Stories From a Wayward Journal

Comments on precognizance from one of my journals a couple years ago:

"Premonition is part of my blood. When I was 2 years old my mom had us drive through a snowstorm to see my great grandmother because she knew it had to happen then. She died the next morning. When I was 10 years old I fell at a roller rink and broke both bones in my right forearm. My mom suddenly was there - I asked her how she just happened to be there later - she said she just knew I needed her. I've had a couple things other than these happen, but for me it always seemed to be a request and a response. Or even at times like a random statement that could later be seen as either a prediction or like I was causing it.

I was working a medic shift at 3am at a festival and said hours before that it should be a quiet shift "unless someone breaks a leg or something." I came onto my shift just as a girl literally fell in the dark and broke her femur. Who breaks a femur at a party? My friends said I tempted the universe with what I'd said earlier... for me it felt more like some part of me knew it was going to happen.

Then there are the times when I would think of something incredibly random and someone would bring it to reality within a couple minutes. Or the times I'd be out at a concert or a film and say "x is going to happen" and whoever I was with would stare at me in wonder when it did - totally non-sequitur stuff.

There's a part of me that believes I am creating these instances. Then the other part me of thinks that's incredibly egocentric. That's the part that finds it much more likely I'm simply being allowed a glimpse through the veil... A chance to see something most people don't. Lindsay says she thinks it's because I am really paying attention. I'm looking for the magic that most people have either forgotten or ignore.

So I'm on an exercise in being open. In not requesting. In simply being with whatever shows up. There's a part of me that's terrified to make any sort of requests because [of that last time I did that]. But I've been spending a lot of time thinking about what, in the course of my entire life, has been the driving force for me. And it's come down to (at least) two things - connection and music. Unsurprisingly I've been listening to a heavy amount of music. There have been points where I was brought to tears by a song I've heard a hundred times [because it connected to a different point in my experience].

I sat on the shore and cried yesterday. I'm not really sure why. Probably everything. The state of the world. The desperation and overwhelming fear people carry everywhere with them. The longing I have to finally have the connection in my life I so long for. How tremendously huge the universe is and how infinitesimally small I am in it. How I long to see and do and know and understand everything, and yet realize in so doing I'll lose the mystery therein. The downside of knowledge has always been the seizure of magic it seems.

Except I'm beginning to wonder if that's incorrect. It's a different kind of magic to understand how things work. part of me wants to have an understanding of cause and effect enough to be able to predict outcomes at an unprecedented level - but like the concept of being rich, I'm not sure I could trust myself not to become a totally self-absorbed person who stopped using my powers for good.

It's the thing about power in any sense - it destroys goodness a lot of the time - either through annihilation of the self (look at celebrities in positions of power - overdoses and such are alarmingly common) or through becoming an awful being to others (look at many political 'leaders').

So yeah, these are the things I think about in my downtime."

Adventures in Utopia

It's always surreal being in London. I feel like an artist when I find myself here - in this place that feels like home and somehow a sweet morning dream that I'd rather not awaken from. The air is damp with anxious potential, and the skies mottled with clouds. On the streets near Leicester Square today I felt the incoming storm, moments after popping into a loo it was upon us. I found myself stranded in fast food limbo as the first loo I'd come across was American burger behemoth, McDonald's, which had been flooded with newly drenched gawkers whose street performance had been instantly washed out in the deluge. I risked much dashing to the tube station, but the skies were kind in the 3 minutes I chose to take my chances. My camera was safe, though the lens cap had jumped ship several hours earlier somewhere in a street near London Bridge.

I've been in London since last Wednesday - tomorrow will mark a week's time. In that time I've ventured to the 1940s during wartime, 2019 in the age of replicants and off-world promised utopias, the competitive ballroom dance studios of Australia, and the world of superheroes and villains you would find in printed paperback picture-books. I've had 3 different haircolors in the past week, and donned a variety of costumey bits and bobs. I've been arrested by the LAPD and told I was a Nexus 6 with 11 months to live, only later to be threatened with "retirement" by a crooked detective. I've worked undercover monitoring the Blackout movement, and played the Foreign Secretary for the United Kingdom. And all this while battling the worst cold I've had since the epidemic scale flu that took me out of all the ballgames on New Years Day. I lost my voice nearly completely in 1941, and still managed to make it back to the place where a love story that's been drifting in the abstract had begun 3 years ago. The wardrobe still leads to secret worlds I'd visited once before with a dashing guide at my side who I miss on the regular. It's a story I've told many times that's met with always the same starry-eyed whimsy by all but one who've heard it. On the way to drink my Love in Idleness the sky had erupted into blue-purple spectacle, soon followed by yet more summer rains. My favorite weather for a jaunt from the last to the first places my heart fell to my sleeve. How incredibly apropos. My world is nothing if not poetic. I wouldn't have it any other way.

