Archive for the ‘Updates’ Category

Life in the Fast Lane: A Thanksgiving invitation for my experimental/sociopolitically-motivated friends:

Monday, November 19th, 2018

Howdy facebook. How’s it hanging. As y’all surely know, it’s Thanksgiving in the U. S. this week. And if you’ve been around here much in the past, you might remember a little bit about what I think of Thanksgiving. :poop emoji:

I’m taking a bit of a different track this year, and I wanna share about it and invite you to consider my words or even join me.

First, a babbly history: I grew up celebrating “pilgrims and indians” thanksgiving like most suburban white kids with their turkey hand drawings in the 80’s. With a tense and often bickering family environment, Thanksgiving was so quickly a soulless tradition or annoying obligation (how ameri-white can you get eh?). I don’t really recall having a genuine connection with it after childhood, other than a convenient excuse to force myself to connect with chosen family.

Over the years I have boycotted, half-heartedly participated, hosted orphans, and increasingly shared my dissent as I’ve learned more of the authentic origins of the holiday and how continuing to celebrate it harms people I have spent a lot of therapy money and cognitive effort as an oblivious privileged white person learning to actually care about.

My M.O. since radicalizing in 2014ish or so has generally been to water fast on Thanksgiving and fill my social media feeds with trauma porn about the origins of the feasting and how fucked up it is that we do it. You’ll be glad to know I’m (mostly) over that now, in part due to actually dipping my toe into legitimate advocacy by working with orgs like Duwamish Infrastructure Restoration Training – DIRT Corps and recognizing how deeply impactful the various Native therapies I’ve experienced have been to my personal life as well as my work.

Another big factor in letting go of that rage-stance has been my exploration of my gender identity (they/them), and how getting real about the origin of my binary brainwashing being centered in whiteness has allowed me to authentically connect with the ideals in Native culture in a personal way. Without that connection, all I felt entitled to interact with was the shameful anger of the bloodshed inflicted by my ancestors, so that’s what I signal boosted.

As a developing activist advocating indigenous rights and human person adopting basic indigenous principles into my anti-racism, someone who has worked with the Duwamish and learned from native healers, and someone who is privileged to celebrate my connections any day I chose, I feel it’s important for me to reject the holiday outright in my actions as well as my public talk.

Fasting may seem pointless, and I’ve wondered sometimes what greater good lied in my time during Thanksgiving while hanging out in a van alone and starving myself; whether it was simply selfish and personal or more than that or just self destructive.

As a political/community artist, I understand the value of documenting personal praxis in a performative way. One of the things that I write about in The Book are my personal experiments and what makes them legitimate artwork and not just self-help advice: Year of the Nee in 2014 (of which I spent a year weening from romantic relationships, drugs, alcohol, and sex), W.A.S.T.E. in 2009 (in which I kept my recycling in my living space with me for months), etc.

My Thanksgiving fasts have been this sort of art for me, and I do think, when presented in conjunction with others, they are valid outside of myself. While I think it may be best to stop fasting as a means of reverence because I’ve developed such disordered eating in my last year of vanlife that it’s much more risky for my health now, I’m proud of those years in which I fasted, talked about fasting on social media, and sat with and communicated with my hunger as a means to process the reality of Thanksgiving. This year, perhaps for the last time (?), I’d like to fast again.

Which brings me to my invitation: Wanna fast with me this Thanksgiving? There are multiple elements to my approach, which I expect to expand annually if I get other people on board:

1) Water fast for the day of Thanksgiving (this is the “accountability” commitment) – Including peer-based aftercare support for the fasting to help ourselves as a group continue to healthy eating habits after going a day without food (I will personally need this from my community to continue Thanksgiving fasting in a way that does not endanger my health)

2) Funnel the money I would have spent on Thanksgiving food into a one-time donation directly to my local Duwamish and Puyallup tribes (even if it’s just a couple bucks).

3) If I’m active on social media at the time, post at least 2 local call-to-action Native advocacy resources on each of my social media accounts on Thanksgiving day. Post historical and cultural educational content about those tribes as well.

4) If a local group forms (I’m based in Tacoma now), work to create a meetup event in nature for next year, and include resources used in social media posts as lit for meatspace gatherings.

I am considering creating a group of some sort, preferably NOT using facebook, for event planning and information sharing. My idea for this is to include a national online element as well as a local in person one, though this year I expect I’m approaching this too late for a local gathering.

I anticipate most participants to be white because that’s my lane and this is our work, however anyone who is interested is welcome to participate.

If you’d like to be looped into the development of this project, comment here with the word DECOLONIZE and I’ll make sure to include you in whatever list/group/discord/slack channel or whatever the fuck it ends up being. And if you wanna participate virtually in some way this Thursday, let m know how.

Thanks for taking the long read. Also note that I have a post pinned to my artist page right now to a fabulous writeup if you want to delve in more, and many links supplied in the comments if you’re interested in supporting Natives this week.

National Day of Mourning is nearly upon us, and CHRISTINE NOBISS of www.seedingsovereignty.org has done a great service to those of us seeking to resist the colonial gaslighting that is Thanksgiving. https://www.bustle.com/p/thanksgiving-promotes-whitewashed-history-so-i-organized-truthsgiving-instead-13154470

NON-LOCAL ADVOCACY: If food justice is your thing (For instance, if you were enraged by the new SNAP benefit changes and think people on food assistance deserve fresh food), then you should know about food availability on reservations and what Queer Appalachia and @ndn.o are up to: https://www.facebook.com/QueersnAppalachia/posts/2060243613997313

EDUCATION: THE SUPPRESSED SPEECH OF WAMSUTTA (FRANK B.) JAMES, WAMPANOAG
To have been delivered at Plymouth, Massachusetts, 1970

http://www.uaine.org/suppressed_speech.htm

EDUCATION: The Duwamish people of the inside still exist. You can visit their longhouse, attend events, sign up to their mailing list, among other things at https://www.duwamishtribe.org/

And here is their wikipedia page https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duwamish_people

EDUCATION: REAL CHANGE, a publication that I support whenever I have cash in my pocket (and I hope you will too), published this about the Duwamish in 2016 https://www.realchangenews.org/2016/11/09/duwamish-tribe-continues-160-year-fight-federal-recognition

DONATIONS: The Duwamish tribe has created http://realrentduwamish.org as a pathway for Seattlites and other supporters to pay reparations, and is a way you can impact the lives of those whose land we settled despite the federal government’s 160 years of refusing the tribe their rights. I pay real rent myself and encourage every Seattlite to do so as well.

DIRECT ENVIRONMENTAL ACTION: DIRT CORPS, a restoration training program I worked with in 2016/2017, works closely with the Duwamish tribe while restoring wetlands in Georgetown, White Center and South Park; areas most impacted by industrialization and training local communities, and they are regularly in search of volunteers.

https://www.urbansystemsdesign.com/dirt-corps-program

THE ORIGINS OF MY FAVORITE SALT –
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coast_Salish
https://www.britannica.com/topic/Salish
https://www.warpaths2peacepipes.com/indian-tribes/coast-salish.htm

Wednesday, January 10th, 2018

In contrast to this Black Sparrow clusterfuck, I’m periodically thinking of someone named Heather Dwyer.

Heather is the person from 4 culture who contacted me a month after a grant application due date to let me know that my application was almost complete; I just needed to upload work samples, and if I could do it within the next day or so, I’d be eligible for the grant I’d almost applied for.

I’d purposely abandoned my application about 6 weeks earlier due to overwhelm, impostor syndrome, and fatigue. I was having a hard time figuring out what samples to include, how to present my work in the timelines and parameters requested, and in frustration and sadness had let the due date pass by without returning to finish it. This is usually how grant applications go for me. They are kind of a fucking nightmare, and thus far have never paid off, so I historically don’t even start to fill them out.

