Random Acts of Awesome

I woke up at 4am, thinking about the nature of evil. This after a nightmare where I was riding around in a big van in a city in Ireland with a young man, listening to him describe the circumstances of the past 2 times he wasn't able to kidnap the women he wanted. I realized that he'd pulled into a deserted parking lot just as he started to attack me. I fought back, but weakly, lethargic in the way of nightmares. And I quickly came to the realization that I was about to be bound up and helpless. I woke up as he plunged a hypodermic filled with sedative into my leg. It was interesting more than terrifying, though it was scary. But I woke up with the Edmund Burke quote running through my mind "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." And spent the next hour or so lying in bed, thinking about what that really means. And about how we define evil in our world. How evil is active, and goodness too often passive. How accepting that truth,

When you hear that steeple bell, you must say goodbye to me. The convoluted way my brain works awes me sometimes. I mean, getting from point A to point B really shouldn't involve 14 steps, half of them over lava and between crumbling mountains. I want to be able to burrow inside my brain, sit down, and have a coherent conversation with it someday. I'd ask it "Why, brain? Why can't we just go from point A to point B? They're only 10 miles apart. There was no need go 3000 miles out of our way, twice, just to get to where we want to be." In related news, I'll be taking the train across the country again, to Pennsylvania, in a month. I'm going to be housesitting a farm for a week. With pigs (amongst other farm animals). In the middle of the hottest time of year. In a 200 year old house with no air conditioning. But with an awesome crick nearby, with a bad ass swimming hole, apparently. AHHHHHH!!! PIGS!!! I am disproportionately excited. A couple of

There's a picture of an old woman sitting in front of my computer. It's one of those images that I saw once, at an art fair in Portland years ago, and fell in love with it. I couldn't afford it at the time, so I walked away. But I was with my mother and sister, who were visiting me, and they snuck back and bought it for me together. It's an image that I'm supposed to have, if I believed in that sort of thing. It reminds me what happiness is, what beauty is. The picture is composed of warm russets and orange, sienna and white. The old womans wrinkles for a deeply lined map of what it means to be human, written across her face and hands. Her rheumy old eyes are magnified by tears, of indeterminate joy or pain. Her brows are drawn and her hands cover her mouth. I can't tell you how much I love this picture, how comforting it is to me. It feels like it's pulling me forward into my own old age. Into a sense of peace and joy, a comfort with death and a conte

I received a letter from my father a long time ago, about 11 years now, that I wasn't able to fully read for a very, very long time. Every time I started to read it, I got anxious to the point of tears, and I'd just put it down and tell myself I'd read it later. I finally read the whole thing recently. 11 years. Jesus. Talk about daddy issues. Anyways, the letter is getting old. And I want to write it out, so I have it available to read without ruining the paper and the handwriting that says so much about my father. "Dear Sarah, I was glad to get such a long letter from you. I always enjoy our phone calls, but they tend to get slightly abstract - I do miss you very much. We all feel the same. Family connections are an important part of our lives. We're a funny family in some ways. Close - but not too close. We all value our individuality and privacy also. You asked for first reactions. I could probably fill this notebook with them. But my hand would fall

There is room for being a baby girl to a daddy in the equality I'd like to see. There's room for being a prostitute who loves the freedom of fucking. There's room for being a housewife who loves the warm, heavy blanket of responsibility. There's room for the business woman who loves to be bent over a conference table and fucked with her arms held over head, after a long day of making difficult decisions. There's room for a woman who spends her days in sundresses and her nights in leather and latex. There's room for the teacher who just doesn't like sex all that much, though she loves cuddling and kissing. There's room for the librarian who visits the swingers club every other Friday and watches couples fucking in public. There's room for the 14 year old girl who's just discovering the pure power of her cunt and hips, her lips and eyes, her hair and feet. She's not scared, but she knows you are. There's room for the 52 year old wom

I have the hardest time in the world saying goodbye. I never learned how to do it gracefully. So, more often than not, I just don't do it at all. Even when I need to, I avoid it at all cost. I'm sitting in my little wild back patio, that I just spent a good twelve hours weed whacking into submission. Its still scruffy and wild, with a pile of leaves from last year and all the mint and lemon balm I whacked sitting smack dab in the middle of it. But I love it. I love wild and scruffy and imperfect. It makes me feel at home in a way newatness never could. So, I'm sitting here with my cup of coffee, and Sitha on my lap. She was on my shoulders a minute ago, but that wasn't garnering her enough attention, so she climbed down to my lap. And is sitting here purring, trying to convince me I don't want to be wasting my hands on typing. And I've got tears streaming down my face. Lord help me if my neighbors come out. I'm crying because I have to say goodbye to this