Random Acts of Awesome

Oh, Tom Waits. You provide the soundtrack to every moment of my imaginary life. I'm sitting in a small little restaurant/cafe called Grandmas Corner. It's adorable, with blue collar food, atmosphere, and folk. I kind of love it. It's run by a sweet mother and son team, who my imagination has latched onto. I see the son, a sandy haired proper Irish boy, looking at me often. And I see his mother noticing and smiling. And I imagine what my life would be, attached to these people. I imagine early mornings, hard work, checkercloth table tops, home with sagging doors and warm kitchens. I imagine family, and strength, support and love. Kids and dogs, hard times, hard work, hard life. And I fall a little in love with him, with them. I want her to approve of me, him to love me. I want that life, just for a moment. I wish I could live each life I see, till the end. Not leaving unnaturally early, not hurting others, not disappointing them. I wish I could live all these lives to t

Right from the start... I gave you my heart!! God, that song brings back the fucking WEIRDEST memories. The back seat of my grandmothers car, all blue velour seats and scratchy fabric in the back window well. Playing with sesame street toys while her and my mother took passive aggressive pot shots at each other in the front seats... All these memories that no one can ever share, not really. It's no wonder that we all feel so alone in our own heads. You're so sure that nobody knows you. Nobody sees the real you. All we know of you is what you let us see, right? No. I see you, Dawnie. I see the overflowing love in your heart that you don't believe anyone will ever really deserve, that you don't know if you'll ever really deserve. I see the darkness constantly trying to creep its way in around the edges of your laughter, that overflows into your eyes sometimes even as your lips smile and your words shock us and make us laugh. I see you constantly fighting it bac

I've been mulling over a story idea lately. It would be kind of an amazing one. If only I had the discipline to actually write it. I can't tell you how many stories I've started, and then gotten too bored with to finish. I'm not so much bored with the story as I am with the reality of WRITING the story. Even short stories seem to be beyond my abilities. Anyways, the story. I've been mulling over the meaning of fear quite a bit lately. What fear is, how it affects us, how it shapes our lives. I've been looking at my own life, and seeing these fear shaped holes that I've created. They're not external forces, crafting my reality. These holes are simply the negative space that I haven't put anything inside, and their borders are composed of fear. I was thinking about this reality as I walked through my spooky fucking backyard after dark last night, carrying my load of laundry. And shining my flashlight in every corner of the yard, imagining serial k

There is this amazing book, by Doris Lessing, called Prisons we choose to live inside. I read it when I was in my early twenties, and it changed my life. The book itself focuses on the world at large, but I took the knowledge I'd gained from it and focused it on my own life. Or tried to. Relatively unsuccessfully, as it turns out. I've always known that I have a very strong tendency to create boundaries for myself, to create these rigid structures that provide me with a reassuring sense of being held in, being held back. When I was young, it was provided for me, in the form of a religion that did not let me be myself in any way, shape, or form. When I left that religion, I had a year of pure freedom. And then I created a prison for myself in the form of a relationship that I didn't want to be in. I grew to love J very much, but in the beginning, I was a swirling morass of "HOLY SHIT, WHAT AM I DOING??!". And I stayed in that relationship far, far longer than

I don't know if you still read my blog at all. You unfriended me pretty quickly, and since I got a shit ton of traffic from facebook in the days right before that, and most of the posts accessed referenced you in some way... I can only assume you came here, read what I wrote about you a couple years ago, and walked away. I read through most of those posts, and I can't say as I blame you. They're both flattering and cruel. I feel bad, on some levels. I always tried so damn hard to be honest with you. I really, genuinely liked you. Like you. But there was always something there that blocked my honesty. I don't blame you for that, of course. It was my own weakness, my own stupid, bullshit issues. Regardless of the reasons, every time I tried to open up to you, to pull you into my real world, I froze up. The result of that is the posts you must have read. Truth, yes. I'm not ashamed of them. There's nothing in here that I didn't mean, nothing I shouldn't

I don't know what it is about autumn, but it ALWAYS makes me feel discontented. It always makes me feel like I should have more, somehow. More friends, more beauty, more happiness, more stability... more of everything. At the same time, I love autumn more than any other season. I don't know if I like what that says about me... But I do. I love it. I love the slow, golden sunshine, the wind that blows the scent of leaves and brown earth in through my windows. I love the harvest theme, the vegetables, the colors, the slowly shortening days that make time feel like a candy that's been slowly sucked all year till it's finally getting to the brittle, sharp edged end. Everything about fall, I love. But. I spent all day today feeling like I should be doing more. I woke up late, made myself a wonderful breakfast that involved maple syrup (everything has to involve maple syrup in the fall. Even onions and curry.), went and picked up three huge bundles of free firewood fo

