09/27/2012

I keep sitting down with it and trying to respond but every time that I do I break into twenty or thirty jagged accusatory shards and rage and sadness wash over me. The last time I did, it ruined my entire day, and I don’t want to give him that right.

My father wrote to me. After almost a decade since the night that we last saw one another, he called my mother and told her he’d like to be in contact with me. His first letter (email, rather) wasn’t very great. It’s all statements, there are no questions–it doesn’t feel like there’s any consideration of me or what I might want or what I might be feeling.

Still, it’s something. For the last few years the unknowable, wondering what happened to our shared family, has been in my shoe like a sharp pebble when I try to walk or dance or…do anything, at all.

I don’t know where to start. It’s not a good time for family reunions. I have almost 10K in medical bills from the accident, and I keep washing under this situational depression and I feel on the verge of fucking everything (everything) up at all times–I don’t feel like I have much to contribute to my relationships right now other than boner jokes and homemade jam. I can’t even ride my fucking bike to make myself feel better.

I should have labelled this shit trigger warning for self-pity.

Advertisements

quickie

09/24/2012

a lot of stuff afoot:

  • new job fixing covering myself in bike grease (and glitter?) for a living
  • talking about bikes so enthusiastically i spit when i talk (no, this isn’t really anything new)
  • celebrated a year kissing the sweetheart at places other than/in addition to parties
  • complicated family stuuufff that is taking up a lot of my emotional processing power
  • recovering from/navigating accident stuuuff
  • situational depression related to being injured
  • making jam and other making stuff stuuufff
  • reading Cherrie Moraga’s Loving in the War Years, identifying with it A LOT.

 

Trigger warning for: suicidal ideation.

I know I’m not the only one
whose confidence gets mowed down at odd moments
whose sense of deserving is skewed by doubt
who believes their claims to accomplishments or identities to be
somehow less.

Dear impostor in the mirror: I’m here to tell you
you are not an actor
you didn’t get the role in the play for looks
you’re living the story.

It’s yours, whatever you make of it–
exposition, conflict, resolution, and
if you don’t get it right every time
that’s what adds interest to the narrative.

I overheard someone giving writing advice today,
and I’d like you to live it out:
“…it’s not that your character achieves the goal they set out for,
it’s the things that happen along the way.”

I know it’s scary out there and sometimes
you think about just couch camping forever
or jumping off the Aurora Bridge
but don’t you know
they built a fence around that bridge
and don’t you know that
there’s more for you, outside the door.

It might be more struggle
I can’t guarantee it will be all
sunshine and roses or
cafe au lait and croissants
especially since right now all you can really afford is
intermittent sunshine and drip coffee.

Yet I think you know:
this conflict just adds interest to the story and
overcoming the impostor is your first assignment.

Dedicated those living in the margins.

yes please!

09/04/2012

via here. the only things i have to add are: leave room for yes and for no. and ask. and look for the answer. and let yourself say yes and no, too.

When sex becomes a production or performance that is when it loses its value.

Be mutual. Be loud. Be clumsy.

Make noises, be quiet, and make a mess.

Bite, scratch, push, pull, hold, thrust.

Remove pressure from the moment. Love the moment. Embrace it.

Enjoy your body; enjoy your partners’ body.

Produce sweat, be natural, entice your senses, give into pleasure.

Bump heads, miss when you kiss, laugh when it happens.

Speak words, speak with your body, speak to their soul.

Touch their skin, kiss their goose bumps, and play with their hair.

Scream, beg, whimper, sigh, let your toes curl, lose yourself.

Chase your breath; keep the lights on, watch their eyes when they explode.

Forget worrying about extra skin, sizes of parts and things that are meaningless.

Save the expectations, take each second as it comes.

Smear your make up, mess up your hair, rid your masculinity, and lose your ego.

Detonate together, collapse together, and melt into each other.