say "so long and thanks for all the hospitality" and got invited over for tea. About 1/2 hour after arriving at their home I was pleading to lie down. I slept and slept and slept. Awoke, drank some herbal medicine, rattled around a bit, slept some more on the couch and then shuffled through the apartment to throw up in the toilet bowl. Spent an extra night in Poughkeepsie in case of encore.
Here's where the un-logic comes in: Meditation = puking your guts up. Oh oh.
Since Sunday I've barely eaten, mostly out of fear of which end and at what velocity will the food come out. And slept of course. I'm sticking to bland food and juice until then. Usually when I'm as stressed out as I am these days I'll eat anything. Just put a piece of wet sheetrock on a plate in front of me, and it's gone. No problem at all. But these days I'm giving food the side eye. Which is fine since I dropped a couple pounds that I sure don't need. Whether I'll continue when my stress = binge eating gene reactivates is unlikely, but for now it'll do.
All this to say that I am all kinds of tired. And the great David Carr has died. Namaste.
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