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The International Writers Magazine
: Tabytha Towe Diaries 2005 No 26

The Reluctant Chronicler
Tabytha Towe on breaking up dieting and a mainstream of consciousness

The newest escapades. Oh boy.
Or at least the latest escapades, for there are simply too many to tell of, but really, what is ever new in my ever interchangeable, pattern way of life? Hence my failure to change my ways.

Does that sound so negative? Perhaps a little on the cynical side, which I am indeed at times, yet it is still close to the truth. Prime example: my writing this today.

It has been about nine months since I last delivered a piece to you, now I’ll aimlessly attempt to redeem my incoherent-self from my inevitable negligence.
Here’s a funny thing about this mind you. I believe my efforts have been fated for me. Maybe I was never supposed to write you again until this very day. You see, I have actually written three times throughout these abrasive, absent months, and that’s a big, fucking three time effort by the way!?
No excuses, I don’t need to justify when or why I write for Hacks, only that there may be, in fact, a reason or two explaining why there has not been a word sent over this nine month period,  (that’s a full pregnancy term, imagine how many babies were born while I was flaking!
So here I present non-excuse One: I do not own a computer so it makes matters quite difficult, though there are ways around it yes, I just chose not to do so.
Two, both my second and third pieces -and I shit you not my friends- got erased! I could not fathom the accidental purpose of this happening not only once, but again sometime later after having poured more of my heart out having been already disparaged. Damned I say! A simple, light touch of a button and unbeknownst to myself and much to my horrible dismay, all that was plentiful had vanished. Twice! My God am I that cursed! Our future is in computer's hands now. We are useless without it. We won’t know what to do with ourselves anymore because computers will do the thinking for us. It’s creeping control dooms us all.
Of course you know that I know that computers aren’t really new age technology right? This is coming from a girl who doesn’t understand what an ipod is no less. I still use a discman for Christsakes, shocking. I’m so bloody old fashioned! And yes,  I am a complete hypocrite because am I not using a very evil computer myself this very moment?
 
The only reason I am attempting to write again today is that I am terribly ill. It’s a beautiful day outside and I am in here, in this with you. I’ll just write what comes through my fingers, I don’t even think I’m thinking about what I’m going to say, I’ll ride the flu wave of distorted configuration, I feel completely and utterly surreal in my surroundings right now. Strange how a head cold can do that!?
 
If I didn’t write, I reckon my heart would just leak out. It’s not the writing part I dissolve in; it’s my inner….innards? You figure it out, something IN there that no language can describe. For example, my recent break up with the previously mentioned, handsome, lovely chap that got me cruising on boards --- time out a second, random thought. I could jump on a snow/skateboard so enthusiastically, something I feared before but have come to love, yet I have trouble jumping on board with anything else so important. Hmmm--- You may or may not see what the significance was of that, but who gives, shall we continue;
When this handsome, lovely chap and I split,  p.s. I won’t go into any detail as to what happened and events leading to or after the matter, out of respect for him and our (own private affairs) disgruntled situation, which was flabbergasting enough, I was pretty fucked.
It wasn’t pretty at all.

While we were “not” associating for a while there, I had no one to really talk to, so I wrote about it a lot, I needed to bleed you see. And sooner or later, I felt better; otherwise I would be in AA right now. I got out everything that I felt that I could just as easily do by screeching or hysterically crying or throwing a hissy fit or precious ornaments that matter, which I did also, but none of it seemed to alleviate my disposition or make any sense until after I had read it. It was as if it were real when I could look at it afterwards, dissect it for my own amusement. For when it’s just a passing thought in your head or even an emotional spectacle, it goes so quickly you cannot possibly recall what it was in the first place. Too many feelings to go through us, almost immediately. We are very temperamental beings, fragile and fleeting.

It helps to vent, that’s to give in, but also helps get another perspective on things, whether it be different, clearer, looking towards, within, deeper, it’s all the same scary shit. Then you wish you looked at things this way or that way at this point or earlier to have spared the energy, but then who would learn? That is once more the beauty of irony. I guess.

So I bled, I bled well, and one day I stopped crying and didn’t get angry, didn’t let my ego get involved, didn’t try to understand it, just that, well, things happen, it was not pleasant, it was beyond my control, there was nothing I could have done to formulate it any better for either of us except to let it happen and eventually accept it. Or wait till we were eventually over this and mature enough to talk to each other at all, in a not-so-hostile manner. I hate waiting things out, it’s agonizing and I’m too anxious and impatient, so what did I do, I wrote about it, (then waited.) The process of the heart leakage regarding the long and tedious interlude between I and the “break up receiver/partner” was grueling, but the painful aspects had dissipated quite drastically, then I soon realized that the worst was to come. The anguish turned out to be the easier part, for the insufferable tears came freely and naturally with all that overwhelmed you. It’s a very passionate and vulnerable time. The acceptance part is harder, it takes effort, strength and many steps. No pride allowed either. I had to accept that I couldn’t go back, to him or in time, I couldn’t apologize or expect him to, we are all so sorry, what good does that do?  I couldn’t analyze it or question the what ifs’, if I had done this or spoken up about that and so forth, there is no point in torturing yourself like that. It isn’t out of the question to question, we even have to question our beliefs after all, and it is human nature to be confused and curious, for there are never right answers or appropriate actions to take, but we can’t cry about it forever; so move the hell on already!  Is that a questionable statement?
 
During this new found acceptance, I suddenly felt relieved and somewhat smug, but humbly so, I felt a huge weight off my shoulders. So then decided to do an over zealous test of onesself: man vs. food. I went on a body cleanse that I had hoped would clear my mind as well, but the 5 yoga classes a week had taken care of that anyway. I was doing so well just a little while ago. I haven’t been to my ideal, average dose of yoga much at all lately, what a difference my body feels like, kind of off balance.

