Random Acts of Awesome

One of the reasons I love Portland so is much is the sky. It's always beautiful. I've always loved clouds, and the clouds here are Clouds with a capital C. Now, I love a bright, blue, clear sky as much as the next person. It's invigorating, that expanse of blue, makes you feel like you should be getting stuff done. But, since I'm not so much a getting stuff done sort of person, I prefer a sky with some it's ok to be lazy clouds in it. Clouds create a texture in that vast expanse of blue, a buffer between us and infinity. Clouds are friendly. Even when they're decidedly not friendly, when they're ominous and roiling, black and grey, crackling with tension, they're still fascinating. And in Portland, clouds have a beautiful relationship with the horizon. I remember driving through New Mexico, stopped at some rest area somewhere and looking off into the distance at the hills, watching the clouds flirt with them, coy shadows caressing warm umber like a hand

I'm sitting in my favorite beer bar, Baileys, listening to DeVotchka and watching people, nursing a strong ale. I forget the name of the beer, but it's good. It's crowded here, and that makes me a bit sad. I forgot it was St. Patties day weekend, and there will be drunk assholes downtown from Thursday morning till Sunday night. Portland does it's drinking holidays up right. There's an eclectic mix of people here. A man I can't stop glancing at, in a wheelchair, drinking his beer through a straw, and with the softest looking beard. He's young, and sitting with a group of other young, trendy, pretty adults. I wonder what his life is like. He seems happy, and his friends seem to be genuine and sweet. But it's two couples and him. And I can tell he's got a bit of a crush on the girl his buddy is with. She's cute, skinny, and has an interesting face. And with his very handsome friend. See now, this is what romantic comedies SHOULD be about. She should

I've been thinking lately about what I'm capable of giving. It's thinking that's been inspired by certain events, but which has also been in the back of my mind for a very long time. I know what I want to give. I want to be generous with my friends and lovers, I want to give of myself and my emotions, I want to be open to receiving theirs. A theme in me losing the relationships I valued over the past 6 months or so seems to be them accusing (and not in a bad way) me of being incapable of understanding where they're coming from, of not giving enough, and of not being empathetic enough. Bianka used to get so hurt when others knew more about my life than she did, because I didn't tell her first. She didn't understand why I didn't give as much of myself as she did, why I didn't push myself on her even when she was caught up in her own shit. Rhi could not understand how I could disagree with her point of view about what happened between me and Paul. She d

I just took this survey: http://www.pornresearch.org/survey.html . It's documenting how porn has affected different people, trying to figure out if it's actually all negative, or if it's more positive. It's an interesting, well thought out survey. And it brought up some interesting thoughts for me on my relationship with porn that I hadn't really thought about before. For instance, what has porn taught me about sex, and what would I miss about it if I couldn't have it anymore? My answer was that pornogragy, ironically enough, taught me that it doesn't matter what your body looks like when it comes to sex. The bodies in it are so obviously avatars for reality that it's easy to juxtapose yourself in their place. It taught me, through negative example and some positive, to NEVER fake an orgasm, which has done wonders for my enjoyment of sex. It taught me that men, and women, don't care about the stupid faces you're making, the noises that are coming

Dry spell officially BROKEN. Woohoo!! However... 5 dates in 3 days, and I ended up sleeping with my emotionally fucked up fuckbuddy, which is depressing. I had a chance to blow him off (hehe) and play with the couple I had a date with on Saturday morning. Which I should have done. They were adorable, and we would have had a lot of fun. But no. I honestly thought I would go over his house and have a conversation redefining our boundaries and confirming that we are, indeed, just friends who fuck each other. In fact, with the way he treats me, we're actually more aquaintances who fuck each other than friends. I should have known better. I was halfway naked and riding his cock within 15 minutes. I DON'T GET IT. I mean, I do, in some ways. He's cute, I was intensely frustrated, and we have fun together. But it's getting more and more awkward, mostly because I can't fucking let go when there's this emotional cleaver waiting to fall on my head. I feel guilty about the

Because it popped into my head, and I had to say it before I got too cowardly or too ADD to let it out... Do you know what the worst thing about being fucked up and KNOWING it is? The fact that you can realize exactly what you're doing and why, but you can't fucking seem to change it.  I know exactly why I run away from intimacy. I remember that feeling in my gut as I was driving away from my parents house when I was 22, that sense of absolute panic, of impending death, the knowledge that I was TRULY leaving them and they had no idea... and I know why I'll never be willing to be that close to people again. I remember curling up in a corner of a dark room in a gigantic, empty old house, that feeling of overwhelmed anger, humiliation, and fear... And I know why I'll never willingly have a home again. My brain now believes that it gets taken away too easily, and it's not willing to deal with that level of trauma again. The truly sucky thing is, I want a home. I want a

Man, I'm in a morbid mood today. I can't stop thinking about the shape and feel of my skull under my skin. I keep bringing my hands up and cupping my forehead, wondering about what's going on under there, what it all looks like. And now I'm looking at my hands as they type and picturing the white bones clacking against the keys, seeing the metacarpals jump under my skin like watching the hammers inside a piano play Beethoven.  And it's totally fucking cool. I love the idea of our structure, the basic components of who we are as walking, talking, breathing creatures, surviving long after our meat rots away and our electricity goes off to feed something else.  I suppose that's not really morbid, per se. I have been a bit obsessed with death lately, for reasons known only to myself and my cats. But not in a "Oh god, I'm going to die and my life has been wasted!" sort of way. More in a "Huh. What will I do if I find out tomorrow that I have 6 mont