I always said I'd never try hallucinogens, because I didn't trust my grasp on reality to be strong enough to keep my tethered to the earth with something trying to pull me away. Well. I didn't really think of mushrooms as hallucinogens. I did them once, long ago. Had some mushroom tea with a group of people I really should not have been taking any sort of illegal substance with. Bunch of stupid guys. Fortunately for me, the tea didn't affect me in any way, shape or form. I didn't even feel buzzed. So, a couple months ago, I did them again. Just me and Stoph, who's done them plenty of times. And again, it barely affected me. I felt buzzed, and happy. Super giggly. But not high. Same with the next time I did them. It was honestly just a truly pleasant, mellow buzz. The last time I did them, though... yeah. Not so much. I know why they call it tripping now. Because you truly do trip and fall down a rabbit hole. Looking back on the experience now, it's fas

I have a sister named Theresa. She's about 6 years older than me, so she's 40 now. She has Williams Syndrome . Reading that clinical description is very strange. I don't associate HER with a disability. I know she has some disabilities. She's mildly retarded, she has a hard time keeping the weight off, she's got the emotional development of a teenager. I feel like I just described most of America. So, I don't think of my sister as Handicapped. In some ways, she is. In some ways, she has boundaries and barriers that the rest of us just don't have to deal with. In other ways, she is lightyears ahead of the curve. It's funny. Thinking about my sister, the strongest memories I have are always of conflict. We butted heads CONSTANTLY. She was incredibly stubborn, and absolutely convinced she was always right. I, on the other hand, was the model of reason and humility... WHAT?! Yeah. We were a lot alike. And because of this, we constantly argued. I felt

God damn, I am so fucking sick of feeling so stressed all the fucking time. I am perfectly well aware the every single source of stress in my life at the moment is my own damn fault. It is. But I feel so helpless to get rid of them. They're so trite, too. Money, job, landlady, lovers, health... Just your everyday, run of the mill stresses that make life just unhappy enough to suck, but not unhappy enough to be unbearable. I keep dreaming about running away. Literally. I dreamt about robbing a bank and moving to Costa Rica the other night. It was an incredibly detailed dream, and honestly, quite tempting. I just want to run away from everything, to live simply. But that's been my MO for too long. Running away, creating a new life, and then populating that new life with the EXACT SAME things that made me run away in the first place. Fuck that. I know I have to fix that part of me, otherwise I'll be in Costa Rica and stressing about eating too many coconuts and spending

This keeps coming up. I keep having these conversations about it, with men and women. I have all these thoughts running around in my head, trying to express themselves, but they're not clear enough yet. Hopefully soon, after I let them percolate for a bit. In the meantime, though, the only true perspective I have on this issue is personal. Talking to people I know, and my own experiences. My mother was raped multiple times, as a young teenage girl living on the streets of Boston. She was a reformed Catholic School Girl, she did a lot of drugs, and she trusted the wrong people. This inspired her to instill in all 3 of her daughters an intense distrust of men and of their own sexuality. I'm 34, and I've spent the last 4 years coming to terms with what this has meant to me. Distrusting men, believing them to be weaker, incapable of controlling their urges, knowing that I HAD to manipulate them to survive in this world they've created... it hasn't exactly helped

I found an old journal today, in the midst of going through boxes and boxes (and boxes) of books. It's from about 15 years ago. I was 18, 19yrs old, and I had just come back from a train trip across the country with my sister. I have a few entries in there from the trip itself, not many, but enough to remember how overwhelmed I was with the newness of it all. Most of the entries, though, are from me sitting in Barnes and Nobles, reading science books and taking notes, all towards the purpose of refuting facts that went against my religious beliefs. Seriously. I have entire journals worth of quotes, with me refuting them. One book in particular apparently got me really riled up. I actually remember this moment. It was late afternoon, and I was sitting in the cafe, reading and drinking coffee. The book is called "Evolution and the Myth of Creationism - A basic guide to the facts in the evolution debate." by Tim M Berra. There are about three pages worth of quotes from

I should have known Protestations aside, I've been waiting for this. I couldn't find it on my own, So I ate the cake, took the red pill, drank the little bottle down. And I lay on my back in the grass, Staring up at a sky that had gone mad. Stars pulsing in time with my heart, flying across the velvet expanse, cataclysmic explosions of color and light. Gods, young and old, writhing through the branches above me. Laughing. That sensation began to take over. You know the one. Chug...chug...chugchugchug The rollercoaster nearing the crest. This is what I was waiting for. Buyers remorse set in quickly, though. As the cart topped the hill and began it's inevitable descent, arms up, screaming more in fear than exhilaration, I WANT OFF is all I could think. The journey down through the rabbit hole... colors bleeding into each other, thoughts made manifest, hope lost and fear king. I draw you around me like a security blanket, a rock of reality to cling

