Aside from the bit where I am a neurotic, the main reason that I am so obsessed about nutrition / diet (and exercise), is because I have thirty-five years of experience showing me the direct relationship between what I eat and my health. This started with a Naturopath ‘curing’ my severe eczema when I was about thirteen, after a succession of medical doctors prescribed stronger and stronger steroids over a great many months, for an outcome of precisely fuck all. I am now convinced the eczema came as a result of me turning vegetarian, but I don’t have my medical records to be able to say for sure. Although the eczema cleared up in two weeks after starting the naturopathic exclusion diet, I was on it for 1.5 years. Once excluded foods were reintroduced, I discovered that cow dairy triggered the eczema and so I have avoided it ever since. Aside
This week, I have seen a couple of recent news stories relating to Palestine and Israel: one which enraged me; one which provoked me. I made a throwaway collage on 27th February for Ephemera for the former story about how a pro-Israel lobby group made a London hospital take down art work by children from Gaza as they felt ‘threatened’. I am still struggling to find words to explain how rage-full I feel in response to that. That people representing one of the most belligerent, violent, and militarised countries on earth could consider children’s artwork threatening is an egregious farce and an abuse of the English language. What they did not want was for anyone outside of Gaza / Palestine to know the reality of those children’s lives. That the hospital would capitulate to this lie of vulnerability disgusts me. Today I read the historian Simon Schama calling for British Jews to
The Philadelphia Museum of Art has an incredible collection and, when I lived there, I used to like to take advantage of the free admissions on Sundays. In particular, I was mesmerised by this painting by Giorgio de Chirico, The Poet and His Muse. I still have a postcard of it on my desk, alongside postcards of Carlo Crivelli’s The Dead Christ supported by Two Angels, two postcards of Henry Miller, one of Brian from the Magic Roundabout, and a giant badge which says ‘BE NICE, it’s catching!’ whose advice I only sometimes take. There is lots to love about this painting, but what I tend to get stuck on, is the size of the muse compared to the poet. It feels right to me that the muse towers over the poet as if it were the poet’s progenitor; but more, the muse feels protective of the poet as well as infinitely more wise. All of these are truths to me.
I recently read George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier. I confess that I am terribly late to this book and I have no good reason why: it is a masterpiece. Then again, I am also convinced that all books have a ‘time’ to be read by the reader, and it would appear that this was the right time for me to read this one. This isn’t a book review, save to say – go read it if you haven’t – it is depressing how many of the conditions affecting working-class lives remain 90 years later: the casualisation of labour, housing struggles, crap food, disbursement of communities, etc. I also recognise many of the difficulties around communication styles I have encountered (especially) in the academy, when he talks about the rough rudeness of the working-class from the perspective of the middle- and upper-classes. On the plus side, I’m proud to be
This might sound like a not-so-humble brag, so bear with me, but one of the compliments I often get when I reveal my age to someone who can see my physique (for instance, when I am in bikini at the spa), is that I ‘look incredible’. One the one hand, I absolutely love this flattery (mainly because I am otherwise starved for it) and am therefore quick to reveal my age. On the other hand, it infuriates me because of the difference between the conversation I want the question/answer to lead to vs. where it inevitably goes. Like any evangelist, I want to talk about my twin gods of diet and lifestyle, but instead the next question I inevitably get is: ‘do your parents look amazing too?’ What people want me to say is ‘yes’, so that they can write my physique off to ‘good genetics’ and theirs off to ‘bad’. That