Random Acts of Awesome

Life has been hard lately, and when life is hard I marshall all my meager resources into surviving. Well, honestly, more like into making sure I don't fall into that gaping pit of inability to be "normal" that's always looming under my feet. If a pit can loom... Anyways, when life gets like this, I have nothing to write about. I mean, I have a thousand things to write about, but I can't type any of them out. It's odd, because typing would make them easier to deal with, more realistic. But I just can't devote any energy to the thought processes involved for fear of taking energy from a rather more important function. Like breathing :D. It's an over dramatized view of my world, I'm aware. Life isn't actually that hard. I didn't suddenly get dropped into Darfur with a rifle in my hand and told to kill my family or die. But it's been hitting a lot of triggers for me, triggers that are hard to deal with even for a wealthy white woman in a fi...

It's interesting, the amazing variety a simple act is capable of. I've been thinking about how different sex feels in different circumstances. Last night, I went home with a charming someone who I met in a bar after a frustrating date. They took the time to seduce me, and there were moments of genuine sweetness, of epiphany and insight. It felt... healing, and was full of basic, carnal pleasure. I could have stayed the night, if I chose, and woken up to comfort and pleasure. But maybe a little too much intimacy too, so I didn't. This afternoon, I woke up from a nap to familiar hands and familiar pleasure. It felt like a dance with someone who knows how to lead, perfectly synced steps, not scripted, but known. Immensely satisfying, even in its lack of newness. And tonight I went home with a date, someone who I could tell wasn't going to be a good lover. Too cocky. But I was attracted to him, and wanted to give it a chance. But my first instincts were right. He was awkwa...

Especially when I cook for others, food becomes something almost spiritual in my mind. I'm so used to a sense of unselfish giving and community in the preparation of food that everything I make, even mac and cheese at 3am for drunk friends, becomes a gift meant to be shared. Nourishment for the body and the emotions. I can't imagine eating becoming mechanical. Even when I'm sick and all I want is chicken broth, I relish the silky texture and salty taste of the broth, and I take note of how it makes me feel better. I think that's one of the reasons farming/gardening is so appealing to me lately. I love the idea of nourishing the food that I'm going to use to nourish others. Putting into it what I'm hoping to gain out of it. The older I get, the more stock I put into the concept that nothing is unconnected. The thought I put into food, for myself and others, can be transmitted to its intended recipients. And I love that idea. I'm not just making you cookies, I...

My brain has been firing crazy sparks lately, thought tendrils that take off into these intricate little spirals of weirdness. I love it. I love that sense of organic growth, as my mind feeds on bits of new ideas, processes them, and regurgitates them out into a fertile soil that feeds my imagination. Happy brain is a weird brain. I keep forgetting that, getting caught up in the fascinating but ultimately shallow physical realities of day to day life. For instance, I've come up with a plot to a series of 3 romance novels. Ridiculous, searing indictments of how romance novels fuck with the brains of women everywhere, convincing them that lust is only ok with your one true love, that men are weak, that women are weak, that sex is only good with one man, that marriage is the be all end all, that unreasoning authority is hot (I know this makes me a hypocrite, cause I kinda like being told what to do in bed...), that love changes everything... lots of bullshit, and I could totally write...

I've been reading the blogs of people who are ex Jehovahs Witnesses, trying to relate to them. There's parts of what these people have to say that I deeply relate to, completely understand. But there's an anger, a passionate rage, that I'm lacking. And that makes me wonder. Am I not allowing myself to feel a rage that's secretly hiding under my calm surface? After all, the one thing I had pounded into my head from a very young age is that you don't question the Truth. You just don't. If you do, it's because Satan is in your head, and you let him in there. You'd best do your damndest to get those thoughts out lest you fall prey to the Devil. When I first started to get an inkling of doubt, the beginning of the end of my faith, I blamed myself for every contrary thought. I hated myself, for disturbing my beautiful peace. Of course, that didn't stop me from sitting in a Barnes and Noble cafe for hours, reading Stephen Hawking and Richard Feynman, so...

I actually wrote this out a while ago and posted it elsewhere, but I wanted to have it on here so I could remember it. I recently went to a Sacred Harp shape note convention that a friend of mine had invited me to. Sacred Harp is a musical tradition, 4 part a cappella singing, using simple shapes to define notes. It’s mostly hymns and anthems, though there’s some folk music in there. It’s very, very beautiful music. I love old gospel, and this musical tradition takes that style and makes it completely nondenominational. It doesn’t however, make it non-spiritual. And that was a bit of a problem for me. I’m not a religious person, by any means. But I grew up in a small, tight knit community where going to church three times a week was required, and you sang three times at each session. I’m very, very familiar with the idea of singing as a religious experience. And I’m uncomfortable with it. I never liked being in a group of people and praising a god I didn’t believe in, and while the mus...

Maybe this is what I need from you. Maybe this is why I'm so drawn to you. Your rage tastes familiar. Faint, lingering traces of a few, potent individuals who defined how I deal with people being angry at me. This is so trite, but it begins with my father, who helped defined fight or flight for me, and it continued with men through out my life. And with you, I can feel that fear, that incredibly strong instinct to placate or destroy, and I can ignore it. I can stand in my shower and remind myself "I am alone" and I can mean it and I can love that knowledge. Because it's more than ok, to be alone. It's vital. It means I can understand your anger, I can see my contribution to it, I can acknowledge I helped create it. Do you know how hard that is? It's not just pride. It's loss. You can't lose something you don't have, and what I can't lose with you is everything. And I love it. It sounds so snarky and fucked up. It's really not. I'm learn...