I’ve made a concerted effort to be better about this and work through more of my internal resistance, focusing more on grants this year than the last 5 combined, with the encouragement of friends like Pinguino who occasionally sends calls my way (I totes applied for that artist at sea program, buddy!), and my anonymous benefactor that elevated my perception of myself as an artist with their gift last year.

I’m still like, really fucking bad at it, though.

I responded to Heathers mail quickly and automatically out of the same place that I’d abandoned the grant, and said I just couldn’t figure out how I fit in the application, explained that I was traveling in my van, etc. Heather was respectful of my limitations, and said she hoped that I would consider applying for future grants at another time, reminding me that if I did want to try to get work samples in by the next day, she’d be happy to help me however she could, including downloading images from the web and uploading them to my application for me.

About an hour later, I emailed Heather back and expressed interest in working through the process with her to get the application finished. I’d recalled calling for help when I first got stuck but the phone tagging winded me and I had never gotten back to her. She helped me understand the application rules a bit better — for instance, it wasn’t that I could only submit up to 10 minutes of material, it was that the selection committee was not obligated to spend more than ten minutes on each submission — and suggested a video on my youtube channel that seemed to her like a good one to submit, one that I had dismissed as too long. With her support, I finished the application, even finding a wireless solution and pulling out the laptop and creating the required work samples document in the correct format myself.

Heather was consistently tender and encouraging while remaining respectful, and when I thanked her for putting in the effort to give me a chance to finish applying for the grant she mentioned understanding on a personal level as a former artist just how hard it can be to push through the last pieces of a grant application.

This grant, btw, is specifically for artists who suffer mental illness. I won’t know until the end of the month whether I will be awarded the grant or not, and of course, I don’t expect that to be the case. However, Heathers efforts helped me feel less alone, and assisted me in my goal of practicing applying for opportunities I would normally dismiss myself from being worthy of. And sometimes, I think about that still. Today, while processing a major blow to my artistic plans and my self esteem, is one of those days where Heather is popping up. So I wrote to her.

“Subject: Praise

Hi Heather!

I just wanted to thank you for your care, recently, and let you know that what you do matters. I dunno if you struggle at all with needing reminders about that, but I do, and oftentimes I don’t really know I need to hear it until I’ve been told. So I’m taking the opportunity to write you while thinking about how your encouragement and support has touched me — in fact I think about how I was treated by you in direct response to being royally fucked over by a venue I was supposed to be playing this weekend in the middle of the country — and how honestly rare that is in my experience of trying to make life as an artist work. I just really appreciate having heard from you, your willingness to work through my hesitations with me, and the patience you showed. Regardless of the grant, that has really made a difference for me, and it still stands out when I need it to. Thanks.”

Is there someone in your life to randomly praise today?

OptimumDesk.exe / ODService CPU hog won’t uninstall

Sunday, November 26th, 2017

My last 24 hours:

1) Did the steps in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyYB07SUPcI&feature=youtu.be to confirm the title executables were the reason dad’s win10 machine blared at 99% cpu usage unless in safe mode — did all those steps with every instance of eventvwr or task manager taking upwards of 4 minutes to load.

2) Found this, which confirmed for me that these programs are malicious — weird company, very little cross-pollinated information about the program online, uninstall instructions reference an uninstall executable that is not installed, requires downloading another program from weird site to supposedly uninstall, see for yourself at http://www.advanceduninstaller.com/OptimumDesk-6ef36ef217edb1361947a381152d63b2-application.htm

3) Downloaded malwarebytes, spybot, and ran dad’s native mcafee scan twice — none of them were able to quarantine and delete the rogue install. During all this testing, the machine was still at 99% CPU and running at an absolute crawl.

4) Tried loading safe mode and deleting program file directory – reinstalled itself. Tried deleting the service from elevated command line – reinstalled itself. Tried removing registry keys directly with regedit – reinstalled itself.

FINAL SOLUTION: Removed all access permissions from C:/Windows/Program Files (x96)/OptimumDesk.exe and ODService.exe including to SYSTEM, leaving the files but rendering them completely useless. Before coming to this conclusion, I pretty much had to extract every little thing I once knew about the windows operating system, which I frankly haven’t used in any capacity since Win7.

System idles at 4% CPU now, and I feel like I’ve just been hit by a truck.

#hotline

Tuesday, October 17th, 2017

Lately, I have been very raw and sensitive and emotionally reactive. Being that way comes with effects, which include being oversensitive to damaging others. Things like feeling really gutted for days if I unintentionally hurt someones feelings, and digging too hard into myself to look for subconscious sinister motivation, when I forget or misconstrue boundaries and tolerances (we should do this as recovering abusers, as I am, but I get relentless and shameful in it when triggered or emotionally fatigued — I go back to the habit of digging for the molten core of awful I must be to be capable of being so shitty).

Generally when that happens is when I reach a tipping point where I go into isolation to avoid people. That, I have discovered, is when I usually fall into the pit.

I have been noticing this, and noticing that I have needed to talk numerous times in order to mobilize myself to be functional in the last few days, and even after scrolling over my lists, short and long and public and private, I find I have no one I feel I can talk to in those moments.

This is all self talk, shame, depression, and insecurity. I am blessed with SO MANY people I can talk to. Perhaps they might not understand, and perhaps they might not be the people who are immediately around me. But I can speak without logical fear of retribution to many people in my life. Yet I don’t, or if I do, I am so clumsy and desperate and self critial that I feel bad about it afterwards; I didnt ask well enough for proper consent before talking about something potentially triggering, I took up too much time uming and stumbling to get my words out, and so on.

And well, writing here is triggering more often than it isn’t, to be perfectly honest with y’all.

So I called the hotline again today, while I was stuck managing the anxiety of going to a place I work where someone who violated my boundaries and emotionally abused me also frequents, still vibrating from #metoo triggering. 1 (800) 273-8255. I talked to a person who has already given consent to hear whatever it is I need to say, who is not my friend thus also not my long term emotional responsibility, who can also hear the details of that assault without potentially having personal investment in protecting the asshole who treated me like shit.

1 (800) 273-8255

1 (800) 273-8255

1 (800) 273-8255

A little poop on the stigma, and a glimpse of what a suicide prevention hotine actually looks like:

“I got into this field because when I was a teenager, I was also trying to kill myself on a monthly basis, or cutting myself, or ending up in the ER,” she says. “I finally met a therapist who said, ‘Well of course you want to kill yourself. Your life is terrible.’ And the moment she said this, I thought, ‘OK, now I can fix my life.’ Because before I had been so busy trying to prove to people that my life was bad, and once someone believed me, I could go do something about that.”

That’s why, according to PM, traditionally trained clinicians are not always the best crisis counselors — they first have to unlearn a lot of what they were taught.

“Most counselors and social workers are profoundly uneducated about suicide prevention techniques,” she says. “This can lead to a lot of frustration or even panic.”

On the other hand, “at one of my hotline jobs I worked with a guy who, on paper, looked like a terrible candidate,” she continues. “His last job was manufacturing, and before that he’d been a bouncer at a couple of different strip clubs. But … he was the most sensitive person ever, and he knew how to approach a call. ‘It sounds like you’re thinking of suicide.’ Totally non-judgmental, but puts the topic out in the open so we can talk about it more freely. When he’d hear a person talk about why they wanted to die, he’d be compassionate. ‘Given all that, I understand why you’d think about killing yourself.’ That may sound like a really bad idea, but it’s actually been proven to be really effective: You’re actually hearing them, which makes them feel more open to talking. Then you can circle back to reasons to live.”

Source, with All The Trigger Warnings: http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-2338-5-disturbing-things-i-learned-working-at-suicide-hotline.html

The Year of the Kat

Tuesday, July 4th, 2017

In 2014, I began the Year of the Nee, choosing to go a year (and change, it turned out) celibate and without intoxicants of any kind.

