Ftrain, by Paul Ford

My dreams were a weird mix of Kraftwerk, Al Jolson, and work.

I'm starting to feel that I can work on other things besides myself. Until now this site has been a nearly full-time job. Not the writing but the thinking. Everything else has come second. It's been hard to accept that; I feel very guilty about everything else I've neglected. Which is fine; nothing I'm doing matters that much.

Maybe I give myself two or three hours of attention per day. That's still 1.3 × ∞ more than before. As long as there is progress, forward-motion, as long as I keep writing and writing what I eat, I can work on things outside my body.

I found myself reaching for the food-scale this morning without thought. This is the new thing. Compared to last month it's no longer quite so big a deal that I can't eat what I want when I want it. It's still a big deal, mind. Judging by my pants I am perhaps 0.5 percent less massive than a month ago. We've got 20-some years of semi-conscious savagery built up that must be worked into a new, conscious set of rituals.

If I return to the life I like--eating out, seeing friends--there will be struggle. If you put me up against some steam tables, the steam tables would win. Little piles of meat leaping out straight into my mouth. I open the door to a restaurant, peer in, and am bowled over by candied yams, arms and legs waving.

I remember this from smoking. There is a point where I could say with some authority, "I have quit." It was after someone had given me a cigarette, and I smoked it, and had no desire for another.

I can't say that yet. I can say, however, that it might be possible. I wasn't sure about that a month ago. Old life needs to shake hands with new life. I have much to learn.