And now, I sit on my hotel bed with fan oscillating the warm night air. Laptop placed in the proper position, I write of my journey thusfar in that same sing-song poetical way that the universe sings to me. I've been pondering the meetings that've appeared in this Transatlantic excursion - a sweet Chinese-American lass who joined me as a detective at the World Terminus, Los Angeles and spent the day touring much of the West of London, with a jaunt up to the top of the Eye. We live on opposite coasts of the United States, but have vowed to visit should we find ourselves simultaneously on similar shores. And a Scottish performance artist jack-of-all-trades I've known virtually for two years who suffered injured abs and 500 Harley Quinns for the opportunity to put a real-life face to our textual connection. I do hope to see him again, although I am well-acquainted with how generally intense I can be with my gaze and wonder if I won't have frightened him away. That and my coughing fit during our riverbank rendezvous painted a lovely image, to be sure. Ah well, the ones who stick around get all of it, even the crunchy coughs. But also the creative catalytic capers that are the crowning jewel of this curious creature that I am. Maybe. Que sera sera. I tip my hat to you, fine sir, even if we shall never meet again. Your stories are superb.

With only one day remaining in my adventure this time around, I have Dr. Frankenstein and the world of the somnabulist to visit. Lunch may be in order with an old friend I have much envy of for moving to this mecca of mine, and potentially more time with lads of the land of Scot, one of which became a father since last we've met face to face. But we shall see what happens. This seems to be my phrase of choice of late - We shall see. For now - relaxation and a cold Magners are the tune of the evening... And perhaps a shower to remove all signs of my Nexus 6 origins from my body. I thought this tattoo was temporary. So far, it's proven to have some staying power - just like this cold and quite unlike this Magners. The good things never seem to last as long as we'd like, do they? Maybe that's what makes them so good.

The Impact of Our Actions

Trigger Warning - I've never told this story before except verbally to a couple people. In the era of #metoo and all these talks about sexual assault, I feel like maybe it's time to share it in full. A lot of people are taken aback that I don't fully side with anyone who comes forward with a story of assault. And for me - it's not about choosing a side - it's about learning how to 1) let go of the trauma and 2) give the other side of it an opportunity to learn from their mistakes and 3) give us all a better perspective in which we make better choices and communicate more clearly about our wants and needs, because that is how things get better. That is how we all grow.

I was 16 years old, and it was a hot Midwestern summer at my grandparent's house in Illinois. It was the year that the rivers were flooding all over the country, and my uncle, who still lived with my grandparents, was down in St. Louis helping sandbag the flooded banks with the National Guard. Before he left he said I could use his computer if I wanted, and taught me a couple of things in this tween-era internet where the BBS was king. It was the first time I'd ever been "online" and I found a BBS that was local with something like Maelstrom in the title. I don't recall much of my time on it outside of talking to this one person who went by some name that had to do with the Terminator or something. I honestly can't recall his username - just his actual name, which was James.

James and I talked a lot - for hours on end. He was 23; a musician; wrote songs on his keyboard (he played piano). He'd been thinking about joining the Navy - Born and raised in the town I was born in. He was personable and kind, and we seemed to have a lot in common - though it doesn't take much when you're 16. We talked for probably two or three weeks, and then he mentioned that the carnival was in town. Maybe he could take me? What a sweet thing, right? A boy wants to take me to a carnival here in my birthplace in rural Illinois. I was young, and this was a whole new world to me - boys wanting to take me out. As a nerdy, dorky, skinny blonde, I was too surprised and naive to give the risks of meeting a stranger from online much thought.

