and, on a personal note . . .

Being without a proper computing device means I've been able to do fuck all, as the Brits say, for the past couple of weeks.

I'm communicating, now, from what an Apple agent referred to as a "vintage iMac"—the computer I borrowed from my five-year-old's bedroom. This is the machine on which my little girl learns applications, but does not have access to the internet. For the latter, the child is with a parent, alriiiight? And: let's call this sweet lil machine "shabby chic." It's a cute iMac, and we love it. I just can't do a damned thing with it, with respect to actual work. Sigh.

PJ's been in da house, coparenting the child, of course. And PJ has her own lovely MacBook . . . but I can't be stealing her computer every minute. Plus, I toss everybody outta here, on weekends, cuz this is my time to either do shoots or just regroup.

I don't have a shoot, this weekend.

So.

This is the first series of days I've had to confront just Being in This New Body.

I'm told there are rumors borne of confusion about my health. Geez. Why. Pay attention, people. I did that Face thing, for a minute *s

Yes, I'm "sick." No, I don't have a cold. No, I'm not likely to "get better."

I have a chronic, degenerative, aggressive autoimmune disorder. Not a lot to be done about that.

At the moment, I can't really walk very well. I can move around my house without much assistance—but yeah, when I leave the house, I do the wheelchair thing.

PJ and the Wonder Boy (my favorite doc) were teasing me about doing up my wheelchair in tie-dye.

That's just wrong.

I'm considering decorating it in shoes. Going down to the Sally Annie, and getting a bunch of garish high heels, no two alike. I'm'a string 'em together along the back, with lace, mm hmm. Just to be perverse.

Dunno what to think of the prognoses of physicians. Every time they say I'm going to die, they're wrong. When I had encephalitis, at age 24, they said I'd die within days. I did not die. When I had cancer, the next year, they said I'd die. I'm still here.

And clearly I'm not dying: I'm typing *s

What else I'm doing is evacuating my life of every source of boredom, irritation, and barrier to joy. Luckily, I've always been honest, and I've fairly well done as I please, for a long damn time. Now, it's just a matter of how long, before I say, "Yeah, I'm not doing that." *s

My friend Jack finds it odd that I am generally happy. Jack's new, in my life—I just met him, in March, when I was in Baltimore for a visit to Johns Hopkins, so I had the chance to buy Jack a meal, cuz he lives in B'more. He said, "You always seem happy, on the phone, but I thought . . . well . . ." and he looked at PJ. She looked at me, and smiled. Then she said to Jack, "Well, that's just her."

Why would I be different, now?

I have been so many things, over so many years.

This is one more change.

After encephalitis, I was told I'd never dance, swim, or ride a bike again.

Took me less than a month to get back in the studio, dancing. Back in the sea, swimming. So I had to modify a few of the asanas in yoga. Meh.

Now it's no feet. I've had feet a long time. They were good to me. If they need a break, I'm good with that *s

Perhaps I approach life differently than others. I came up with an extraordinary amount of abuse and trauma. Hell, I'm just happy with what I got, day to day.

This, too.

That should cover the gossip. I know you don't think I'm'a tell you whether I'm seeing anyone. Fuckers *s

Now. Let's get back to the Important Business of contributing to the betterment of the worlds around us. That is an infinitely more worthy topic.

There is art to be made. Politics to be produced and changed. Lives to be touched.

I'm about that.

You?

*s

~Emmanuela