Random Acts of Awesome

From April of last year: Had this moment of epiphany, if you will, on the bus home this evening, watching a young man stare at a cute young woman for 30 min straight. See, the worst thing about objectification, in my mind, is the fact that it corrupts the reality of what happens between a man and a woman (or between any two people who might be attracted to each other). Attraction is, at its heart, the beginning of a story. Something catches your eye. You look, and something inside you wants to keep on looking. You're drawn to this person, for whatever reason. And that attraction is the seed of a story. Who knows what road it could lead down? Maybe they'll be attracted to you, and the story becomes more complex, with two characters instead of one. Maybe they won't, but you'll still have had the experience of that story, that kernel of hope for more. The potential that healthy attraction represents can/should be a beautiful thing. Objectification isn't a story.

There is something about lying half naked in pure sunshine that reminds me of how much empty space I'm composed of. Running my hands over my sun warmed skin, smoothing coconut oil all over me... the slick barrier between my hands and my skin reminds me that there is everything and nothing always there. The dual sensation on my hands and my thighs, neither of those are real. I love that. I love being reminded that the reason I can soak so much in is because there is so little acting as a barrier between my atoms and those composing the rest of reality. It helps, to think of my body as a loosely gathered sack of cells, composed of pure energy. What is fat, in that reality? Just more energy. Lying in the sun, I feel it melting back into me, put back into use to feed more of who I am. Yes, my cells are dying as my skin browns. Some, anyways. The rest are thriving, bouncing, dividing and gathering back together again. They are beautiful, and they are no different than every form of en

I need to find out why I refuse to fulfill my social needs, why I isolate myself so much lately. It's an odd thing, in all honesty. It's the one parameter of my happiness that I'm not aggressively pursuing right now. But it's a big one. I have these social needs that help craft a backbone of basic happiness, the ability to interact with others in a hospitable way, to give and receive... it is a genuinely core aspect of myself. I'm not even really doing it online these days. I'm putting stuff out there, but I'm not responding to anything. It feels like a type of depression. It feels like a small darkness, getting bigger. And it feels like low self esteem. Do I not believe anyone will want what I have to offer? I've never really believed that in my life. Am I going to start believing that now, NOW, at this point in my life where I could do anything? Maybe this is a form of self gaslighting, a way to make sure I don't reach my own full potential. Mayb

Finally, I have my own laptop. I've been traveling with just my work laptop and my phone, and it's a pain in the ass to type on my phone. Not conducive to long blog posts. Of course, I don't know that I'd have been writing, regardless of my implements. I keep coming up with these entries, with things I want to write down and remember. And I keep neglecting to do so. I think a part of it is the fact that opportunity is knocking, and expecting me to answer the door. I'm sitting, curled up in my bed, sucking my thumb and ignoring the knocking. My sister asked me if it was because I was afraid of rejection, and I told her I thought it was more a fear of disappointing. She pointed out that the two are rather directly related. What happens when you disappoint people? They reject you. I neglected to point out the cause of that fear to her, nicely highlighted quite recently by the kerfuffle created when some of my family were told about an angry facebook post I made, ex

The problem with writing whatever comes into your mind, and then making it public, is that sometimes an unintended audience is subjected to things they really didn't want, or need, to see. This was sharply highlighted for me yesterday evening. My brother and I were sitting on stools up at the bar of a little dive called the Haufbrau, in Bozeman. We were chilling, I was drinking a Bushmills on ice and he was sipping a beer, and there were french fries involved. Along with excellent conversation, about many things. One of which was his experience with an extremely intuitive woman who taught him some body and energy work in the course of his massage therapy schooling. She brought up, unprompted, his father. And how his father had unintentionally stolen his voice, through sheer loudness, and how Stoph could benefit from taking his voice back and talking to his father about it. So, I asked him to read something I'd written a year ago, about my own voice, and asked him if he relat

Blue as the middle of the ocean, the sky pulses with promise Bees scramble from flower to flower, driven to a frenzy To eat, to taste, to spread new life I lie in improbably green grass, technicolor day Arms held above my head, wrists shackled by heavy warm sunshine Grass tickling the inside of my thighs Wind whispering a chilly breath down my belly Sharp contrast to the red pepper heat of sun Beating against my closed lids. Ravens tok and mock in the pines Impervious to the sumptuous invitation of spring Black birds waiting for the seduction of winter I feel myself pushed down into the cool dirt By the sheer weight of the sun And I cry May Day, may day, mayday