I want to say off the bat that I recognize most would think this story is super traumatic for me, but to be honest it's not. I forgave him a long time ago, and I want anyone reading this to know that before I go into the story of our date. I don't believe that James is unkind or malicious or had any intent to hurt me. I think a lot of people hold onto trauma for reasons that are self-serving. What exactly they're serving I don't really know, but there's got to be something we get out of holding onto trauma. For me... often it has to do with keeping a link to something I don't want to lose. Like holding onto the sadness of a failed relationship allows you to keep some link to that person you lost. I don't feel hurt or pain when I think about James. What I do feel is sorry for him.

The night of our date he picked me up in some cliche sort of car - a Transam or a Firebird, I can't recall. I just remember thinking it was a typical 20-something 'cool' guy car. He was cute. Slightly taller than I was, slim build with messy brown hair and a sweet smile. We went to the carnival, rode some rides, played some games where he tried to do the sweet 'win me a prize' thing. He may have done so, I honestly don't remember. Then as we were on the ferris wheel he asked me what I wanted to do after the carnival. He could take me home, or maybe we could go for a sundae. He said he'd love to play some music for me that he'd written recently, but that would mean we had to go to his house. He had a piano. I recall having a moment's hesitation (probably intuition that wasn't a smart move), but he seemed sweet and had this radiant smile that made me feel beautiful - that smile was genuine. Even in retrospect I know it was.

He lived alone, I think. Nobody else was there, so I assume he did. I sat on the couch and he played for me on the keys. He wrote really lovely stuff, and I'd always had a soft spot for musicians who play the piano. I'm sure I was all aglow watching him. He finished the song, and I told him it was really beautiful, and he told me that it was me who was beautiful. We ended up kissing on the couch, and then he took me by the hand and we ended up kissing in his bedroom.

This is where my memory becomes just a blur of images and words - he was passionate, and things kept escalating. I kept telling him things like we should go get ice cream, and we needed to slow down, I'd never had sex, no, stop - typical things one says when they want someone to stop doing something, but they were meek and nervously said. I sat up a couple times, and we would talk for a while and then he'd be kissing me again. There was a point somewhere in all of it that I stopped responding. I know what caused it - I have a very clear memory of a very scary thought: I had no idea where I was. Nobody else had any idea where I was. We were alone in this stranger's house. If I struggled, if I tried to leave, bad things could happen to me. Nobody would ever find me if things went that way. I didn't really know this guy or what he was capable of. So I just stopped moving or responding. I let him do whatever he wanted, the entire time he kept whispering that I was just scared and he would be gentle. And for the most part he was, as I just laid there waiting for it to be done paralyzed by fear and also feeling like somehow it was my fault for agreeing to go to his house with him. For his part he was safe and gentle like he said he would be, but he didn't seem to notice at all that I was playing dead the whole time, pretty much. Which to me was baffling, and still is now in retrospect.

After he was done, I put my clothes back on in a daze. I still had some of them partially on already. He continued to mew over how beautiful I was, and asked what I'd like to do. I robotically said I'd like to go get a sundae still, so we went to a Dairy Queen and after that he drove me back to my grandparents' house. He said he hoped he'd get to see me again before I went home in a week and kissed me goodnight which I dutifully kissed back. I felt dead inside. My will had been broken. I went up to my uncle's room and sat on the bed and cried for hours. What would I tell anyone? How could I tell anyone anything? I felt really stupid and also grateful that nothing worse had happened. That I was safe back in familiar spaces, and I never would have to see him again. I didn't go back onto the BBS after that ever again.

He called a couple times and I dodged having to talk to him. I went back to California and he sent me letters - romantic prose about how beautiful I was with drawings and words about how I inspired him to write more music. He'd gotten my home address from my grandmother, who had no idea that I was mortified talking to him. I acted pleasant every time his name came up to hide how ashamed I was. He sent me song lyrics he wrote about me. He talked about how he wanted to marry me. How he'd never felt so connected to another person the way he had from talking to me all those weeks and then meeting me and having me be so lovely. He was sad we didn't get to see one another again before I left. He joined the Navy, and was stationed in Texas or something, but maybe he could get transferred to somewhere in northern California. I never replied. The letters became less frequent. He didn't understand why I never wrote him back. And then one day, I did.

