OK, today was a tough day. Being at work was a bit more demanding on my attention than I'd expected, and my attention has become as predictable as a poker hand. I notice the way my energy and attention change, waver, disappear, return in force, depending on how long it's been since I downed a gulp of my power lemonade o' spiciness.

Walking home after work, down 16th and Valencia streets, the polyglot fragrances of culinary wonders wafting through the cold air, towards my nostrils, into my nostrils, I felt... Hongry, with a big old capital 'H'.

To deny oneself something, to refrain, to abstain—it's powerful. The well of latent power we all possess in our wills is at its rawest and most obvious when we withstand desire. Particularly, with food, this stuff of life, to choose not to take delicious sustenance when every part of me wants it, needs it, and it sits there, simply there for the taking. This is something the animal part of us cannot quite conceive. It makes no sense. It is power.

Or else it's all just fragrances and frustration.

I'm home, tired, and my tongue is white. It's supposed to be. It's supposed to be coated in white stuff as a sign of detoxification—and then possibly change other colors, too, before finally returning to perfect whole pinkness when I phase out of the fast and back into solid foods.

It's Day 5, and I'm pulling through. I don't own a scale but I know I've lost a few more pounds. I just feel like tiny parts of me are dropping away and what's left forges ahead.

Poop? There's not much left. The cleansing fluids are wringing and scraping my intestines regularly, and there's not much left.

I'd thought tonight would be a social night. Daimian's seeing a band at the Make Out Room. No, I'm heading towards a hot shower and popping in a movie.

Where's that jug o' gold? That lemonade, my lemonade.

--tony

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solidarity lemonade

Puckered lips

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