Overlapping that year, the two years of unofficial survival experimentation of #vanlife began.
And now I float, disconnected, purposeless, again in need of healing and self acceptance. It’s about time to embark on a new experiment, I’ve been thinking.

From July 4 2017 to July 4 2018, is the Year of the Kat: the year I go on brain medication, and officially return to the discipline of writing regularly in a private, offline, SOC journal.

Turns out after all this searching for an avenue to rediscover and reintegrate the wisdom of my long lost teenage self, all I had to do to reconnect, was write to her.

Funny, how that works.

Where do we go from here

Sunday, June 25th, 2017

Having that fucking IUD out is a such a godsend. I still haven’t felt any more pelvic pain! And now after two blows of sextrust related trauma in the last month, I am back to having zero interest in sex again anyway and feel sure about putting off sterilization, so I won’t be dealing with healing from abdominal surgery right now either. 😂 Yay, numbness. It’s a thing, ya know? Bets on whether I can hold out til after menopause?

I’m really looking forward to getting in about brain pills next month. The fear around that is greatly reduced and I am curious about the advancements that have been made over the last couple decades. It’s become something I am looking forward to and I’ve figured out/been able to adjust more than a few factors that were contributing to how bad things had gotten with my mental health.

Now that I’ve had my signature rage catharsis from this last fuckshit obstacle my plan is to contract from social media to focus on making sure I have the energy to keep up on face time with core support people until I get to my dr. appointment. If you don’t see me flailing around here too much it’s likely because I am successful with that.

Thank you so much to everyone here who has participated in helping me through these last few roughass months and encouraged me to Keep Going. Your participations have often been the only thing I perceived I had in some really fucking dark worrisome moments. You’ve been collectively saving my ass and articulating encouragement and support in ways that penetrated and made a difference. I’m not a big keeper of things, but some of y’all gave me gifts I’ll remember for a very long time. Thank you. I’ll keep trying to do and be all that you’ve reminded me that I am. –facebook

Times haven’t actually changed all that much since the 90’s, but it sure does feel that way. I am often nostalgic for the days when I could stay blissfully unaware while simultaneously chomping at the bit for something real to believe in and fight for.

While being a part of a tech movement that literally changed the landscape of every single aspect of human life, I was furious for having been born in this time, rather than the 60’s or during the Suffrage movement, when the “real” battles were supposedly being won.

But damn did I never wish I was born in the future.

I was naive and impulsive then, still am I think, but full of energy I no longer have, that I spent a lot of time squandering on abusing myself. I was sharp and tenacious and aware of social injustices and that gnawed me from the inside out. I hated watching how abusive and horrible we were to one another and I had not yet learned that not all people behaved the way my tech buds and I behaved, treated one another so badly, or were as harmful and destructive as we were. Who knows what I could have accomplished with my head on straight and in a stable environment where I’d learned to actually relate to others.

Despite her many faults, in these last few years I’ve been hoping to connect with the core of that person I was then, after spending a lot of my adult life taming my nature and unlearning what she inherently knew.

God damn but did I know who the fuck I was back then, what I was about, what I thought needed to be done. I left every tech job I had because I was horrified at the evolution and was miserable contributing to misery.

I was also abusive, racist, classist mean, selfish. It’s been a fucking pain in the ass, this inbetween, trying to mine for the baby I threw out in that bathwater while continuing to dismantle the oppressions I still embody in myself. I am so lonely, my already fragile community connections are all damaged and fractured, AND I still don’t know who the fuck I am.

In the past I have joined groups based on my interests and naturally thrived there, drowning myself out and absorbing my environment. Now I’m just spinning in circles.

Debts mount, time in this temporary sanctuary ticks, the hits keep puncturing my heart, and I just keep waiting for the cry, MY battle cry, not knowing what the fuck to do with all this exhaustion, aggitation, despair, and doubt.

I’ve had faith since closing my business, leaving my partnerships and hitting the road that I would know it when I see it. Whatever I’m looking for. But I am also losing hope, losing steam, and running out of ideas. In a bit over two weeks, I will finally be talking to my doctor about getting on meds. I hope that works. Cuz I really, really, need something to work. 

#triggerwarning #mentalhealth

Monday, June 19th, 2017

#triggerwarning #mentalhealth

I’ve been struggling badly with my mental health since last fall. It’s been pretty awful in general, and then the small shred of resource and sanity I felt I had — my van/house/freedom — did what vanhousefreedom things do when they have 204,000 miles on them, and started breaking things.

Expensive things. While I was 3000, 1400, and 800 miles from ‘home’, which is a place I don’t really identify much with anymore, that I can’t afford to stay in, but is the most familiar to me.

I’m broke, in quite a bit of credit card debt, which is rising as I’m trying to take care of my body, which is also really pissed, and enjoyed a ratio of playing shows that leaned toward the ‘really sad empty dive bar’ sorts of ways far, far too often for my tender worrysome heart.

I’ve got pals and a warm place to sleep, which is helping me not completely lose my shit. I’m also spending most of my time manically making slapdash art, or sobbing and paralyzed and thinking about how easy it would be to clip an aertery and be done with this shit.

Every day, though, I do something meaningful to get better. I’m seeing a chiropractor to take care of my spine. I got that horrible inflammatory IUD pulled out, and acknowledged my gratitude for the ten years of effective birth control that little angry shit provided me. I’m on antibiotics for an infection I’ve likely had for about 8 months. And for now, I am living somewhere I can actually stand up in.

For a while, I was taking classes to get my massage license back before recognizing the returns were not sustainable (and, let’s face it, I’d be much better off making sandwiches 8 hours a day than going back into the job of touching people). But I enjoyed the classes and I learned things. That’s what you take classes for, right?

I’m also working edges like usual, one of which being to get better at letting go of money when I spend it, rather than being attached to the notion that everything I spend money on be some sort of investment.

I’m having a particularly hard time working up the nerve to get back into therapy, though, and to get on meds, which I’ve recognized it’s time for me to do. Like, actually do, and go through with, this time. I have an appointment with my primary care person in July to talk about it, but frankly, I’m really worried I’m not going to make it that far.

I’ve attempted multiple times before when it’s gotten this bad, and self harm is becoming a regular thing to deal with the sobbing fits, like the one I am stuck in right now while attempting to get ready for the one damn thing I committed to doing today.

I spend so much effort holding in a wall of sadness behind my face, and when the dam breaks, relief doesn’t come with it. Just more pressure and exhaustion. I think about doing the morning walk-in freeforall at the clinic, or going to the ER, usually multiple times a day. But I don’t.

I’ve been trying to figure out why, after so many years of being capable of getting help after how hard I worked to get there, I’m so stuck now.

I feel like my spirit is broken and no one can help me.

I’m consumed with fear that hopping on a medication rollar coaster will make it worse, and I don’t think I can handle anything more.

It seems I’d rather smack at myself qnd bruise my own face to feel relief than walk outside and pull weeds out of the ground (and risk fucking up my back again, I say to myself. Oh, my back went out while putting my pants on a half hour before a band rehearsal about a month ago. Did I forget to tell you that? Probably).

It’s hard to remember a time I’ve felt so alone.

But even moreso, I am finding that I am deeply mistrusting of the health field now. The last two therapists I had (out of four) had pretty shit boundaries.

Both relationships were helpful in ways, but ultimately the situations were very messy and consisted of a lot of loss, especially the last one, which was long term and complicated and multifaceted and ended traumatically.

There are quite a few things I used to be interested in/enjoy that I no longer enjoy after realizing I had to get out of that relationship. And getting out at all kicked up so many self criticisms I have about my limitations in maintaining close connections, and so often being the one suffocated and scrambling to get away.

