Random Acts of Awesome

Wow. It's been a long time. Coming back to this blog after more than a year away feels odd. Although I've written a few posts that I just never published, almost all of my writing has been exclusively in my physical journals. I have needed that. I needed the pure privacy of writing only to myself. It's created a style of writing that is extremely analytical and practical, interestingly enough. Apparently I don't believe in telling myself stories. Everything I write with pen and paper is meant to disappear the moment ink hits paper and thought manifests. It's not meant to last, to be read again, by myself or anyone else. It's boring, in some ways. In a lot of ways. Margaret Atwood advises one to write as though no one will read you. That works for therapy, but not for story. Not for me. There is very little that is beautiful that comes out when my brain knows it's not performing. Which is FASCINATING to me. It highlights this very performative part of m...

What would I be thinking about if I weren't thinking about this bullshit drama I have in my life? I'd be thinking about projects that I want to do. I'd be daydreaming about seeds I want to buy. I'd be wondering why I'm seemingly incapable of writing a book. I'd be wondering when I'm going to want someone to share my life. I'd be thinking about how much I would love to get done today, this gorgeously sunny and spritely cold fall day. I'd be wondering how much I was actually going to accomplish, and cautioning myself not to take on too much so that I don't get mad at myself at night. I'd be daydreaming about how I wanted to make the porch more beautiful yet practical. I'd be imagining becoming an old herb woman, surrounded by scents and knowledge and plants. I'd be thinking about my job, a little sadly, a little proud. I'd be contemplating calling my mother, just to chat. I'd be feeling guilty for not really wanting to call an...

I have not written in, or read, this blog for quite a while. I had forgotten about my last entry completely. Which is why I find it fascinating that I was coming on here to write about intimate sex, with emotions involved. It hasn't been that long. Over the course of a very busy summer I haven't changed that much. I do tend to go from 0 - 60 when it comes to change, though. I'm not in love. And not in a false protestation kind of way. I'm not in love. But I am allowing myself to feel valued. I am allowing myself to value. It's fucking terrifying. On a very fundamental level, it feels wrong. And it may be wrong, with this person. This other broken person who is pursuing his own health and happiness with the fervor of a drowning man gasping at air. It might be shallow. Making out like teenagers, dry humping endlessly and getting myself off out of sheer desperation... that's not exactly intimacy. But it is for me. Opening my eyes is intimacy for m...

A friend posted a link about sexual/emotional anorexia yesterday afternoon, and upon reading it, I got a bit of a gut punch. It felt far, FAR too familiar. The symptoms vary, the reasons vary... but the basics behind the concept felt like truth. I don't really know what that means, in terms of how much good it does me to put a label on my reality. I am completely, utterly invested in changing my inner emotional landscape, so I suppose it does help to start to categorize what exactly I'm fighting against. I have this very strong tendency to want to fight, but to believe that the circumstances have to be perfect for me to do so. Like, my outer reality needs to perfectly reflect whatever it is I am fighting for in my inner reality. In this case, in the fight for my own emotional soul, my outer reality would ideally be a mix of monkhood and true love that makes me want to fight for it. I also have a very strong tendency, though, to sabotage my outer reality so I don't HA...

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...