Random Acts of Awesome

I am trying to figure out what I mean when I say things like "This house is haunted as fuuuuuuuuck.". Which I have been doing every night, at this beautiful house with giant windows overlooking a gentle canyon. It doesn't feel like your typical haunted house. Whatever your typical haunted house feels like. Instead, it feels like the house I grew up in. It feels like there is a cocktail party going on one dimension over, and the socially awkward one of the bunch is sitting on the porch that happens to face your kitchen window, and they are watching you with a detached, happy sort of interest. It feels like the masks that cover these walls have spent so much time together that they've formed a Stitch and Bitch club, and you're the newcomer who brought banana bread that everybody else makes better. They're probably not whispering about you, but they are definitely whispering. Some houses are just haunted. Maybe not by ghosts, not by sad or angry remnants of hum...

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....

What do I need? I need to be happy. I need to be fulfilled. I need to have a sense of purpose. I need to feel safe. I need to be independent. With that last one, I wonder. Do I need to be independent? Or do I want? I don't know. So, what do I want? I want to be rich. I want to be happy. I want to do something good with my life. Wow. Wanting to be rich, brain? Really? When you just spent a couple hours worth of thought cycles thinking about how unhealthy your relationship with money is? But rich means safety, and independence. I do not want to do what I do for a living. It is not who I am. But it is money. It is safety, and it is independence. The money I make keeps me comfortable, but not happy. If I had more money, would I be both comfortable and happy? Not from the money alone, but from what the money allowed me to do, maybe. But I know myself. If I am not doing what I want and need to be doing now, money won't make a difference. It won't give me more d...

I've been thinking about being silent lately. About not speaking, for a week or a month or a year. For however long it takes to silence the cacophony in my mind. It's not that I don't like the noise. I actually really love the busyness inside my own head, the stories I am constantly telling myself. It's just that they have gotten jumbled and out of hand these days. Some of these stories are getting older, I'm forgetting beginnings and not allowing for endings. My head feels like a spice cabinet crafted by an overzealous yet lazy cook who, with the best of intentions, bought every ingredient ever known to man in order to craft the most amazing dishes, and then shoved everything but the garlic powder and italian seasoning to the back of the cabinet. Too many of my words are moldering in the darkness back there, sealed into air tight containers, but loosing all their zest and flavor. I think silence would be a refreshing spring cleaning, a bringing out into the light...

It cracks me up, and awes me a little, how much better life is after sex. I have had a deeply conflicted relationship with sex for a couple years now. I let it control me, freaked out at how easy that was, and promptly went WAY overboard in the opposite direction. I'd go for months with nothing, indulge in a furiously carnal and generally ill thought out bout with an inappropriate but easy connection, freak out again, and start the whole cycle over. The past couple of months, I've been focusing on allowing myself to make the decisions when it comes to sex. I have been propositioned numerous times, after having opened myself up energetically to the idea, and have given myself the time to think about each one. Regardless of what kind of pressure I was under, I always gave myself the time. I wouldn't apologize for it, wouldn't call myself a tease for making out with someone and then pulling back to analyze how I felt. I just took the time. And, generally, it's mean...

I found the poetry of a man who sent me an unsolicited dick pic (Pro tip - don't send unsolicited dick pics, but especially don't send unsolicited dick pics if your email leads to everything about your life, including your facebook), and it was very good. He actually sent me a poem AND a dick pic, which was jarring. It was a sexy poem. A very, very good poem. Till suddenly DICK PIC IN YOUR FACE. Anyways. His poetry was beautiful. I went looking for his biography, curious about the kind of person who sends a piece of their soul along with their proof of concept body art. I found a lot of info about him, the fact that he'd been born on an Oregon reservation, that he'd gone to OSU, that he had a lot of friends who like him but probably didn't get him. I found his website, where'd he'd apparently started publishing other authors work in 2015 or so. It seemed like his life work. And that got me thinking about what those words mean. Life work. How do you know ...

I have been socializing more lately, pushing myself to be around people in different contexts. No dating yet, but flirting around the edges with it. I've been trying to push myself to write more, dive in my psyche and dredge up some interesting and informative shit for me to stare at. But I've never been very good at forcing myself to write. As with many things I try to force myself to do, I rebel instantly. With other things, I've learned to treat myself like a 3 year old, and trick myself into doing shit I don't want to do but which will make me happy. I haven't gotten that far with writing yet, mostly because I haven't prioritized it. I will, though. Soon. I have joined a couple of different political action groups. While satisfying, I can also feel them nipping at my heels with teeth composed of need and guilt. I hate groups. I have always hated groups. Yet I still join them. And enjoy them, at first. I am more happily engaged in physical things, holding ...

Well, I went and reread my post from yesterday. It got me thinking about what I actually get from rereading my own stuff. A part of it is the thrill of putting myself in someone elses shoes as I read, imagining another humans reaction. It's a form of connection. A part of it is editing, trying to catch mistakes in spelling or sentence structure. And an even bigger part of it is curiosity about self, a tangible connection to the me that wrote whatever I wrote. I'm mystified sometimes, rereading this shit I put out there. It feels like reading the words of a stranger. And I enjoy that feeling, that sense of me as an unknown. I woke up this morning at 5:45am because I was having a scary dream about sharks. Great white sharks, in a canyon river, where I was watching a truly idiotic older dude refuse to get out of the water despite having one of the sharks almost attack him. It was a fascinating dream, with me apologizing to the doctor in front of me for screaming in his ear, even...

I have been in full on survival mode for a while now, and haven't really had the time to write out any self reflection. Also, I haven't had the energy to be witty, and why write if you can't be witty? I'm still not witty, but I figured it was time to write anyways. Because if there is anything that the past few months have taught me, it's that I have a surprisingly unhealthy relationship with ego. Surprising to me at least. The things I thought I was humble about? Didn't actually matter. The things I wasn't really humble about but was really good at hiding that fact from myself? Kind of huge, and an intrinsic part of self. Needing to be witty, or deep, or at LEAST entertaining, has held me back in many different forms of expression for a very long time. Margaret Atwood says to write like no one will ever read what you have to say, including yourself. Write, and never re-read. Just write. I've never been able to do that. Because what I write has to ...

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...