Random Acts of Awesome

Had an interesting conversation with my mother this morning. My dad is in Florida right now, visiting his dying father and helping his brother who just had a heart attack. My mom was telling me about how my father finally got a chance to "really talk" to my grandfather, get things off his chest. Which is GREAT. My dads side of the family is like the worst stereotype of English Stiff Upper Lip-ness you can imagine. They just don't communicate emotions very well. My dad, especially. He can do it, having been forced to develop communication skills by marrying my hyper-emotional mother. But it's like pulling taffy when he does, and incredibly stressful for him. He's avoided any kind of non-practical contact with his father for a long time. He's been there for him physically, helping him out, but just has NOT been willing to talk to him about anything deep. So, his dad is dying, in hospice, and barely aware. Perfect time for my dad to get things off his chest. ...

Living through words is a dangerous thing. Almost as dangerous as being completely honest with yourself. I sometimes (often) think that I'm the only person in my life who's ever truly honest with me. I don't know if this is because I surround myself with people who don't know how to be honest with me, or because I just don't allow them to be. Either way, it's alienating. In the truest sense of the word. I feel like I know what people are really saying, even as the words that come out of their mouths say something different. And I don't think I'm wrong about what they're thinking and feeling, because their bodies and their eyes say something completely different from their mouths. It makes me feel like a teenager, to be so confused by conflicting signals from other human beings. Anyways. Realizing that you are full of words, and empty of deeds, is infuriating. And frightening. I feel old and useless and pathetic, all because I have no tangible e...

I was just reading an article written by a woman with PTSD, talking about her relationships with others. Her whole blog is kind of awesome, but this particular entry really, really resonated with me. Not because I think I have PTSD. But because I'm almost positive that Trevor has it. As positive as I can be, minus his willingness to see a mental health professional and get diagnosed. So, she's describing how hard it is for her loved ones to deal with being her loved ones, and why. And, while I've done a lot of research on PTSD and am familiar with the symptoms, I've never really brought that thought process full circle, never really related them to my life and relationship with him. And why should I, right? Trevor isn't a boyfriend, or a partner. He's a lover, and a friend, but I'm free of emotional entanglements with him that would complicate my ability to clearly see our relationship, or walk away from unhealthiness... Yeah. I call hard bullshit on tha...

I feel so completely disconnected from the rest of humanity right now. It's been a while since I've felt so lonely. I think a part of it is the knowledge that today is a religious night for my family. One we used to celebrate together, with a big dinner before church, and then ice cream after. I actually contemplated going this year. I told myself I was thinking about going because I wanted to bear the reality of what my folks are hearing right now. It's supposed to be a big one this year, they're supposed to make some kind of announcement Bout this being the last memorial. In other words, and announcement about the end of the world. They do this every ten years or so. They drum up anxiety and excitement this way, making people in that religion feel like they're not actually wasting their time and resources on an end of days cult that has never made an accurate prediction. Anyways, I was contemplating going. For informational purposes only. In reality, I...

I feel like an explosion that's already happened. Caught in a net of hands of my own making, catching the pieces of me as they try to escape, pulling them in and shoving them back into place with no real regard for where they come from. And each piece that's meant to be gone is rotting away, unconnected to anything else. All that kinetic energy dispersed into the effort required to deny the affects of the original explosion. Fuck that. I'm leery of not focusing on the negative right now. Sometimes you NEED to focus on the negative, in order to be motivated to get shit done. But that has never, ever, EVER worked for me. I am not a negatively charged particle. I can't actually accomplish anything positive when the negative is in ascendance. I just can't. I can't beat myself up over my imperfections and let that pain motivate me to change. I have to be happy to create more happy. It's why I've developed all of these false mechanisms of happiness...

Magic is the sense of power swimming through your own veins. The knowledge that, while you are really very tiny, your brain is really very large. And inside your brain, there are a million billion roads that are constantly being traversed by the energy that spawned stars and worlds, that created dinosaurs and elephants, that built Rome and destroyed the Mayans. That energy isn't a closed system. It's constantly being fed from the outside by little droplets of experience, crafted and shaped by knowledge gained and lost. Experience and knowledge that has been purified in the minds of a million billion others, energy that has been consumed and shed by trees and plants, oceans and mountains, ants and apes. A connection of the neurons, if not the mind. You can choose to consume as much stimulation as you possibly can. And you can acknowledge that what you can possibly do is far greater than many believe. What is possible can be defined by what is wanted, not what is given. ...

I get it, dude. I do. I look more exciting than your beautiful wife, sitting to your side with a brand new baby on her lap. Blocking access to her womb and her heart, a tiny little presence that has supplanted you completely. My breasts are hugged by a form fitting shirt, framed by a vest designed to make them appealing to you. Hers are covered by flannel, comfortable and soft for a baby to rest against. My hips are mine alone, not occupied by a tiny being that has sucked all the sexuality that created it right back into itself, for the moment. Ah, for the moment. All the moments. That's what you need to remember, as you look at my hips and breasts longingly. The moments you've helped create. The depth of sexuality you're missing, that's causing your eyes to stray, have nothing on those moments. I hope, for your sake, that your father taught you the breadth of moments available to you now, the depth of the beauty you've created. Because without that knowle...