About a year after our date, I sat down and wrote him a letter detailing my experience of that night with him. Of how afraid I was, and how ashamed that I felt I'd somehow made him believe that I'd gone back to his house to have sex with him. That I'd honestly only wanted to hear him play piano, and that I gave up at some point because it was clear he'd stopped listening to me. That I was a naive 16 year old girl, and he was so caught up in his 'feelings' for me that he failed to consider how any of it was for me - I was in a foreign place that to this day I still have no idea of the location of in the town of my birthplace. Nobody knew where I was. I had no way to contact anyone, and if I'd opted to run away from his house, I would've had no idea how to get home. There were no mobile phones at that time. I said I didn't think he was cruel. His letters had shown me that really, at the heart of it all, he was just completely oblivious. He'd let his desire blind him to the reality of the situation. And I felt pity for him, even in that letter, because I knew that what I was saying was going to be shocking. I wished him a good life, and meant it when I said I was sorry for giving him this burden.

He wrote me one final letter after that. It was the shortest letter he ever wrote me, and it basically just said sorry would never be enough but it was all he could offer me, and how he hoped that I could truly forgive him for being so blind. He said he'd had no idea all that time. And I believe him.

And that's my story of how I lost my virginity. What could have been romantic and sweet ended up being that for one person only because their idea of what was happening was so skewed by their feelings that they didn't notice what was happening with me. To be fair, he didn't know me, so how could he possibly know how I would respond to show I was serious when I said no? We live in a culture, and have for a long time where men believe that women are meek because they are nervous, and they just need someone to guide them through and they'll be happy and grateful on the other side. This goes beyond men and women and is really just Type A and Type B people, dominant and submissive, aggressive and passive. The people who are the more leader-types tend to believe they are doing the right thing and the other party is just scared and wants guidance. And the other type don't know how to say no and be heard. Poor James honestly thought I was just nervous because it was my first time, and as soon as he made that choice in his mind, everything that happened just pointed to how true that perspective was. This is what happens with people in ALL situations, not just sex. We make a judgment call about why something is, and everything that happens seems to justify that perspective because we so want to be right about what we are seeing and experiencing - we all want to trust our awareness is accurate.

I don't think crucifying people who fuck up in their awareness is the blanket cure to fix this problem - especially around sex. There are real predators out there who behave and make choices out of disregard for another person's feelings, but there are also people out there who have simply misjudged a situation as lining up with their desires, and failing to notice all the signs to the contrary based on the learning they have of how people are in given circumstances. The mind is a powerful thing, and often we mistake warning signs as messages telling us to persevere. The challenge is how do we learn to better tell the difference, and I think it lies in communication, and really - in vulnerability. I keep thinking about this story with Aziz Ansari, and to me it seems like he fell victim to his own desires and convinced himself that Grace was just nervous about being with him but really wanted it - that's why she went back to his apartment, right? For Grace - she had her own motivations for why she was there that haven't actually become clear to me from her accounts, but regardless of that, both of their perspectives are valid. The failure is in their communication with one another and the actions they took to back that communication up. Did he fail to listen to her saying she wanted to take things slow? Definitely yes. But her going along with things he was doing potentially gave him a false sense of the situation. Just like I did with James. He had a different world view than I could possibly have had at 16 with his being 23 - just like this girl and this celebrity. Their perception of motivations are different. A girl going back to James' house with him had a different meaning than it did for me as a 16 year old virgin. All the signs he saw said I was just nervous. What I was nervous about... yeah, not what he thought.

So how do we work together, even with those we feel have wronged us, so we all can grow? Because that's the only way to solve this sort of problem, in my opinion. Vindictive and reactively-harmful behavior just compounds the issue, and yet we need to talk about these things. We need to find forgiveness and honest communication with those who are oblivious to the impact their actions have on people - not just for them, but so we can move forward without this lingering trauma over our heads like some cartoonish raincloud. People tell me I'm strong for being able to forgive James. For me it's not about strength. It's about not letting it have power over me and understanding that there are and will be moments where I'm also blinded by my desire for something. Sure it may not be based around sex, but it's not that much different regardless of what it is if I'm not noticing the impact of my actions. It's an easy trap to fall into, and recognition of that - that we are all capable of neglecting the feelings of those around us - is what may very well save us all from repeating the same lame mistakes over and over forever and damaging people we do or potentially could love - including ourselves.