Random Acts of Awesome

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...