When that relationship broke, so did my last frayed ties to the ‘healing community’, my trust in it, and my trust in my abilities as someone who was once a teacher in that realm. It broke my confidence in my worthiness to continue to be any type of healing guide or mentor, too. For the best, maybe, but disorienting all the same.

Of course, as I have created distance, I have recognized where being in unethical ‘healer’ relationships enabled me to be unethical and damaging to others myself in my care practice.
For the bulk of my time in the scene, I was surrounded by and looking up to healers and mentors providing therapy to people they were fucking, providing therapy to people they then started fucking, providing therapy to friends who didn’t ask for therapy, incepting their own notions and beliefs into vulnerable people looking for their help, having unintegral boundries and phasing in and out of roles without communicating or garnering consent.. the list just went on and on. And I belonged there. That’s the kind of shit I did, too. I think about some of the things I chose to do now and cringe so god damn hard.

It was a shitshow and I’m glad to be out, but, I’ve not found an alternative for the positives being in those communities allowed me to receive. The modalities, when respected in safe containers, were very powerful and helpful to me.

My trust in writing, which in the past has brought me a lot of connection and relief in the absence of stable relationships, has also faded. I no longer feel empowered by posting vulnerable shit like this and writing about my mental health struggles here. Or anywhere really.

I no longer feel fueled or that I am ‘helping’ anyone by sharing my stories, after a lifetime relying on that to make finite connections while constantly growing and transforming and leaving people behind who were important in my life but wanted me to stay the same when I needed to move on.

I simultaneously feel like such a loud obnoxious burden, and that I’ve forgotten how to take up space.

I feel like a complete sticky fucked up projectile mess, and also like I’m so constricted I can barely breathe.

But maybe broaching the subject now that I’m onto this will shift something. I’ve got shit to do, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let today be another fucking day I beat myself in the head to stop crying long enough to get it done.

P.S. if you are like I’ve been in the past and have become again and are hurting yourself to deal with your overwhelming emotions, this might help you feel like a little less of a freak about it. It helped me to remember how normal this all is, for all of 5 minutes, anyway.

Well, here we are again.

Thursday, June 8th, 2017

After some time keeping my head barely above water, my hearts busted open into a suck wound of fuzzies and my brain is linking up solutions again. Good night! 

What will I wake up to, though? Ugh, I hate waking up. Maybe that adjustment today worked, but I can’t know until I sleep how things will be when I wake up. 

I need to work on trusting my body more, and relying on my mind less. My fatigue right now probably isn’t physical. I forget that my ballcurled psychic emergency cutoff is to be too exhausted to carry out the plan. I forget that I know how to not spin myself comatose with infinite looping worry when something is wrong with my body. 

Yes, somethings wrong with probably my nerves, and yeah, it hurts. And having my legs giving out on me periodically is not any kind of ok, I’m not gonna lie. 

All the same, I think it’s about time to look into what’s happened in the SSRI world since I visited it last. Aside from being back in a mental place where I must consider that I really could die from this; I cannot accomplish my goals while feeling this way.

Is it valid? Yes. I dont deny or begrudge it. But I’ve got shit to do, god damnit. Shit to do so I can be in a position to handle whatever this is without feeling like I’m waterboarding myself while reciting the most horrible things I can imagine people I love saying about me. 

I trust you, gut. And I can’t right now. You’ll have to wait. 

I’ll get to you, too, but you’ll just have to wait.

10 more things I’ve learned on the road, year 2

Wednesday, April 26th, 2017

I am solidly into my second year of vanlife. Here are 10 more things I’ve learned since last time

  1. Spraying swampy sockfeet with 90% isopropyl at the end of a night means you have fresh socks to put away in the morning after they’ve dried. Actually, a spray bottle of hefty alcohol is pretty much a must. I use it to clean my cookware, sanitize my pstyle, clean my greasy phone, and on and on.
  2. Chicken noodle soup in a pot, heat to simmer, kill the flame, sprinkle some dehydrated mashed taters, stir, cover, wait a bit. Bam. Cheap, salty, satisfying comfort roadfood in about 5 minutes.
  3. The little touches (for me: having a few flavors of artisan bitters, keeping spices around, hand-rolling cigarettes, having a zippo filled and at the ready, stocking a bar of excellent dark chocolate), add an immense polish to an otherwise pretty grungy, simple life. Oh, and if you’re gonna bother with it at all, always buy the expensive beef jerky. Don’t skimp on the tortillas, either – they are a great staple and can be used to wrap up damn near anything, but not if they tear and taste like cardboard smeared with dog shit.
  4. Relatively-full, mid-range hotel parking lots are excellent places to park for a night, especially if you roll in nice and late. One time I managed nearly an entire week at a Days Inn in St. Augstine, in part because it was bike week, I had the motorcycle on the rack, and I blended in. I like La Quinta too; and these hotel parking lots are usually a little less interrogation-room lit than truck stops or Walmarts — which both tend to have birds trying to get laid at all hours of the night from the lights being so fucking bright.
  5. These sorts of hotels are also excellent places to refill water jugs, camp shower bags (also a must), and bottles — A lot of them have outside spigots for the maid service workers. Same for ice — many hotels with outdoor room access also have ice machines that are outside.
  6. http://freecampsites.net
  7. AAA is a requirement, and completely, 150% worth every penny. I’ve used it at least twice a year since I left, from towing to running out of gas on the highway. I will ride without insurance before I will ride without AAA. Seriously; don’t even fuck around with not having it.
  8. Bella Stinkbutt is now at 210k miles (from 180k when I got her), and all told in gas, repairs, maintenance, towing, insurance, registration — has cost roughly $.40c a mile. She has gotten anywhere from 11 to 14mpg highway in the time I have had her, and been towed so many times from breaking down on me I’ve lost count. I make anywhere from $15k-$18k a year, and for the last two have spent half of it, before taxes, on my vehicle. When the van needs repairing, it’s rarely less than $800. This is not a cheap life. Far from it. Don’t let the trust fund couples in their reliable $60k rigs fool you. It costs money no matter what way you go.
  9. Speaking of the #vanlife social media complex and their $60k rigs, one of the big lessons I’ve learned after doing this for a while is how fucking lonely the hard times are when you don’t know anyone else who is doing it. When I am stranded in bumfuck with a blood curdling estimate while already in thousands on emergency credit, I don’t have any pals to talk to who will actually understand what going through that in your house with all your shit is like. I suggest doing a better job than I have of networking with other itinerant people, and establishing a support network of others in similar situations.
  10. It’s true what they say, about travel and prejudice. Having spent most of my adult life in the charmed self righteous liberal mecca bubble of Seattle, I had a lot of notions about the midwest and the south. Those few notions I still hold have taken on a much different shape than they once did, and there is context to them I didn’t have before. Hit the road with humility and openness. Everybody’s looking for something.

New experiment

Tuesday, April 18th, 2017

For the summer: Focus only on artistic and social justice related projects that I would want to post about on patreon or my mailing list. 

Tired of social media. 

To go gently

Thursday, January 5th, 2017

Isn’t it kinda weird that crowdfunding sites, where people literally ask widely for money to deal with a dead friend or try to pay for their medical care, are for-profit companies? 

That just seems weird to me. 

.

It occured to me today that one of the reasons I despise the idea of volunteering my vessel to grow a parasite cloan of myself spliced with someone else (who is twisted enough for me to wanna fuck, which in and of itself is kinda like, dude… come on. Like, I don’t gotta be the stupid white person in a horror flick to know how that’s liable to turn out), is that all of us don’t have to go through the dealing with the eggs for 40 years shit. That is some fucking bullshit man. Insulting.

I am surfacing again. That clif my life seems like it’s charging toward, the dropoff in April where I stop knowing why I exist — it’s blank to make room. It’s blank to make room, and the abyss is scary as fuck. Holy shit have I been really wanting to die y’all. 

