Random Acts of Awesome

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...

So, then came Trevor. The flirting we'd done had always been about him being in charge, him doing things to me. What he'd allow me to do to him, what he WOULDN'T allow me to do to him... the ball was always very much in his court. I'd had plenty of men try and flirt with me like this in the past, but when it came down to the reality, they never followed through. I never let them follow through, because I couldn't let them have that kind of control over me. I had high hopes for the reality of Trevors flirting, though. I'd known him for so long, had such a strong impression of him from before we ever physically met. The first time we met was the first time we fucked. I've already told that story, and it was amazing. It was. Sex can be awkward the first time, though still fun. But our first time wasn't awkward. It was just hot. And the second, and the third, and so on and so forth. We have good chemistry, and it didn't take us long to figure out what...

I always fall a little in love with musicians on the stage. Watching them concentrate on their craft, brows furrowed and deeply shadowed under harsh lights. Lips tucked under teeth, tongue occasionally peeking out as their fingers fly. The musicians I end up loving the most always forget about the audience. They're so caught up in their own sensual world that we don't exist to them anymore. It's like sitting in a dark corner, watching an unwary hedonist masturbate. Beautiful.