Cecilia Llompart's Blog, page 2

Sugar Rush

“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe

Disclaimer: Just in case the subtitle and epigraph haven’t clued you in, dear readers… This post contains some heavier themes—but I shall attempt to blanket (bet you thought I was going to say sugarcoat, didn’t you?) ‘em in a little bit o’ sweetness.

In a fairly recent conversation with , we half-jokingly waxed poetic about whether the listicle (popularized by purveyors of clickbait, gossip, and other such digital time-sucks) could ever be elevated as an art form. I believe it already has been… But I’m a fan of lists in general—as you can see by the two list poems I previously shared here and here—to the extent that I’ve had to stop myself from making endless amounts of them.

Yet I still take a seemingly endless amount of photos, since this is a more socially acceptable form of obsessive mania (and therefore helps me combat my anxieties). One thing I’ve always struggled with is food… But as the struggles seem to stem from sensory-related issues rather than body image ones, I flew under the radar of diagnosis—until I finally came across the distinct differences between eating disorders and disordered eating.

A few months ago, a challenging but gentle conversation with my councilor (an ASD specialist) led me to confront my drinking problem… Which, although it hasn’t been excessive since my 20’s, it has nevertheless punctuated my 30’s with several less than pleasant memories. After she explained that members of families affected by diabetes will sometimes turn to alcohol instead of sugar, I had some revelations about my own genetics.

I haven’t had anything more than a mocktail or non-alcoholic beer since that session, and celebrated the accomplishment with a half-serious listicle which I shared on other socials but deemed unworthy for this one… Now, I’m torn. I’d like, dear readers, to celebrate another accomplishment—and I would like for all of you to celebrate this one with me. After over a year of being too underweight (plus a summer setback in the form of Covid), I’ve reached my goal minimum weight!

I don’t know how to describe the profound difference this makes in my daily life to anyone who has never dipped below their BMI —just as I could never claim to grasp the physical nor psychological toll it must take to keep weight off. I’ll also admit to cheating by replacing meals with a glass of milk (for the protein), which I then use as an excuse to wash down dessert. It’s stupefying how my consumption of sweets and sugary treats has skyrocketed since I quit drinking…

But it didn’t phase my councilor.

The famously tormented American Poet goes on to say, “It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom[…]” which led him—like so many sensitive souls—to seek solace in substances to the point of abuse. Even our country’s economy seems dependent on perpetuating the cycle of poor health and escapism while profiting from the entire gambit on all sides.

But this was supposed to be a post about donuts! Not about privatizing basic human care, imprisoning powerless addicts, or succumbing to invisible illness. Certainly not about the disproportionately distributed burden of diabetes among certain citizens and/or demographics. DONUTS, I TELL YOU! How much I missed their irresistible call, how they can be found everywhere here, and how sometimes I cried at bakeries in Paris (as embarrassing as that is)…

Yes, dear readers, I missed this humble pastry—which I dedicated my first poem to at the tender age of ten—above all other American delicacies during my several years in France to the extent that I shed bitter tears over the half-frozen imitations they had to offer me over there. Yet I don’t know that I would have ever felt fully comfortable admitting that aloud to anyone before coming to understand the importance of comfort foods with my condition’s eating challenges.

I’m trying not to torment myself with guilt. This I owe to therapy, a loving partner, and my own slow progress towards practicing self-compassion. Now that I’m in better health and financial standing, I’ve promised myself to start eating “healthy” again—but I know the pitfalls of labeling. I’m not skilled enough to draw everything I eat, but my photos serve as a creative food journal of sorts—certainly beat counting calories—and make me happy to see that I’m eating at all.

p.s. To read this in its more light-hearted, listicle form—click here!

Heart Wide Open

“Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear,
I do not know.” ~ Anne Sexton

I love how this newsletter is quickly becoming a collection of who I used to be, who I currently am, and who I still wish to become… It feels like I’m exploring the elements of my process—not just as a poet, but as a person—before transforming them from raw material into something I hope to use in a longer manuscript. Though I am also hoping to use this space to more deeply examine my desire to make something tangible of mere words—my fear of fading into oblivion, perhaps—maybe even make peace with the inherently ethereal nature of story-telling…

Stories as memory. As history.

