Random Acts of Awesome

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...

I found an old poetry journal of mine yesterday. I'd packed it away in a box FULL of old journals and drawings, and took it with me when I left almost everything else behind. I keep debating the merit of burning old journals, the idea being that you're letting go of the past. But then I re-read my thoughts from when I was young, and I'm glad I haven't done it yet. This journal is from my very early 20s, between 21-23. It's a huge, red, hardcover journal, something meant to last. The paper is ivory, and thick. I filled less than half of it with writing. But it's some of the best, most evocative writing I've ever done. It's almost all poems, mostly short, very Emily Dickinson. An example: I am not potential I am not possibility I am not someday I am not maybe I am the here I am the now I am the present I am the how Reading these poems, I'm reminded of a time when I my life when I had gone from thinking to doing. I'd spend most of my lat...