Random Acts of Awesome

Coming back to New England. The past is a potent, dangerous thing. I can't stop thinking that, can't stop those words running around in my mind. As I drive my car down streets that hold memories of me from 25 years ago, as I laugh with my family in the kind of joyous abandon I'm capable of with very few others, as I soak in the kind of Fall beauty that made my heart stutter and my eyes water when I was 10... There is so much that is appealing about this past. So much beauty that was left behind, and is just waiting to be discovered again. And so much that is no longer me. I'm drawn to be a version of myself that I discarded as unhealthy long ago. Family and home, makes me feel like I didn't actually throw away that version of me. I just hung her up like a coat I can shrug off and on as needed. My brain is screaming at me this trip. This trip of grieving my dead sister, of comforting my shattered, resilient family. Parts of me are reveling in nostalgia, are soak

Wow. It's been a long time. Coming back to this blog after more than a year away feels odd. Although I've written a few posts that I just never published, almost all of my writing has been exclusively in my physical journals. I have needed that. I needed the pure privacy of writing only to myself. It's created a style of writing that is extremely analytical and practical, interestingly enough. Apparently I don't believe in telling myself stories. Everything I write with pen and paper is meant to disappear the moment ink hits paper and thought manifests. It's not meant to last, to be read again, by myself or anyone else. It's boring, in some ways. In a lot of ways. Margaret Atwood advises one to write as though no one will read you. That works for therapy, but not for story. Not for me. There is very little that is beautiful that comes out when my brain knows it's not performing. Which is FASCINATING to me. It highlights this very performative part of m

What would I be thinking about if I weren't thinking about this bullshit drama I have in my life? I'd be thinking about projects that I want to do. I'd be daydreaming about seeds I want to buy. I'd be wondering why I'm seemingly incapable of writing a book. I'd be wondering when I'm going to want someone to share my life. I'd be thinking about how much I would love to get done today, this gorgeously sunny and spritely cold fall day. I'd be wondering how much I was actually going to accomplish, and cautioning myself not to take on too much so that I don't get mad at myself at night. I'd be daydreaming about how I wanted to make the porch more beautiful yet practical. I'd be imagining becoming an old herb woman, surrounded by scents and knowledge and plants. I'd be thinking about my job, a little sadly, a little proud. I'd be contemplating calling my mother, just to chat. I'd be feeling guilty for not really wanting to call an

I have not written in, or read, this blog for quite a while. I had forgotten about my last entry completely. Which is why I find it fascinating that I was coming on here to write about intimate sex, with emotions involved. It hasn't been that long. Over the course of a very busy summer I haven't changed that much. I do tend to go from 0 - 60 when it comes to change, though. I'm not in love. And not in a false protestation kind of way. I'm not in love. But I am allowing myself to feel valued. I am allowing myself to value. It's fucking terrifying. On a very fundamental level, it feels wrong. And it may be wrong, with this person. This other broken person who is pursuing his own health and happiness with the fervor of a drowning man gasping at air. It might be shallow. Making out like teenagers, dry humping endlessly and getting myself off out of sheer desperation... that's not exactly intimacy. But it is for me. Opening my eyes is intimacy for m

A friend posted a link about sexual/emotional anorexia yesterday afternoon, and upon reading it, I got a bit of a gut punch. It felt far, FAR too familiar. The symptoms vary, the reasons vary... but the basics behind the concept felt like truth. I don't really know what that means, in terms of how much good it does me to put a label on my reality. I am completely, utterly invested in changing my inner emotional landscape, so I suppose it does help to start to categorize what exactly I'm fighting against. I have this very strong tendency to want to fight, but to believe that the circumstances have to be perfect for me to do so. Like, my outer reality needs to perfectly reflect whatever it is I am fighting for in my inner reality. In this case, in the fight for my own emotional soul, my outer reality would ideally be a mix of monkhood and true love that makes me want to fight for it. I also have a very strong tendency, though, to sabotage my outer reality so I don't HA

The way I live my life is not compatible with what I want to do with my life. I woke up thinking that this morning, at 4am. Thanks, asshole brain, for coming up with a thought worthy of pursuing at an ungodly early hour. But really. I live my life in such a way as to minimize stress, drama, and movement. This creates a reality, and a me, that is peaceful and harmonious. Also, sedentary and heavy. Even while traveling, I absolutely minimized the chances of me encountering any sort of drama. I did this by isolating myself deeply. Interacting with people and places on an extremely superficial level, and then walking away quickly, before hooks could be cast. So, for as much movement as I've had in my life for the past 4 years, there's actually been very little action. Not of the kind that I need to be happy. Which brings me to the reality that what I want to do with my life is incompatible with isolation and internal sedentary-ness. I associate all drama with bad drama.