“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!

The elegant expression which serves as a title here has also served as a political chant ever since it was published as the title of a poem (which I’ve shared in full below) in a popular cultural periodical at the turn of the century. This magazine attributed the line “Bread for all, & Roses, too” to “the women in the West” but the now famous poem was credited to lesser known writer James Oppenheim…

However, his poem was inspired by an apparently riveting speech delivered by activist, educator, & suffragist Helen M. Todd. I first encountered this beautiful cry (for beauty as well as sustenance) as the name of a food cooperative some of my friends were establishing—back when I myself was a budding young poet & philosophy student with a newfound interest in socialism & labour movements.

My political views have shifted & expanded to include several other ideologies since those early college years—but my core values remain rooted in grassroots & community organizing… Which I have recently found myself drawn to again. I come back to this poem—alongside other chants & songs—when I need to draw strength or when I feel particularly dismayed by a recent turn of social events…

~ Bread and Roses ~

As we come marching, march

-ing, in the beauty of the day—

A million darkened kitchens,

a thousand mill-lofts gray are

touched with all the radiance

that a sudden sun discloses…

For the people hear us singing:

“ 🍞 & Roses, Bread & 🌹 ! ”

🪧

As we come marching, march

-ing, we battle, too, for men—

For they are women's children

and we mother them again…

Our days shall not be sweated

from birth until our life closes—

Hearts starve as well as bodies:

Give us Bread, but give us Roses.

🪧

As we come marching, march

-ing, unnumbered women dead

go crying through our singing

their ancient song of Bread;

Small art and love and beauty

their trudging spirits knew—

Yes, it is Bread we fight for—

but we fight for Roses, too.

🪧

As we come marching, march

-ing, we bring the Greater Days—

The rising of the women means

the rising of the [human] race…

No more the drudge and idler—

ten that toil where one reposes—

But a sharing of life's glories:

“ 🍞 & Roses, Bread & 🌹 ! ”

📝 by James Oppenheim, 1911

“America is my country and Paris is my hometown.” ~ Gertrude Stein

In 2015, I fell in love with a poet in Paris and ended up living there for six years. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life—and one I’ve only recently begun to unpack with any real clarity. I don’t regret leaving, but lately I do find myself daydreaming about the city ev…

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Dear Readers,

Those who stumble upon gold here, if they’d be so kind as to let me know by liking or hearting or following or commenting or whatever it is the good folks do nowadays to express their approval of content online…

I’d be terribly obliged. 🤍

As I mention in the subtitle above, I don’t (as of yet) know what my intentions are in starting one of these… But I hope to discover the reasons along the way—with a few curious friends traveling in tow.

Should ye be one of them, know that any coin ye can spare an old soul for the writings (but mostly ramblings) & artworks found featured on this space cloud would be greatly appreciated.

Just be warned that it will most likely be spent (rather foolishly) on creating more content, guzzling the occasional gallon of coffee, & chasing rainbows—which is the stuff these poems are made of.

Ceci 🕊️