I rehearsed a primal growly cover you haven’t heard me perform yet — while sitting on the toilet taking a dump — and; I am coming the fuck back to the gulf coast, bitches. And it is going to be fucking real. It is gonna be so fucking real I need a black hole of nothingness afterwards to sop up whatever juice is left over. Nola. The ocean. So much music. Gonna go the fuck out there and change some notherfucking worlds, is what I am gonna do. 

The rollercoaster is a battlefield right now. There is so much going on in my head. Thinking so hard it hurts. Wound so tight because if I wasn’t we would all unravel. Puzzle pieces clamping down for this next configuration thrown into the hellfire of constant motion. My pussy smells amazing and I feel so fucking alone. 

No rest for the wicked. 

Fuckin artists.

Goodnight, 2016

Sunday, January 1st, 2017

Serendipitous gifts

Friday, August 5th, 2016

“The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.”
James Baldwin

Just now, I texted everyone I have a current iMessage conversation with “Thank you for being human with me”. It is because I associate those people with the ones I maintain the closest friendships to because we share our phones messaging app between devices.

This is, invariably, a false equivalency, though it became more balanced when I changed my phone number and worked through (am still working through) who to tell.

The truth is there are many filters that would leave deserving people out of the loop about this mass, and yet personal, messaging spree I just went on, but what alarms me is to discover that the selection process is not as intentional as I’d like to think it is.

It’s not even a selection, really. It’s laziness, lack of awareness, automation, which causes me to turn to iMessage. The fucking automation. The fucking machine that plugs my supposed need for that kind of connectivity and false belonging to sell me unethical products that are not meant to last.

Look. There are people I will never talk to again who deserve to hear me say “Thank you for being human with me”. Every single person I’ve ever met deserves this recognition. And I deserve that recognition from all of you. And I think it’s fair to say that it seems pretty universal that we have all been unconsciously programmed not to acknowledge one another in this way, but to pretend that we do. Like the quotes in Embodied said on the walls of Fred Wildlife Refuge,

“I am the collective effort of everyone I’ve ever known.” — Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

Apart from never being able to truly trust anyone, I wasn’t a hacker, or a bone fide hardware geek. I appreciated that stuff, but I was drawn to hackers because I was a *communicator*, and I could relate to hackers. I like being clever and sneaky and destroying shit as much as I like creating it.

For a long time, being a part of the hacker community — and later the little red studio, specifically, had me feeling very special. I felt popular, I could say whatever the fuck I wanted, I threw weird parties, and I had a community with which to be creative.

In both those instances I’d locked societal woundings with whole communities, and the learning was fertile and priceless. We were communicators who wanted to build our own god damn platforms, to cultivate relationships with our expression forms, and with technology, that mattered.

Well, as far as I can tell, most of us still want to do that. But where the fuck are we? What the fuck are we doing? We are on facebook, and google, and twitter, and none of us trust these fuckers with the soul we give to them.

How is it that we got to the point that your fucking words, your thoughts, your fucking anniversaries, your fears, your personality scores, your rants, your sorrows, your calls for justice AREN’T YOURS, AREN’T OWNED BY YOU, instead being fucking manipulated and distilled and romanticized for profit.

What the fuck.

My space. My fucking space.

That’s fucking better.

I have a deep desire to be in structured school, with a goal, challenges, variation, and letters after my name. So many of us do, I think; we crave knowledge, a safe space to explore not already knowing, guidance, and we crave our own continued understanding. We crave the idea of education that the educational system abandoned in order to survive civilization.

For people like us, right now the best we can be doing is learning by teaching what we know to our communities, but more importantly to each other, our fellow activists; especially those of us who recognize that without drinking water, without being able to be naked outside in the sun, without food, without air, without the ancient peat bogs and rainforests holding so much carbon for us, we are fucking lost. Those of us waiting for the cleansing fire. The birth to the destruction to the birth.

It’s people like us that need to be learning from people like us who are focused on different parts of The Thing.

Start hosting workshops to teach the shit you know. Start risking your ego to make a difference, to open yourself up to learning by empowering others. Make that shit happen, and do it with fucking integrity. Give credit where it’s due and don’t make money off the backs of those society deems yours. Admit you don’t know it all. Explore. Let them come to you, and when they do; Teach.

Teach.

Y’all want fucking revolution? Then let’s use our fucking skills to prove it, and create one.

One day at a time, one habit at a time, ween yourself and take responsibility for your own shit.

Stop fucking leaning on the systems you recognize are corroding your fucking soul.

Learn what it is to nurture and toil the food you eat before you eat it. Learn what it means to be have less stuff. Explore options of supporting yourself that don’t rely solely on the internet, or invisible slave labor. Invite a friend over to your house to chat. Share your mentors with the people you love. And ffs stop fucking maneuvering your most precious relationships via fucking text messages, ya fearfulass Previous Me insufferable text-dumping asshole.

I’m not sure exactly what that looks like, but when I really sit with what it feels like to give facebook and even instagram the product of my mind, I feel a gross sense of self betrayal inside. I’ve grappled with it a long time, but I think I’ve made good headway lately.

And I’m fucking watching you, Patreon. Every greedy fuckshit mistake you make by us, I’m holding your asses accountable and taking fucking notes. You have to earn the shit out of my trust. The shit out of it. Do better.

The Notebook

I am noticing one of the blockages I experience around my writing, is that I rarely write. I type. And that’s different.

I have also noticed that my organization of ideas is scattered as shit. Self sent text messages, voice memos, emails to myself, google spreadsheets, soundcloud, patreon, my blog, the notes app on my phone, and hardcopy notebooks — all house my fractions, experiments, and prose. Ideas for my current album, Cold Front, span all of these mediums. Even if I wanted to work on it, just going through my fucking notes is like looking into a shattered mirror.

While I excel during projects when I allow the process to be messy, and I do best while fragmented and having multiple, different projects in the fire at once, I recognize that I lose myself in obsessive tracking and procrastination when I do not start those projects from a place of organization, grounding and levity.

It is time to carry a notebook. Everywhere. And to utilize technology as a backup, a failsafe should something happen to it, rather than.. Whatever the fuck it is I have been doing. Amusingly, I was just gifted one by a new pal.

I made him sign it. Oh, the pressure I put upon y’all.

One of the people who passed through my life at one time is a very famous, beloved author. He understands the value of a hand written page. I am thinking about him as I make this commitment to myself, and my work, to intentionally try things just a little bit differently, now.

Besides. I know how the brain works, at least in regards to how it processes information in the context of expression methods. I learned this as a student at Brian Utting. Writing, with my hands, on paper, making marks, will download the essence of what I want to capture into a place that is very unlikely to be taken away from me, even if something happens to my notebook.

And when I was out in the woods, exhausted, overwhelmed, spread to the breaking point while literally holding up another human being, losing my own mind and breaking my own heart and remembering what really fucking matters; the safe, private notes I drew to myself kept me going.

Keep Going.

I trust me, and my mind, which god damn fucking WORKS, to level up about the kind of care, thought, and and attention that goes into my functioning effectively. Efficiently. Conservation, restoration, nutrients; they are not just for the world around me, and not just applicable in the literal senses I am learning these skills via.

I trust me to fucking take care of myself, even though I have spent, and will still spend, effort and time struggling, and making mistakes, in that department.

I am ready to take another step towards strengthening me, so I can hold what it means to be bigger. Braver. More. Less.

Funny, how significant, this dumb little shit can be.

I’m Courtnee Fallon Rex, and this is only barely scratching the surface of what kind of writer, activist, teacher, and human being I can be when I am fulfilled in my work, selective with my friends, appreciative of my fans, careful how I spend my energy (and why), have the means to support and nurture myself, bathe, farm and harvest my own food, am seen, and paid, and create and perform my music on my terms for fans who truly appreciate my. Fucking. Work.

