Random Acts of Awesome

I've been thinking a lot about the story of the Tower of Babel lately. What got me started down that train of thought was wishing that I knew Spanish. That somehow I could just magically, based on the 2 years worth of primary school classes I had, remember everything, and put it together into a coherent whole without having to relearn the language. Not knowing a language that is being spoken around you feels deeply alienating. My brain would search for patterns and meaning, finding small clues here and there, but on the whole I was completely in the dark. With time, effort, and immersion, I'd be fine. But right off the bat? The alienation led to a sense of constant unease, a deep knowledge that I would be unable to express my needs if I had to. I found it very reassuring that most of the people around me knew English very well, and were happy to communicate with me using it. THAT got me to thinking about the power of language, the power dynamics behind being able to expect

I am so deeply proud of myself right now. There aren't many people in my life I can share that sentiment with. Which makes me a little sad. But I digress. I am SO very proud of myself. I am lying on a bed in a room in a town that is hot. Everything, the bed, the room, the town. It's all hot. And it's November. I could wish the bed and room were cooler, but I am happy for the hot. I spent the day driving in it, with my windows down, soaking in the heat and the skin of the world that lays itself so bare in these gorgeous hills. I am in Southern Arizona again, in Yuma. Today I drove, and tomorrow I am going in for surgery. That is a very strange thing for me to reread. I also watched Dr Strange, in a cool theater, all by myself. I sat and soaked in a story that was actually really very helpful. It reminded me of the power that resides in surrender. I will need that reminder tomorrow. The only thing I am genuinely scared about tomorrow is the anesthesia. I am terrified th

I'm sorry I never told you. Well, I mean, I did tell you, at first. I remember, very vividly, all those conversations about needs and rights and boundaries. They were so satisfyingly honest and open. Brutal, or so I thought, in their naked desire to let you in without hurting anyone. You, me, anyone. I remember thinking "Finally. Finally I can communicate what I really need, really want. I am strong. You are strong. This will work.". I'm sorry I didn't keep telling you. The first couple of times, of course, I did. I waited till it was safe, not because you're a monster but because my fear is, and I said "That hurt me.". Whatever that was, I waited, but I was comfortable saying it. "That hurt me, and this is why. Please find another way to express what you need to express. Find a way that doesn't hurt me.". I think I got tired of expressing myself that way after not very long. I got tired of saying "That hurt me.", or &

I had an epiphany of sorts yesterday afternoon, while washing my hair in the shower (as one does...). I was thinking about deliberate action, and responsibility. And realizing that, every time I started thinking of myself as taking deliberate action, I was getting anxious. Very anxious. Like, brewing panic attack anxious. I thought about how weird that was, because I have taken many deliberate steps over the years. Especially recently. Within the past 3 years of my life, I have taken more deliberate, gigantic, purposeful steps off cliffs than in my entire life. But in thinking that thought, I realized that I don't think of MYSELF having taken those steps. I think of HER. That part of my subconscious that sets things up for me so I can gently and calmly just walk into seemingly random opportunities and simply take advantage of them. I rely on her, that strong and capable part of me, to subvert the status quo, to manipulate and scheme and control, so that I can move on to somewhere

Life has begun to feel like an increasingly important series of choices between simple and complex. On the side of simple, music that reminds me of the past, that appeals to a stale emotional state I want to feel again. Cheap beer, country music, unsubtle jokes that make you belly laugh because you're supposed to. Conversations that revolve around home and the people who inhabit it. Habits that feel familiar, because they are old patterns with a slightly new twist. People who feel familiar, because they are old patterns with a slightly new twist. Good sex with bad people, bad conversations with good people. Looking in the mirror and sometimes liking what I see. Being kind to others. Within the simplicity, there are complexities. But even the complexities are small, little hurricanes of interpersonal relationships, scary decisions that affect only you. Simple feels dark, somehow. It could be beautiful, and there are parts of it that are transcendent. But it feels, for the most par

I hate it when I meet a woman who is almost as afraid of herself as she is of her partner. She hunkers down into her skin as much when she's alone as she does when he's near. She clings to kind others when he's not around, basking in the warmth of sympathy, comfortable in the knowledge that she doesn't deserve it. These women tend to be highly sexual creatures, underneath a very thick skin. They have roiling oceans creating maelstroms in their own and others desires, and they have crafted the best shields imaginable to hide that fact from a world that is terrified of them. I was one of those women for a while. Maybe for forever, but I didn't know what I was looking for until I found it. Found him. A blanket to be smothered under, a cage to be contained in. See, it's hard to fight yourself for so long. You've been taught to contain, to push your storms back down inside you, for your entire life. Then you meet someone who offers to help. Shit, who insists on

I found an old poetry journal of mine yesterday. I'd packed it away in a box FULL of old journals and drawings, and took it with me when I left almost everything else behind. I keep debating the merit of burning old journals, the idea being that you're letting go of the past. But then I re-read my thoughts from when I was young, and I'm glad I haven't done it yet. This journal is from my very early 20s, between 21-23. It's a huge, red, hardcover journal, something meant to last. The paper is ivory, and thick. I filled less than half of it with writing. But it's some of the best, most evocative writing I've ever done. It's almost all poems, mostly short, very Emily Dickinson. An example: I am not potential I am not possibility I am not someday I am not maybe I am the here I am the now I am the present I am the how Reading these poems, I'm reminded of a time when I my life when I had gone from thinking to doing. I'd spend most of my lat