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

It's a difficult thing to do sometimes, saying no. Depending on the context, it can be virtually impossible. I've always been a pleaser. I want people around me to be happy. When people around me AREN'T happy, it's a big fucking deal. It's even worse when it's my fault. I've been trying to excise that part of myself, rather unsuccessfully. I deliberately put myself in situations where I have to chose my happiness or anothers, just to try and force the issue of choosing my own. But it too rarely happens. So, how does this manifest itself? Well, in nights like last night. I was out of work early, and went to Baileys to grab a beer. Trevor had spent most of the morning and afternoon pretending my vagina was a mouthy Irish boxer that needed to be jackhammered into submission, so I was a little sore. Or more than a little sore. But I was also WAY oversexed. When that happens, my body sends out signals to all available humans within a ten foot radius that I

So often its the little things that make me catch my breath with desire. A woman just leaned past me, arm extended and crooked at the elbow. Her fine pebbly skin was tan, and I followed the line of her muscle up to the juncture of her arm and back with my eyes. That dip was stretched and taut, and looked so incredibly touchable. I couldn't help but imagine running my tongue along the lines my eyes had just traveled, and my stomach clenched with desire at the thought. And, for some reason, the lines around this man's beautiful eyes are making me a little breathless. Crows feet. Not a very sexy name. But I'm imagining them crinkling as he labors above me, face grim and eyes narrowed, tongue just touching the corner of his mouth. I want to reach out and run my fingers down the lines of his face.

This weekend... it was a whopper of a weekend. And it was a fascinating study of what sex means to me, what turns me on. It started on Friday afternoon, on a date with a pretty, pretty boy. 6'3, long, thick black hair, gorgeous dark eyes framed by long lashes, perfect beard... just pretty. My type of pretty. I took him out to Gravy, my favorite breakfast place in Portland, and then we wandered around Mississipi. I took him into my favorite store in the world, Sunlan. It's a dusty warehouse of light, run by a giant toad of a woman who sits in glorious splendor at her cash register, and can tell you exactly where any form of lighting you can think of physically resides inside her domain. We wondered the aisles for a bit, and he passed a test I didn't even know I was giving by being excited about finding some old Christmas light bulbs he bought to take home to LA when he leaves. We went to Baileys after that, and he started to get physically flirty. Up till this point I th

Yet again, I neglected to write out all the thoughts in my head when I was thinking them, and now they're gone. I have a terrible short term memory. My mom says that there are three types of people in the world; Past, Present, and Future. Apparently, I'm a mix of Present and Future. Which means I forget about things as soon as they happen, because the past has no bearing on my life in the moment. Hurray. So, I have very few truly negative memories, and very few truly positive ones. I'm constantly jumping forward to the next sensation, and promptly forgetting the last one... This actually sounds pretty accurate. This was a good trip. It clarified a lot of things for me, explained a lot about the life I'm choosing to lead now. In many ways, it solidified my faith in myself, and in my decisions. It made me so sad, on some levels, to see the deliberate, eyes closed ears blocked ignorance I'd have to be living in if I'd stayed. I love and respect my family, I rea

There is a very sweet, very foolish young John Denver lookalike sitting in the lounge car right now, guitar in hand, singing folksy music with a reedy voice and a hopeful grin. Surrounded by extremely cranky senior citizens running on little to no sleep and waiting for the dining car to open a glad hour later than originally announced. Blue haired grandmothers and be-sweatered grandfathers who would normally pinch this boys cheek and smile indulgently are glaring at him with teeth literally bared. And he just looks down at his hand written music and ardently serenades them.

I'm trying it again. It's been a little while since I've actively pursued multiple dates. I've had some awesome ones with great people. But for the most part, my life has been pretty stranger free. I've been focusing too much on home, on comfort and stability. On Trevor, honestly, and my comfort and ease with him. Friendship is a wonderful thing. It is. And friendship with someone who is your lover, even more wonderful. But it's not passion. It's not need, and growth, and frenetic, frantic desire. It's a soft, nurturing rain. And, oh, how I've missed thunderstorms. But I've been comfortable, fat and content and lazy. To get the ball rolling, I posted an ad on Craigslist. It's a pretty good one, apparently, because I've got three dates out of it. All with what seem to be really interesting people. This is the ad: Howdy, Craigslist world. It's been a while. I've been busy, life has been hectic, it's not you it's me,

Oh, Neil Diamond. Is there any situation you haven't written a song for?? I've been in a good mood lately. Consistently good, that is. I'm always in a good mood for at least a day or 4 a week. But somehow, I rarely end up writing when I'm in a good mood. Or if I do, it's in a social media form, where I'll get feedback and interaction. Apparently, my blog is my private, angsty little basement. BUT NO MORE! I'm hyper. I've been going to the gym twice a day for almost a full week. Ok, I've been going to the gym at least once a day for a full week. I think I've only actually gone twice in one day... twice. It's hard. I'm lazy, and a total hedonist. I've gotten to the point where the gym truly is fun, and I love how it makes me feel after. But it's not as much fun as so many other things in my life. Like sex, or food, or sitting in my backyard with friends, smoking a hookah and drinking a strawberry lemonade with vodka and mint.