So thank you, for being human with me. I know I am not alone in this. I know I am not alone in my frustrations, my desire to see more empowerment outside of the constrained, incompetent systems that are all we’ve ever been truly encouraged to know ourselves by. In every career path I’ve taken, I’ve been the one standing up and asking: Why? Why are we bowing? Why do we immediately attempt to contort under these strains, these fucking invented, arbitrary oppressions? When the fuck are we going to stand up?

We are. It’s just.. slow. And I am going to keep doing what I need to do, respecting the influences, the tides, and the sheer fucking magnitude that is the task of standing up. Over, and over, and over again.

I am angry, at society. Today, and to some degree, every day. Today I also accept the possibility that this will not change.

Returning home has been a long, steady, breakthrough; a return on previous investments. Level: up.

Next challenge: learning how to respect my opponents.

Ugh.

Road Update: Summer in the PNW

Saturday, June 11th, 2016

I’m back in the Seattle area for a few months over the summer, recovering and enjoying being able to stand upright in my house again.

Interestingly, the room I had rented from a friend for almost 3 years was available when I arrived, so I am back in my old house, with some of my old furniture, even.

I’d had reservations about spending a lot of time here, given the reminders and ghosts around, but it seems as though perhaps I have indeed adopted some emotional recovery skills over the years, and it’s been more soothing and reclaiming than painful overall.

I’m working outside a few days a week, with a training program called DIRTcorps, Duwamish Infrastructure Restoration Training. It’s a unique and vibrant program in which people from the underserviced and largely disadvantaged South end of Seattle learn contracting and landscaping skills while actively reclaiming the Duwamish waterways and wetlands via their learning projects.

Last Saturday we did a ton of great work on a project I took a small lead role in — drilling lots of holes into 1/4″ steel poles — which will eventually be part of the largest green screen in Seattle. That’s my grinning mug on the job site above, along with Fedora (who introduced me to the program), and our crew.

I spend time both in restoration and construction as well as on an educational farm, which I get to eat some of the food from! I’m weeding and mulching and weeding and aerating soil and weeding and harvesting and weeding and digging holes and weeding and weeding and weeding.

This, along with being generously offered my old stomping ground again, have been very restorative experiences for me. And, I am FINALLY moving my body, after two years away from aerial, which was tough at first but so relieving once I got going.

#bloated

Friday, June 10th, 2016

I notice my body changing.

It happened in my 20’s also, in a specific shift, when I went from being sedentary to active.

This time, it’s the other way around. Things are softer and they are settling. I have begun to show my age. I notice it, especially, during the times in my cycle when I’m bloated and retaining water.

I’m so fucking thankful that I reached this stage in my life having done the work I needed to do not to be crushed by this hyperawareness. Long ago, I thought not being young and pretty would have been just about one of the most soul crushing things imaginable.

I rarely use mirrors anymore, and I am also the most well adjusted I’ve ever been.

The number of lives I’ve lead, even just so far, staggers me sometimes.

I don’t rant on here much anymore…

Monday, June 6th, 2016

But here’s a gif to remember me by.

https://media.giphy.com/media/l41YecXPPEdGazmWk/giphy.gif

Privates

Monday, May 23rd, 2016

I totally painted myself up and made homegrown weirdo solo porn vids last night and its mine mine mine and you don’t get to have it because my body and my sexuality and my dorky performative fantasies are mine, mine, mine.

They exist and they’re Mine.

Put that in your hole and fuck it.

In other news: I don’t normally begrudge people for thinking of me as female. A lot of the time I think of myself that way and I know a lot of us including myself recognize how difficult it is to change our thinking around such stigmatized and deeply engrained topics as assuming someones gender. But this pissed me off.

A mother interrupted my craigslist transaction today as I was selling my motorcycle rack, to inform me that her child, who she was pushing in a stroller down the sidewalk, is learning about gender stereotypes.

Her kid had assumed, because my hair is buzzed, that I was a boy. But, their mother informed them that because of my voice, I was obviously a girl.

She interrupted me to inform me of this. Obviously, I’m a girl. She waited expectantly beside her kids stroller for me to confirm her observation of my girlness and thusly conclude her childs lesson on gender stereotypes and why they are bad, mmmkay.

So I informed her with a smile that I am nonbinary, actually. Though my online accounts and as many paper forms as possible reflect this, it is the first time I’ve declared to a stranger in meatspace.

She shifted on her feet a moment and then dismissed me by saying that concept was ‘too advanced’ for her kid to understand.

I really wanted to say that I disagreed with that.

I really wanted to say that it’s only too ‘advanced’ for children who are treated as though they can’t discern more than one thing or another at a time.

I really wanted to point out that there are all sorts of examples of other things that are not one or the other that her child obviously understands already — like colors, for instance, and types of food.

And I really wanted to express to this person that their perceived convenience is not more important than my identity. That it’s just as easy to teach her kid not to assume anyones gender than it was for her to declare mine to me and then resist me when I corrected her.

I wanted to express all those things about 20 minutes after she wandered away and I’d snarkily snickered to the person buying my rack that that mother could keep her crappy gender binary.

That for some stupid reason this person felt so damn entitled they randomly drug a person (who was busy with something else) on the street into a conversation about their fucking gender in an effort to assist in their idea of parenting.

That she hid behind her kid to express her own narrow mindedness and unwillingness to actually explore the topic of the gender stereotyping. Just.. seriously.

One thing this exchange is definitely illuminating for me is something I’ve been tracking for a while, in this case a focus I have on parents parenting better, rather than interacting with children myself. It’s a lot like wanting to punish bullies rather than support and protect the people they victimize.

I’ve been having fantasies of talking to her kid directly and telling them it’s ok not to be a boy or a girl or to be either or to be in between and talking to THEM and just going around the mother. All I needed to do was lean down and tell that kid it’s best just not to assume anyone else’s gender without asking and this would have felt like a win.

If I’d not been in a completely different headspace working with wrenches and shit I mighta. But I doubt it. But maybe.

Instead I just feel kinda.. anticlimactic. I was disappointed in myself for not reacting differently. It was such a perfect opportunity to do some real fucking boots on the ground educating. Had a hard time letting go of it for a while. When I did, there was a bunch of swirly shit underneith.

It didn’t really feel big when it happened, but as I thought about it I got kinda, queasy.

I don’t want to give up my normity, maybe.

But I’m not so different or flagrant that I feel like I really belong to this group I’m starting to claim.

I’m afraid of being and feeling even more alienated and weird in society.

But it really just.. came the fuck out of my mouth. I barely even thought of my response to her, just a blip of hesitation. I just thought it would be accepted with a nod, really, most of me thought that anyway.

I think, in that way, facebook actually really spoiled me. Ugh. Dear god.

The fucks I no longer give

Wednesday, May 18th, 2016

Sometimes, people who hold power over you behave like selfish, entitled, manipulative, thieving assholes, and there just isn’t a god damn fucking thing you can do about it.

If being mostly-away from Facebook has taught me anything, it’s the danger and the psychological impact of masturbatory propaganda.

Especially the kind that says what you wanna hear and caters to ones sense of superiority and righteousness, caters to ones desire for an uprising, backlash or official stand.

So many of the memes circulated here are catharsis rooted in misinformation, I just don’t believe any of them any more unless it’s worth it to me to research the incident or official statement.

Facebook is full of these polished turds masquerading as progressions in social justice, encouraging people to believe their ‘side’ is ‘winning’. If you took everything else away you’d still have detailed outlines of them, corn kernels and everything.

It’s a constant battle of balancing my emotions, intuition, needs and passions with knowing that by its very nature, right down to the bone, everything I’m shown here is linked to someone else’s agenda. And it’s a battle I’m grateful to not be fighting as much any more.

Would putting Decatur up on youtube be worth the time investment in terms of actual album sales and show attendance in my real lived-long life? Or would it just, at best, expand the amount of free consumption and give me ‘followers’.

