Random Acts of Awesome

The way I live my life is not compatible with what I want to do with my life. I woke up thinking that this morning, at 4am. Thanks, asshole brain, for coming up with a thought worthy of pursuing at an ungodly early hour. But really. I live my life in such a way as to minimize stress, drama, and movement. This creates a reality, and a me, that is peaceful and harmonious. Also, sedentary and heavy. Even while traveling, I absolutely minimized the chances of me encountering any sort of drama. I did this by isolating myself deeply. Interacting with people and places on an extremely superficial level, and then walking away quickly, before hooks could be cast. So, for as much movement as I've had in my life for the past 4 years, there's actually been very little action. Not of the kind that I need to be happy. Which brings me to the reality that what I want to do with my life is incompatible with isolation and internal sedentary-ness. I associate all drama with bad drama....

What do I need? I need to be happy. I need to be fulfilled. I need to have a sense of purpose. I need to feel safe. I need to be independent. With that last one, I wonder. Do I need to be independent? Or do I want? I don't know. So, what do I want? I want to be rich. I want to be happy. I want to do something good with my life. Wow. Wanting to be rich, brain? Really? When you just spent a couple hours worth of thought cycles thinking about how unhealthy your relationship with money is? But rich means safety, and independence. I do not want to do what I do for a living. It is not who I am. But it is money. It is safety, and it is independence. The money I make keeps me comfortable, but not happy. If I had more money, would I be both comfortable and happy? Not from the money alone, but from what the money allowed me to do, maybe. But I know myself. If I am not doing what I want and need to be doing now, money won't make a difference. It won't give me more d...

I've been thinking about being silent lately. About not speaking, for a week or a month or a year. For however long it takes to silence the cacophony in my mind. It's not that I don't like the noise. I actually really love the busyness inside my own head, the stories I am constantly telling myself. It's just that they have gotten jumbled and out of hand these days. Some of these stories are getting older, I'm forgetting beginnings and not allowing for endings. My head feels like a spice cabinet crafted by an overzealous yet lazy cook who, with the best of intentions, bought every ingredient ever known to man in order to craft the most amazing dishes, and then shoved everything but the garlic powder and italian seasoning to the back of the cabinet. Too many of my words are moldering in the darkness back there, sealed into air tight containers, but loosing all their zest and flavor. I think silence would be a refreshing spring cleaning, a bringing out into the light...

It cracks me up, and awes me a little, how much better life is after sex. I have had a deeply conflicted relationship with sex for a couple years now. I let it control me, freaked out at how easy that was, and promptly went WAY overboard in the opposite direction. I'd go for months with nothing, indulge in a furiously carnal and generally ill thought out bout with an inappropriate but easy connection, freak out again, and start the whole cycle over. The past couple of months, I've been focusing on allowing myself to make the decisions when it comes to sex. I have been propositioned numerous times, after having opened myself up energetically to the idea, and have given myself the time to think about each one. Regardless of what kind of pressure I was under, I always gave myself the time. I wouldn't apologize for it, wouldn't call myself a tease for making out with someone and then pulling back to analyze how I felt. I just took the time. And, generally, it's mean...

I found the poetry of a man who sent me an unsolicited dick pic (Pro tip - don't send unsolicited dick pics, but especially don't send unsolicited dick pics if your email leads to everything about your life, including your facebook), and it was very good. He actually sent me a poem AND a dick pic, which was jarring. It was a sexy poem. A very, very good poem. Till suddenly DICK PIC IN YOUR FACE. Anyways. His poetry was beautiful. I went looking for his biography, curious about the kind of person who sends a piece of their soul along with their proof of concept body art. I found a lot of info about him, the fact that he'd been born on an Oregon reservation, that he'd gone to OSU, that he had a lot of friends who like him but probably didn't get him. I found his website, where'd he'd apparently started publishing other authors work in 2015 or so. It seemed like his life work. And that got me thinking about what those words mean. Life work. How do you know ...

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...