As humans, we long for something to hold—but how do you capture what never happened, what you only imagined, or what you weren’t there to witness? Why does it even matter whether we capture our experiences or not—in writing or with a photograph—when just bothering to remember takes effort. What is it that compels us to be willing to replay an event in our mind—sometimes over and over—simply to recreate the feelings of that moment, or to hone in on some tiny detail lest we risk forgetting it.

Yet I never thought I could care so little about my own past as I have recently. Unfair to quantity though, really. It would be more accurate to say that my self-reflection has become something less critical and a bit more constructive than it was before I took the time to heal from all those wounds. As it turns out, it was precisely this cool—almost cold—objectivity which I lacked but think I needed in order to truly dissect the journals of my youth… As cloudy, dark, and full of feelings as they are—I can finally see how I was hiding from myself even more than I was hiding from anyone else.

freestyle drawing (by my cousin) from which my wrist tattoo comesPoetry Journal Entry

“Jesus loves me, this I know—though you'd swear it isn't so... Ah, the days of eating alone—back to back to back—are back. These days, I visualize every passerby panting—sweating naked [over their lover and dripping profusely into their lover’s eyes until they are blinded]. This way, I prefer to eat alone. ❦ Foolish child playing in the street, this heart [of mine]. The heart, my [greatest] foe, [is] a ghost in training—[is] a bloody fist [that won’t stop pounding until] calloused raw. [But when] the heart takes things into its own hands, it never [truly] mends... It only pretends [to]. [When] the heart attacks, it toys with [you]—paws its prey. The heart does a back-flip [off the rib cage and disappears into the stomach]. The heart revolts [into a] back bend [but it breaks far too easily]. [It] rattles the cage, rests, raises the white flag. Forgets, [too] quickly. [Much] too quickly. [It] sleeps with another… [Then another.] Comfortably. Too comfortably. [Alas,] the heart holds hands with too many other hearts—[for] the heart is [far] too aware of [all those] other hearts. [So] the [collective] heart beats in unison [until] it beats in fear [until] it beats for its life. [So] it beats on the door [of your chest]. [It] beats on your door all night all night all night [long. Beware, for] the heart [is] that bloody fist pounding on closed doors [all night]. ❦ [Yet she has] eyes like [ice,] that could freeze a body, that do freeze—and she's a shiny thing, so you pocket her [for later… Meanwhile,] I've dropped the proverbial [scented] handkerchief [again—but as usual, nobody bends to retrieve it.] My biggest guilty pleasure [seems to be envisioning future] dystopia[s and weeping over all of our losses in advance. If only I had a] waterproof friend (friendship or actual ship) to weather the coming storms with...] Hark the [warning of] church bells! I wish you [all] the best and the worst [that a life of] mediocrity [has to offer—but] make your own minions [from now on—because] there are no happy endings… Only better ones [to be made up as we go along].”

{ { { August 18th, 2006 } } }

The Dog Days of August

It’s difficult for me to choose a favorite from my almanac series (even though I mentioned having a least favorite), but this month holds a special place in my heart… I’m not exactly a fan of the excessive heat, but Florida’s heat is tolerable depending on factors like humidity and mosquitoes. Growing up in tropical and subtropical climates, I became accustomed to August being rainy but relatively calm—before the storms of hurricane season pummel us into soaked pulp that lies dormant for fall and winter…

August is hot, but teeming with life!

~ August ~

August carries a flute of bees,
drums up the heat. I have seen

a crow consider a heap of straw
with more sense than I have

considered entire days. Seen an
old dog care for a roll in the grass

even more than it cared for this
thing called dignity. Even a few

misplaced seeds have grown taller
than I’ll grow. What of me is worthy

to sit in the red shade of an oak
and its desire to touch at more sky?

Hanging out in a hammock surrounded by pineapple plants { August 2022 }