I don’t think I want ‘followers’ anymore.

But if I had more of them, someone would have pirated my damn album already and done the work for me so I didn’t have to.

Who succeeds at this? Who?

Every time I think I see someone who has, I look close enough and there are the telltale signs that they might have even less idea what the fuck they are doing than me. Or, they have about a million people on staff to help. Or both. Usually both.

And I really wouldn’t want to trade my problems for anyone else’s. Really, I wouldn’t.

I just.. don’t know how much to give, anymore. I guess a good way to describe it, is I miss how simple it was, how little I had to think about it before. That when I was done with something I created, or maybe even not done yet, I posted it and that was it. It was out, and it was circulated, and that was it.

I miss when it was in DCC on IRC and among friends, people who knew one another and hung out and would show the fuck up. In communities. I miss having a core group of people I sent my music to.

Never made a living that way, though.

—-

It’s really not perfect. There are things in some episodes that have caused me to consider not continuing to watch the show. Powerpuff girls I never even saw because I heard about the transphobic unicorn/buttercup episode and just decided fuck it. Same with Xfiles reboot — Mulder is a sexist stuck up pice of shit. I want to like Stephen Universe but I can’t get over the presentation, the fast seizure inducing animation and the squeaky voices. It’s not perfect, but I am allowing myself to have Bobs Burgers. Bobs Burgers I like. I like how that family interacts and has conflicts. I like Tina. Louise reminds me of me when I was smaller. And I like that the episodes have tons of different themes and directors and ways of telling stories. It’s one of the few shows that I don’t watch and see characters saturated in rape culture/violence against women, or this:

This comic about Bart Simpson and Chris Griffin in therapy will make you cry

So much of what so many people ingest as entertainment is just so fucking horrifying to me.

I struggle with relationships with people, and the species as a whole. But when I’m tested, I’m always the person running toward the crash I just witnessed, ready to help.

That’s the thing about some of us who just want to see the world burn, I guess. It’s the quiet and bonding that’s left afterward that we actually want.

Also dig on the less people part. There’s too many of us and we kinda suck.

Corners Turned

Saturday, May 14th, 2016

It’s too early to tell precisely. But I suspect I may have stumbled onto something I’d like to do for a while, which helps me to feel less powerless in the world, gets me outside, teaches me to grow food, teaches me about land preservation, restoration, and conservation, shows me how to effectively irrigate using reclaimed waste water, gives me ideas I can put into practice in my life right now as opposed to only if I had land of my own, directly helps to feed me, pays me, is helping me heal my scarred relationship with this city (and thus most cities), and does all these things and more in an inclusive educational environment spearheaded by smart, powerful, personable, women.

Whether this is my particular thing for a short while or a long while, I’m recognizing immediately within this experience that I am ready to let go of the stupid idea that the way I will make a difference is linked to my being isolated, insulated, cut off, angry, lonely, and largely disengaged with society.

I’m ready to let go of the idea that I need to sacrifice my own self and make myself fucking miserable reliving my traumas over and over again to express them for the benefit of others, being hungry and making myself poorer and staring at horror all day every fucking day to atone for the existence of capitalism, to atone for my previous place in the predatory self-satisfied tech industry, and for being white. For starters.

But most importantly, I am ready to let go of my simultaneously narrow yet long-game focus on social critique, which being immersed in had taught me and served me well but became toxic for me.

Reality dictates that without an aggressive shift in the appreciation, education and protection of wetlands and insects and amphibians and nutrients in soil (for starters) there won’t be any of us to oppress the other in the first place.

I’ve been feeling this.
I’ve been paralyzed by this.
I am not paralyzed by this any longer.

I am ready to enjoy and continue to further my appreciation of nature that I’ve developed over my first year itinerant, but to consider as I learn and re-cultivate my skills as a group leader how I might create a career around fucking doing something about what’s happening to it.

I am ready to not have to save the whole fucking world and every earth raping meatsack person in it on my own to feel like a viable, worthy human being. I am ready to no longer be tasking myself with reinventing the wheel of society in order to prove myself to be existing rightfully.

Fuck yes am I ready for that shit.

Tuesday, May 10th, 2016

This made me laugh.

I have been gifted the opportunity to revisit home I’d not fully claimed for myself.

Today is a good day.

Wednesday, March 30th, 2016

The one thing, I think, that’s saved my life most consistently, was learning that it will pass. Like really getting that. Doing the work to change how I talk to myself when I start feeling unlivable, that I won’t get through. And it’s always those quiet times, isn’t it, when those notions kick in. I swear, when I’m curled in bed in the ear piercing silent, locked in epic struggle with my self, what really saves me and keeps me hanging on through it, is the idea that some day soon I might have to rise up, and own the fuck out of a situation that most people who don’t deal with what I deal with imagine as deathfear worthy. I welcome that fucking strife. It gets me out of the place that’s actually dangerous.

ROAD UPDATE: Fort Walton Beach

Sunday, February 21st, 2016

Originally posted to my Patrons at https://www.patreon.com/posts/4470079

Right now I am hanging out in the van with the side door open, out of the wind but in the sun from my waist down. The temperature is perfect like this, mid 60’s and cloudless, and I still have lots of time left in my day to do fuckall before heading to a show to see Hank and Cupcakes tonight.

My days right now consist of mostly resting, reading fantasy, practicing music, working my grumpy back with a theracane and racketballs, eating, my return to self care rituals/smudging/affirmations, and walking along white sand beach barefoot while wrapped in a blankie.

And the internets, of course.

I am finding it possible to kill time here easily without spending money, which I desperately need for a couple of months to recover from NOLA. People in general don’t bother me unless I approach them, I haven’t been getting hassled or hit up on the regular, and the beaches are damn near deserted, which are all immensely relieving changes.

I am having periodic moments of clarity and stillness in and around the water, which is proving to be wonderfully cold, and which is reminding me that while I am skilled and familiar with managing abrupt transitions, I am often much more satisfied and less triggered by taking my time.

Yap, it’s true — the earth is changing, we’re all dying, and everything is fucked — but it’s ok. I am having vivid, cinematic, meaningful and encouraging archetypal dreams that are aligning with other indications that I may have, finally, cleared through some major shit in terms of my recent cocooning, and I feel much more willing and able to be myself — which resembles Kali and Akhilandeshvari catfighting in a steel box — again.

Giant silver alligator blocking a doorway. I have a broom. The silver alligator pike eel thing can jump very high. Large blonde viking lady appears as I fight, eventually remarking that she hasn’t seen me in thousands of years, around the same time I find out her alligator thingie has jurrasic park gill wings that can cause it to hover in the air for a few moments. We’re both good natured and somewhat natural but I don’t trust her cause her pet is trying to eat me and I dislike that she thinks she knows shit about me when I’m god damn 37 and I’ve never met her before. Silver gilled pike eel alligator thingie is slow and predictable but does eventually take my broom, which viking lady then rides, along with him, and I grumble that she’s a fuckin witch. We stop fighting and discuss things. She insists that I have to cook a small chunk of what looks like top ramen soup, pour it into a bowl with what looks like grated cheese (probably wood pulp and cellulose, according to a recent scandal!) and ‘choose some’ to, what I instinctively expect, turn into allies of some sort for whatever stupid side quest journey I have to go on next. We talk about items I need and call another person, someone who I sense is a man, and discuss pickup times. It turns out that the day she wants is better for him to drop off, and as I am realizing the van has gotten too warm in the sun and am waking up I hear her tell him a drop off address in Manhattan, reminding me of Blair Hopkins . My last pull from the dream is endearment and excitement at spending some time doing things with viking lady for the next few days.

I’ve also made some significant strides in processing a few emotionally and mentally violent interactions I had with a couple of former friends, which I found had been blocking me from pursuing anything spiritual, healing or ‘magic’ related in my self care based upon unconscious associations with occult and groupthink community I’d maintained in response to their behavior.