I was supposed to go 10 days without any food, just water and a bitter sweet, sour remedy of lemon, cayenne pepper and maple syrup mixture. Tasty once you get used to it, once you can’t taste the smell of delightfully appetizing food anymore. I did my whole ludicrous cleanse wrong actually, too many lemons, destroyed my teeth enamel and now my gums are overly sensitive, I suggest you do some internet research if you want to try this, at least get better results than I did.

The best for last of course, is laxative tea for dinner that keeps you up all night with a terrible gaseous pain that feels like a knife turning in your stomach, and then for breakfast you get to chug one litre full of salt water, so yummy I tell you, makes you want to vomit. Now that should have been a good way to flush out, right. I was exceptionally lethargic and drained; I had no energy and was really light headed. No one told me that you had to RELAX while doing this, *remember research! I went to work full time, in a restaurant no less!? Long days, especially as I was addicted to coffee, on a minimum three drinks a night average and a full time smoker. The very night before I had absurdly decided to shock my body with the opposite effect, it was one extreme to the other. I was hurting for the substances that hurt me. But hey, surprisingly I did it, I prevailed and never cheated. Although I only managed seven days, still too much man.
 
 Well today, at this point in my life, I am happy to say I am a healthy, (though presently sick) happy for the most part, (we can all be happier can’t we) single for the longest time, (no re-bound relationships….non lasting regardless) aspiring young woman in an Urban, trivial world laid out for passers by to ponder evermore.

Healthy, because I have just quit smoking for the first time in over a decade, (yes I was THAT young and THAT stupid.) I quit with all thanks to the cleanse in which was the main objective for doing it in the first place. I can proclaim that it works, so far, I mean I have no intentions of going back to those delicious death sticks if I have to drink salt water again. Unexpectedly I feel like shit and I feel absolutely hideous. Cigarette diet had alarming results. When I quit three months ago, after the cleanse especially, I had lost some weight and I was satisfied with my body for the first time in ages. I was adamant with yoga and determined to get tighter. That was nearly just 100 days ago, a mere tick of the clock…

I have since gained an astronomical 16 pounds. I substituted tobacco for muffins, I craved sugar constantly. What on earth was I thinking trying to quit during Christmas holidays. For fucks sakes the five staff party dinners I went to were worth about 10 pounds themselves (I was recently available and therefore a good last minute date for a few friendsand they were all such lovely feasts.)

It is unconceivable though, I feel like I am not myself. This is the heaviest I have been in my entire life, I am disgusted. Not that I am huge, not even fat or chubby, just that I let so much weight be obtained so quickly. It’s absurd! None of my pants fit me anymore, and not stepping out in the cold amongst other fellow smokers makes me feel like I’m missing out on something, I’m an outcast from the weird group now. Although I do have a nice booty to fill in my non-existent arse from before, that can stay, all else can go. And let us not forget slowly my lungs will eviscerate all the intoxicating pollution I have accumulated over the years that now more hopefully won’t kill me in 15 years (mind you other substances might intervene before that any how.) And yeah, ok, I gained some weight but it can be lost, I still have a pretty face. Someone once said….
 
Happy, always, but there is a suppressing dark side that reveals itself, but I’m trying to stab him. I wear a smile well and it is sincere. I love life, even the darker side, it’s all connected, and it makes me happy to be alive.

Happy about writing class, finally going to school. I WILL REPEAT, Tabytha and school, same sentence you heard correctly. Needless to say it is not for a degree kind of course, it is in fact non credit, but I most certainly love it. It’s just opening me up to the fact that I love to write. All I need to do is do it. Practice this and other such arts more often. I have repressed my creativity considerably ever since I was introduced to alcohol. Even drugs aspired colorful motive. Booze discourages you, makes for likely excuse though. Moreover to the point, it has taught me not to be afraid of a classroom, that I can do this because I want to be there, and that I am open to every idea and I cannot reject my desire for it, regardless of being um-professional. Nor can I reject myself for failure or success for that matter, which is seemingly a huge issue with me. Is this too personal, good grief I’m turning into my own-word-therapist-writer-bullshitter….blagh!
 
I was asked this in class: what makes a writer?
We all are to some degree, I mean if you are writing you are literally a writer, though not a literal one?
Is it only when we have a piece published that makes us a writer? Or only when someone else reads your writing?

I think the difference is that everyone feels and thinks and expresses differently. Writers are the ones that do all that through a pen and paper, but it definitely comes through them, almost naturally. It can be a form of art or a form of release. Others think and feel through music or dancing, or through other means generating a (false sense of power because they are insecure cowards who never dealt with their feelings or problems) through hurting other people or animals or through manipulation of religion or through greedy corporations or through the court or parliament…I won’t continue to go there don’t worry.
Ah, you see, that makes me mad so I wrote about it.
Does that make me a writer?  Doesn’t make me any more special and nor does it make me make any more sense.

© Tabytha Towe October 2005
The all original Vancouver Girl
tabythat@hotmail.com

You can read all of Tabytha Towe's Diaries on-line here: six years of gowing up on Hackwriters
or here:
Previous moments from Tabytha Towe's diary:
ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR-, FIVE. SIX. SEVEN. SEVEN and a half-EIGHT- NINE -TEN- ELEVEN- TWELVE THIRTEEN -FOURTEEN- FIFTEEN
-SIXTEEN -SEVENTEEN - (*The Africa Diaries) EIGHTEEN - NINETEEN- TWENTY -TWENTY-THREE - TWENTY-FIVE

 
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