This is the story of how I met Kenny Rogers illegitimate son and got serenaded. Sit back, son, and enjoy. I was sitting outside my favorite taproom this afternoon, enjoying a beer and a cigar with my brother. I had pulled out my 5 red dice and 1 black, in preparation for a rousing game of 10,000, which my brother had never played before and which I was looking forward to winning. It was a chilly afternoon, cloudy and promising rain but never delivering. A man walked up to us, and I'm going to be honest, at first I assumed he was homeless and panhandling. But, upon closer inspection, I realized he may well have been homeless, but he wasn't panhandling. Instead, he was leering. I felt like asking him for a dollar. I caught his eye, and he gave me an unabashed, completely shameless grin and a wink. There is something timelessly charming about a white haired, scruffy white bearded homeless looking guy being shameless. Or is that just me? So, being charmed, when he asked to sit

I love roadtrips that are defined by music. This one started yesterday morning, soaked in sunshine, with Journey on the radio and interpretive dance, laughter and excitement. And it ends under a midnight marble, black furred silhouettes stark against the skyline, Tom Waits on the radio, sung along to off key while staring out the window, sunburnt and morose.

Dreams, I think, are stories that our unconscious mind has somehow plucked from the ether. I have this wonderful mental image of stories existing whole and into themselves, strings of fancy, dancing motes of light and knowledge, traveling, always moving, vibrating their way through the universe. So many stories, each particle, each wave of physical reality, traveling with a seed, a single kernel attached. An idea. Maybe these stories that travel our universe were created by life, because they're certainly shaped by it. Do dreamers on other worlds close their eyes and find their own landscapes, already crafted for them, ready to be populated by the characters their entire world has helped to shape? I love my dreams. I wake up sometimes, and just lie there, remembering the story I was privileged enough to become an avatar for, even for such a short period of time. Not a very good avatar, sadly. I think the authors of the world, the truly great and the truly terrible, are people w

I'm reading a book called Pieta right now, by George Klein. I'm sitting in Baileys, just after work, nursing a beer that is half barleywine, half heaven. Well, ok, I'm actually typing RIGHT now. But only because of this book. I hate it when I have these thoughts, thoughts I want to remember later, but I'm too busy reading the book that inspired these thoughts to write them down. I'm going to try and write and read at the same time. We'll see if this works. He writes about the great question posed by Albert Camus (a man I've trained myself not to like, due to years of religious references). "Is life worth living?". Yes or no. My heart responds with yes. But the way he writes about the darkness... the ravens black wings, the black pool waiting at the edge of your sight, the knowledge of Nothingness that pervades every beautiful thing. I relate to those, deeply. So, light, or dark? I see both. These words. These simple symbols on a white page.

It's that little gasp of breath you're forced to expel when something hits you, in the stomach, the heart, the brain, and you're not prepared for it. That realization that you've been more open than you've meant to be, that you've released more out there into the ether than you were supposed to. Sometimes that oh hits me before the words even leave my mouth or my fingers, but it's a prescient oh and it can't stop the future. It's almost a release, that oh. Breath, long held, pent up and stale. An exclamation of terror, mixed with jubilation. But mostly terror. I learned a long time ago to dampen the feelings these ohs pulled with them through me as they left my mouth. They were too intense, the feelings too strong and destructive. But I refused to give up my ohs, my exclamations into the ether. I refused to hold my breath for the rest of my life, no matter how much easier it would have been. So instead of holding it in, I wrapped those feelings

My birthday was actually last week, but I've been celebrating it since last Friday. It's been an interesting week. Went to a show last Saturday, and it was gorgeous. Lovely music, surreal, underground venue with crazy lights and colors, good drinks... My brother went with me, and he was apparently high on mushrooms. I didn't realize this, so his obsession with the singer looking like a snake didn't make much sense right off the bat. But it was the perfect venue for him to be in in that state :D. He thinks I got a contact high from him, because I started acting really goofy and funny. When I say funny, I mean purely hysterical. We stopped at a bar on the way home that has a firepit outside, and sat around the fire entertaining a group of complete and total strangers with banter and proposed scenarios. I was on my A game, and let me tell you, I can be really fucking funny when I get going. Which is why my brother thought I was high. I don't think I was high, I thi