I’ve also loosened the social justice noose I’d placed around my neck when I decided, also unconsciously, that I wouldn’t have been raped and betrayed by my lovers two years ago had I been a nicer person, a more open person, a more tolerant person, a more perfect person. Social evolution is still at the core of my interests and passions, but not in the unsustainable, violent, and self destructive way I had been going about it since all that happened.

Things are good here.

How are you?

2015

Friday, January 1st, 2016

No more I Love You’s

Sunday, December 20th, 2015

“I am starting to tire of these memes and these standards. I am beginning to feel as though the stringent ‘enlightened’ perfectionism in what ‘relationship’ is supposed to look like and what love is supposed to look like is just as damaging as other dehumanizing expectations inherent in society. I look at these standards and I wonder where the hell the person is, and where the social environment comes into play. Who the fuck talks without intention? What even is that? If I wanted to approach life like an unattached non-structured ghost shell I would go be a fuckin monk in a vacuum where I might actually be able to accomplish reducing myself to that. Otherwise, I no longer see these ideals as attainable or even remotely empowering. I especially dislike these supposed values when they are placed in expectation upon women, who are historically supposed to somehow be whole people, but also be the empty containers of infinitely flexible nurturance for all of society. For whatever reasons and because of wherever I am at, this really rubbed me the wrong way.

And by ‘starting to tire’ I actually mean I am so fucking done.

Like seriously fuck this meme.” — Facebook

I’ve been contemplating my strengths lately.

Which is different from what I am usually doing, which is attempting to bolster and improve upon my deficiencies — enough so that I’d actually come to view the incessant practice of striving toward the improvement of my flaws as my core strength (it’s not).

You’d think, with how long and hard the road has been, and how many backslides I’ve experienced, that perhaps I wasn’t really designed for loving. And I’ve said/accepted as much, before, usually as a way to make myself feel like shit.

But funny, how I’ve not really come to terms with this objectively, in regards to what ‘love’ actually even MEANS.

When I am honest with myself, it is clear as day; To most anyone’s standards, including my own, I’ve never, ever ‘loved’ anyone. Not a single fucking person.

And yet, I’ve told people I loved them.

Whatever the hell that meant at the time…

And until now, I’d maintained that I had been in love, while also maintaining that I do not know how to love.

..Indeed.

I spent most of my young life putting up with shit from people who I knew didn’t meet my standards. Then I spent a chunk of my adult life markedly alone trying to calibrate my radar to detect even one person I could love with unconditional acceptance. So I could finally prove to myself and to all of you and to the people who’ve ditched me in my life for not being good enough that I had learned to ‘love’ the ‘right’ way, the enlightened selfless malleable accepting unattached spiritual perfection way everyone tells me, and themselves, is the correct way to do it.

Well, I am done with that horseshit. I’m done trying to do it your way.

My love is god damn fucking conditional. In fact, my love is downright fucking finicky. My love doesn’t look like the bosom of squishy motherly space making sacrifice that many people, including myself, seem to want love to look like.

My love doesn’t look like the fantasy love your mommy never gave you, and *it’s never fucking going to*.

My love looks like I give a fuck about you when generally I don’t bother with most people.

My love looks like I am intimately encouraging and engaged with you when I am not that for the rest of the fucking world.

My love looks like being invested in your growth.

My love looks like the truth when you wanna hear some kind of placating watered down bullshit.

My love looks like having your phone number saved in my phone for longer than a minute.

My love looks like dropping everything to help you when you’re fucked sideways or stranded somewhere.

My love looks like I actually reach out to you myself sometimes.

My love is for sale.

My love comes and goes, and at any point in time, you might be the direct recipient, or you might not.

My love doesn’t mean I set myself aside for you, or that my space is always your space. My love doesn’t mean I won’t swipe at you when you’re acting like a fucking asshat or playing out oppression dynamics on me. My love doesn’t mean I’m going to meld my everything with your everything and be attached to your hip. My love isn’t reserved to be focused in one way or in one direction. My love is a droplet of silkspun supermoon primordial spit trickling out of a unicorns cunt, not blasting like a fucking firehose 24/7 for your fucking convenience.

That’s what my love fucking looks like.

But in actuality, I’m also done with calling any of that ‘love’. Because that fucking word has caused me more interpersonal grief than any other word in our entire fucking language.

That word has been used against me to punish me for not loving right, completely enough, fast enough, long enough, for not doing what YOU wanted me to do.

That word is a fucking un-fileable non-entity with the weight of the entire fucking universe attached to it, and I ain’t got time for it.

I’ve used that word to project unrealistic and subconscious expectations on others. And myself. HOLY SHIT myself. I’ve used peoples inability to live up to my evershifting concept of that word as justification for punishing people who didn’t do things my way. And I have had the same done to me.

Aside from the impressive number of people who have used their ‘love’ for me as rationalization for doing shit like raping me, gaslighting me, lying to me, manipulating me, dumping me on my ass, stringing me along — or the impressive number of people for whom my ‘love’ has meant all of that and a sense of possession or resent-laden self sacrifice or both — when I say that word, there is an exceptionally high probability that whoever I am saying it to won’t actually know what the fuck I am talking about anyway.

They will instantly decide what my love means in a vacuum in their own heads. They will decide it means they’ve found a fantasy others never gave them or relate it in comparison to what other people who are nothing like me project love to look like and then punish themselves and me for not living the fuck up to it.

Hell, sometimes I don’t even know what the fuck I am talking about when I say it. Sometimes I say I love you to explain away, cop out, or to make my emotions or actions someone else’s problem to figure out. Cause ‘love’, a word that speaks of mental state, emotion, action, intention, and a whole clusterfuck of other intersecting ideals and performative concepts, is just something that’s supposed to be understood, somehow. Even though it doesn’t fucking MEAN anything concrete or directly referencable and it shows up differently in everyone.

And in my experience, even when the meanings behind ‘love’ are intentionally explored, that equates to fuckall in reality. Because all that unconscious heavy overrated fantasy crosscrossing shit that word holds uniquely for each person is engaged in their consciousness already, instantly, filtering, and selectively deciding how to fill in the rest.

So no more “I love you”s. No more of that lazy confusingass shit. I may not be great at ‘loving’ the right way but I AM great at expressing and articulating my emotions in terms that actually make fucking sense, mean something tangible, and don’t open a spring loaded door into my fucking face.

I need just one catchall word in my vocabulary, that can speak to a great many number of various things and bring me a constant stream of emphasis, expression and amusement. That glorious word, is fuck.

So that’s my current language exercise, now. No more “I love”. Instead, I am working on describing in detail, in words that illustrate actual things, what it is I actually mean.

Fuck ‘love’.

Tuesday, December 15th, 2015

In so many ways, we were profoundly comfortable and well suited. And you were so nice to me. Affectionate, generous, caring. Dedicated. Loving. Available. Consistent.But too consistent. Frozen in carbonate consistent. Unwilling, if it meant loosening your utter strangle hold, the compulsive denial, the tamping down of your darkness, that actually ran the show.

You implied that you were imperfect, occasionally, with a heaviness that illustrated the shame you carry. Alluded once or maybe twice that you had vague flaws and sinister qualities. But save for superficial, polite faux paus, not once did you ever admit to one. Ever. Not once did you have that courage.

But I felt them. I knew they were there. They hurt me sometimes, but that never changed how I cared for you. You may think that because I am gone now they scared me, but they didn’t. You saw mine, also, and it never changed how you cared for me, either.

But the difference was that I acknowledged myself. You couldn’t give yourself that with me. So we couldn’t share in it together. The vulnerability and effort in that imperative bond only went one way.

That’s what scared me. That’s what ultimately became my decision to be whole with myself, rather than fractioned, and forever reaching, for you.