Sundae Theory — “What Will the New Body Be?”

For Sundae Theory reading February 3rd 2016, a gathering hosted in West Olympia for which readers were given the prompt “What Will the New Body Be?”


Like medicine, academic study is expensive and institutional, though it requires little in the way of equipment or a fixed physical location, as least to address the most surface-level maladies. We do occasionally permeate its membranes, though we are often left outside, looking elsewhere, while carrying small fragments of traditionalism.


I do wish to be vegan, vegetarian; with the proper fermentation to be glowing and internally wrung out. At the Bandha room, “internally and externally rotating.” Admiring lithe lean bodies and wanting to be that, therefore predicting shifts in physiology, in the order of appearance. This is the hippie town where you live. Grasping on to an idea of Ganesha for a moment, to assist in contortion. The hippie town is a breath of fresh air after five years of being here and resisting the immediacy of the good life, while appropriately remaining suspicious of the economic elusiveness of its material simplicity and anxiolytic decor. Hence this aspiration for a purity which is equated with veganism. It is a western paradigmatic argument against the complete embrace of goodness, with its religious over-tones so grasping for exclusivity. Ganesha, grant me the gift of veganism; might I be as self-fed as those ascetic monks holding out tin bowls for their daily ration of chickpeas in differing formations. Might I someday overcome the psychological impulses of hunger, those minute chemical traces, and become as internally rotating as the simultaneously contracted and relaxed abdomen of a yogi. Might I someday land back in this same place with a new understanding of toxicity, a completeness that has always been unborrowed.


The reduction was always awaiting in a chlorine pool, a tile bath-tub with a deep end. It mattered not how many calories to consume but their constitution, and this was responsible for the indefinite nature of meal time restriction, building blocks we can do without, for a time being, at least, tending to important office activities which are, conversely, bound by time. Breakfast is an interruption and a delight with an awkward sense of timing; give me a one half pound foil-embossed bag vacuum sealed with freshly preserved coffee beans to emulsify golden rivets of butterfat in a canteen, a shimmering mermaid in comparison to the creamed flatness of milk. I seek out health advice from individuals with sedentary lifestyles, a pinhole camera lens through which their torsos with its ribcage followed by thighs, calves, and the appendages of the feet fit through with carefully tracked measures of efficiency. Its best to put yourself in the shoes of an herbivore, imagine treading that lightly upon the grasses, spinaches and nuts, and then supplement with animal protein for the maintenance of one’s physique. This is a sidebar in my magazine, another fragment of contradictory advice that sets readers off in tailspins towards the natural foods grocery, filling plastic satchels with bird seed and grabbing pieces of meat cradled in styrophome resting tray, praying for the goodness of their unwitnessed life past. Pursue recipes for birdseed-balls to bring along to work, for the executive suggested his opinion about the red velvet ocean of blood and its circulating sugars. On the one hand, the release of serotonin suppresses appetite, leaving one feeling socially satisfied regardless of the physical contents of one’s stomach. This process requires the consumption of sweet and starchy foods, via the plasma-tryptophan ratio. Something about co-efficient entrances through the cellular doorway. Something about a broken feedback loop. On the other hand, simulating starvation, you could lose weight with zero hunger and zero cravings ever. Break that addiction to exterior stimulus of happy matter. It’s best to eat nothing at all, so someday soon you will say goodbye to the last caloric bolus of masticated matter slipping down your throat with the optimism of those who stood at the English Port bidding adieu to departing family members aboard the Titanic, releasing that which tethered such a mammoth to land. Your brain is the dock, and down the throat, stomach, the inconvenience of the ocean, with its odd patterns of inside-out mountains and freakish, illegal depths, leading to an arctic, glacial chill, a place where no light penetrates, detritus patrolled by merciless angler-fish, consuming crud, dust, and suckers making their way south, accidentally. Such is the way with hunger — catching a glimpse of the rear end of the ship, keeping ahold of buoyancy mainly of thought, casting out the inconvenient yearnings to water, to space, becoming dead fragments of stars and the safe knowledge of something overhead. Stars twinkling multi-directionally, making it possible to say Fuck You to no one in particular, and to inertia generally, given that blameless dislocation that has, nonetheless, such an obvious point of continuance. This is the earth-bound wreckage hardly dislocated to a submerged, oceanic state, a rusted treasure to be discovered via submarine draped in many sapphire necklaces, later celebratorily recreated by Kate Winslet acting as her own grandmother. But instead that beast animalistically respirates on land whether or not its oscillations are given over to the realm of vocabulary, using proactive or positive terminology which honor its continuance rather than parse its fleeting nature. It is not replaced by measurements, but is kept on life support resting warmly in the interstitial space of magazines and other bursts of optimism for daily improvement. Such as the need for specificity and articulation, the kind of advice I am looking for, remedies for the itchy vaporous appetite of sitting in one place, attempting to understand.