I have been thinking about my proclivity for dive bars lately. I love a good redneck bar, a good old person bar, a good ethnic minority bar. Any place I can walk into and feel slightly uncomfortable at first but, with a little work, eventually blend completely into the background makes me incredibly happy. Places where people don't want to be noticed, or at least don't need to be noticed. Every now and then you get the occasional asshole who makes a fuss, but they tend to get shut down quickly by a complete lack of regard from the regulars. These are the best people watching spots. I enjoy spending time in bars that sell scotch you have to be wealthy by most of the worlds standards to buy. I enjoy watching well dressed people posture, and I enjoy good food and good drink. But those places don't call to me like dive bars. They don't make me happy, and they don't stimulate me. Watching people who don't give a shit if you're watching them because they're

Movement has been strangely difficult lately. Things keep popping up that make me sore, make it hurt to move. I have plantar fasciitis in both feet, because my calf muscles are pulling so hard against the band of muscle in my arch. This hurts like a motherfucker, mostly in the mornings, but also after I've been walking for any period of time. Which sucks, because I do a lot of walking out here. I got a new bed, a big gorgeous California King that I've so far shared only with cats. And it's firm as fuck, so of course it hurts to wake up every morning. I feel like I've been beat up in my dreams. I'm not gonna lie, I kind of enjoy that part. It makes stretching feel almost indecently good. I've always enjoyed a little discomfort in the morning, as a way to make the rest of the day a little more deeply beautiful. That is, of course, predicated on the assumption that the pain will go away shortly... which it normally does. It's been making me think about how I d

I've been thinking a lot lately about three related things. Events, data, and stories. Events are things that happen. A thunderstorm is an event, a bird on a branch is an event, a date is an event. They are just random moments of simple or complex pieces of matter interacting with other pieces of matter. A person sitting on a bench and thinking is an event, if only in how their face moves and expresses things to those observing. Data is what flows out of events. It is independent of observation, but inaccessible without it. Data is uninterpreted, available as information in a pure form. Stories are data interpreted. They are what data turns into as soon as it flows through an eye, fractured into countless fractions by whatever filters exist behind any particular eye, and forever changed. Stories are necessary, but also easily and incorrectly mistaken for data. So, I've been thinking about my own relationship with these things. It started with my lack of faith in god, an

Here's the thing about letting yourself need something. It means you're vulnerable to anxiety about its loss. I have pushed away anxiety about loss for a very long time now. I've recently started opening myself back up to it, by allowing myself to have things that I actually need. This is a terrible feeling. Any sort of threat to my need is this unfathomably dark, huge, stressful thing. Even if it's fucking tiny. Even if it's manageable, with just a little bit of intelligence and effort. Even if it's mostly fictitious. Even if I know all that, in my forebrain. None of that matters. The only thing that matters to my brain is the potential for loss. I hate this. I hate being like this. I was listening to a song that, in my youth, I would have drawn comfort from today. It was a song bemoaning the idea of being you. I wish I was young enough to have the luxury of not wanting to be me. Of wanting to be somebody else. But I gave that comfort up along with the will

There are 3 baby goats in my bedroom right now. In the list of things I never thought I'd say, that's pretty high up there. Other things I never thought I'd say: Stop eating my work computer! STOP SUCKING MY TOES! Oh, thank god, this poop is sticky but not runny. I am hand raising 3 baby goats. Bottle feedings every 6 hours, training, protecting, keeping away from electric wire... They are awfully cute. They follow me around everywhere they can, bleating, hopping, and peeing indiscriminately. They are louder at night. They are currently, at this very moment, trying to eat my sheets. Thank god they can't hop on the bed yet. They'll be going to their permanent home in the barn soon, but for now they only spend half the day there. Between a pit bull who'd like to eat them and a Bull bull who is way too interested in them for my comfort, they stay near me and behind closed doors unless we are in the pasture together. I am... more than a little in shock

Farm life is preeeetty fucking amazing. I have settled into it like a frigate bird to air, and I am finding myself looking forward to the stretch of 5 years never touching ground. There are aspects of it that terrify me. But they mostly revolve around image. My image of myself as irresponsible, or lonely. Others image of me as Wonder Woman, or nothing. One of the things I love most about nature (which is a vague, giant word for a specific, giant concept) is how it makes a mockery of the self importance of image. When one is shoveling cow shit, or hiking mountains, or sitting on a rock by a remote lake, there's no one there to define yourself by. There's hardly even you, when you're working hard enough. The soothing lullaby of labor combined with the raucous, gentle disregard of the biosphere pulls you away from yourself into a space where you exist next to any other number of creatures and moments that could be you but aren't. It's hard to explain, the dichotomous

