Day 17. January 24th, 2012. 15 More Pages of Eating.

I missed my oldest sister's birthday!  Dammit!

Liz writes, ". . . Yet, I don't get depressed here.  I can cope with, and even somehow enjoy, the sinking melancholy of Venice, just for a few days.  Somewhere in me I am able to recognize that this is not my melancholy; this is the city's own indigenous melancholy, and I am healthy enough these days to be able to feel the difference between me and it.  This is a sign, I cannot help but think, of healing, of the coagulation of myself.  There were a few years there, lost in borderless despair, when I used to experience all the world's sadness as my own.  Everything sad leaked through me and left damp traces behind." p. 101

As Liz has come into her own, come to know her self; as she becomes grounded, centered, in this moment I feel I can be healed from taking on the insanity of New York as my own - the pushy people, the obnoxiousness, the begging, the blasting cabs, the delivery guys on bikes  (both ignoring the law and safety, for that matter), the smell, the rot, the decay, the noise, the brash opinions, the energy, the passion, the drive, the rebellion, the chaotic monotony ("Well, Stan, what do we have today?" "More chaos, Steve").  I can relate to her debilitating depression.  However, I was so sad, I was unaware the rest of the world was said, too.

There are only 15 more pages before the eating stops and the praying starts.  And, she's gotten a sense of self, it seems to me, in a slow, quiet place.  It's easy to get caught up in NYC.  You either steel yourself against it, walking down the street with the blinders of your iPod, cell phone and cool shades on or you get over come by it and drink a lot.  Two elementary extremes, I know.  I'm sure there are people out there more well-adjusted than I who can just experience NYC and not get overwhelmed by it, consumed by it nor take the city for granted, nor shut themselves up in their neighborhood, job or local, who love the city but are not defined by it.


What's my sense of self?  I think I'm coming into my own as I write, as I gain a sense of purpose and as I follow these crazy writing ideas into the night (having neither a clue nor a flashlight).