I am sitting in the atrium, with a fire sparkling merrily in front of me, listening to the rain patter heavily on the plastic roof. The fire is a gas fireplace, something I've always judged as lacking compared to a good wood fire. But this little fire is adorable. And powerful, it its own way. One of the things I love about watching a wood fire burn is the destruction, tangible and compelling. A gas fire lacks the tangible aspect of destruction, but appeals to my mind with its greedy gobbling of invisible particles. Plus, it's warm. And I am naked, covered only in a towel. I ran from the hottub to the atrium through pouring rain. I stopped to revel in it for a moment, overheated skin evaporating freezing little droplets on contact. But that got old quickly, and I ran to start the fire. Today is a luscious day. Physical exertion, sensual imaginings, extremes of sensation. I've been painting my bedroom, peacock blue and unabashed gold. I have missed color that I choose, ins

How many people have, throughout their lives, felt greatness lurking around the corner? Always just out of reach, both reassuringly distant and tantalizingly close. How many people never quite get to meet their potential, a crush they nurture from afar, easier to watch from a distance rather than engage with in the present... I feel like a teenager. Again. Fucking thirties, man. They suck. They're both a sharp reminder that you're old enough to know better, but young enough to still desperately care. You're dealing with the concept of aging, while simultaneously dealing with the kind of emotional, hormonal shit that drove you insane when you were just hitting your teens. At least I am. I need to get laid. Holy carp, I need to get laid. But, I don't want to get laid. I don't want my comfort to spring from something external to myself. So, it won't. Not that sex is bad, not that comfort is bad. But I will not be dictated to by my sharp needs anymore. I will

Traveling was an excellent way to get out of my head. It lifted me out of myself and gave me other, much more interesting things to focus on than the seemingly eternal struggle of consciousness vs bullshit that wages constant battle in my head. Sitting still for any period of time lets that struggle come to the fore, and I hate that. But I am here, and I am happy to be here. I have plans for this place and this moment in time. Plans that don't involve constant movement. So, I need to focus on ways to get out of my head that allow me to sit still for a moment.

I decided that I didn't want to be alone anymore yesterday, so I put an ad up on Craigslist looking for someone to eat sushi and watch Star Wars with. It was a good ad. And I got some great responses. But I woke up at 5:30 this morning, depressed and uncomfortable, thinking about those responses. Thinking about my reaction to emails from men, how I felt compelled to become a different person for each email, responding how I thought they would themselves respond best to. It was a conscious decision, to not be myself, and it felt kind of great. Because it felt like putting on an old suit that you didn't think would fit you anymore but still does and still makes your ass look great. But then you stand there for a while in front of the mirror, looking at yourself in this old outfit, and you remember everything that happened to you in this outfit. You remember why it was so important that your ass look great, because there was certainly nothing else about life that was making you f

I have this really strong inclination towards mysticism. I have since I was a little kid. There were creatures inhabiting my world with me, going on walks with me through snow shrouded pine forests, climbing trees with me, hiding in swamps with me... My world was populated with every manner of imaginary creature, and some not so imaginary. I had no doubts or questions, though I did often wish that I didn't see so much. Sadly, because of the religion I was raised in, everything I saw was evil. I knew it wasn't angels, I never once thought my world was populated with angels. Everything I saw was earthy and mischievous, sometimes very dark, sometimes very light, but never from God. Which I was taught meant that it had to be from the Devil. There was no room for anything else. Light was good, dark was bad. Even worse, since it would have been very inconvenient to this religions hold on its people if God still manifested himself in some way to individuals OTHER than the Governing Bo

I woke up sad this morning. Lying in bed with two adorable muppet dogs cuddled up against my back, staring out a huge window at a beautifully foggy sunrise, I wondered why I was so sad. Was it because I was up at sunrise after not getting to sleep till 2am? Maybe. But that creates cranky, not sadness. I watched funny videos on facebook, and found myself with tears streaking down my cheeks as I laughed. "What the fuck, self. It's too early to be having an angsty, existential crisis'", I self deprecated, uncomfortable with tears over nothing, even lying alone in bed with a cell phone in front of my face. And then I started going through my memory of last night. I cried with my sister last night. We cried together when we saw each other a couple of weeks ago, too. We actually cry a lot when we're around each other. And we don't really cry together. We cry on two separate sides of a gaping chasm. And while we are crying for the same reason, the cause of that re

Change tends to happen for me in a slow but steady crawl that suddenly turns into a screaming dive off the edge of a galaxy, with no warning of the transition. 2 weeks ago, I was looking at houses in Mexico, no idea where I was going and happy with that. Sort of. Increasingly stressed with that, because I had this strong and growing stronger sense that I had stopped learning and was just doing again. It felt like my discontent was stemming from me insisting on a course of action that was no longer necessary. But I still wanted to travel. I am addicted to the feeling of being in a new place, addicted to discovery and movement. The addiction part was making me nervous. So. A couple of days ago I read an ad on the housesitting site, a couple looking for a caretaker for their farm for an extended period of time. The length of time wasn't really what I was looking for, almost a year, and it was in Washington state, which I was a little torn about. Beautiful, but weirdly unfriendly p